by Cheryl Holt
To Libby’s surprise, Simon appeared crestfallen, and she leaned over and patted his hand. “You’ve always been my cousin, and you always will be. A few old letters can’t change that.”
“You’d better mean it,” he said. “If I didn’t have you and Fish, who would I have?”
“That might be the sweetest remark you’ve ever uttered in my presence.”
He grinned a cocky grin. “Don’t get used to it.”
Fish was still studying her, and she said, “What now, Libby? What is your plan?”
“I don’t have a plan. I’m merely determined to head to London.”
“Why? It seems to me you have several matters to address with Charles. You have to speak to him about this.”
“How can I? You’ve known me for ages, and you think I’m lying. He and I are practically strangers. If I couldn’t convince you, how could I convince him? It would be pointless to try.”
“I’d just like to read the letters you found,” Fish said. “We’ll go from there.”
“It was wrong for us to come here,” Libby said. “I’d been anxious to meet Lord Roland, and when Simon originally mentioned this party, I thought it was a good idea for us to attend.” She chuckled miserably. “I assumed I could assess the situation, then announce who I was, but I was mad to suppose I could.”
“What’s happened during your visit that would make you decide that?”
“He’s certain Henrietta is dead!” Libby was nearly wailing. “I explicitly inquired about her, and he’s positive she’s been dead for years. After that declaration, how can I claim that I am Henrietta? Wouldn’t that be cruel? Wouldn’t it be viewed as a trick or a swindle? I’d likely be hauled off to prison as a criminal or to Bedlam as a lunatic.”
They were all glaring, contemplating, then Libby asked Simon, “What should I do?”
“You should do whatever will bring us the most money in the end.”
Libby’s irritation spiraled. “Would you be serious?”
“I am being serious. If you’re Roland’s daughter, the news is worth a fortune to us. I say we shout it to the whole world and fill our purses with the blessings that will rain down.”
“And you, Fish?” she asked.
“I think Simon is the very last person whose advice you should seek on any topic—but especially this one. And I need to ponder the dilemma. You’ve just sprung it on us, and I have to consider the angles before I offer an opinion.”
“While we figure it out,” Libby said, “I have to swear both of you to secrecy.”
“I’ll definitely keep my mouth shut,” Fish told her. “I have no desire to wade into the middle of this bog unless I know the safest route to the other side.”
“What about you, Simon?” Libby asked. “You can’t tell anyone until I give you permission.”
“You can’t expect me to be quiet. Not with a story this big.”
“For a bit. Please?”
Libby stared him down so he began to squirm, then he said, “All right, all right. I won’t breath a word until you tell me I can.”
“Thank you, and we’ll go home in the morning, yes? We’ll leave, so I can reflect on what my path should be.”
They scowled at her as if she were insane, and Simon said, “No way am I leaving Roland tomorrow. Get over yourself, Libby.”
“I’m not leaving either,” Fish said. “I’ve been very clear about it.”
“We can’t stay here!” Libby insisted. “I won’t stay.”
“So go,” Fish said. “We’re not stopping you.”
Fish’s blithe response irked Libby to her limit. After what she’d just revealed, she’d yearned for them to be supportive, and their dismissive attitudes were infuriating. One of their rare fights might have erupted, but there was a knock on the door, and they froze.
“It’s Miss Carstairs,” Libby called. “May I help you?”
“It’s your maid, Miss Carstairs. Lord Roland asked me to fetch you down to the library. Will you come?”
Libby stood and went to the door. She unlocked it and peeked out. “I’m indisposed at the moment and not participating in social engagements.”
“He’d like it to be now, Miss Carstairs. He said to mention it’s important.”
Libby stared at the maid, then at Fish and Simon who were glowering at her like angry sentinels. Ultimately, she sighed.
“I’ll be right down.”
“He’s in the library. Would you like me to escort you?”
“There’s no need.”
The girl left, and a heavy silence descended. There was the worst sense of dread in the air, as if something bad was about to happen, that it would be awful and they’d never be the same afterward. But that was silly. Lord Roland would probably request she perform after supper. It would be a subject that mundane. Wouldn’t it?
“What could he want?” Simon said.
“I have no idea.”
Libby looked at Fish, seeking an answer, but Fish shrugged.
“Will you change your clothes?” Fish asked. “Shall I pick out a gown for you?”
“The one I’m wearing is fine.”
“Track me down when you’re finished,” Fish said. “Let me know what you discussed.”
Libby snorted at that. “Yes, I’ll inform you immediately. You two are at the top of my list of what’s worrying me.”
“You don’t have to be so snippy,” Simon said. “We only want what’s best for you.”
“Somehow,” Libby retorted, “that doesn’t reassure me in the slightest.”
She pulled the door wider, motioning for them to slither out. They bristled and fumed, but finally obeyed her. She watched as they vanished around a corner, then she spun and went into the dressing room to check herself in the mirror.
She dawdled forever, being in no hurry to rush downstairs. Lord Roland would simply have to cool his heels until she was composed enough to face him.
What was about to transpire? How hideous would it be?
In her interactions with him so far, he’d been polite and considerate, but then, she’d felt horrid since she’d awakened at Barrett. In the intervening hours, her condition hadn’t improved.
Would the blasted day ever end?
Peggy had been a housemaid at Roland from the year she’d turned seven. Her mother had served Florence Pendleton, the second Lady Roland, and she’d been able to bring Peggy to work in the manor at a very young age. Yet after Lady Roland had passed away, then Peggy’s mother, Peggy had never achieved the status her mother had managed.
Miss Pendleton had never liked Peggy, and Peggy constantly tried to ingratiate herself, but to no avail.
She should have been down in the kitchen, waiting for the housekeeper to send her to clean another guest chamber, but instead, she was lurking outside Miss Carstairs’s suite.
When they’d been apprised that the famous celebrity would visit, Peggy had fervidly hoped that she’d be assigned to tend the woman, but as usual, Peggy had been overlooked. Other, more senior girls had received the posh task, and Peggy was incredibly jealous.
The hall was empty, so she could casually stroll past Miss Carstair’s door without being observed. Her costumer, Miss Fishburn, was with her, and they were talking in an animated manner that—when Peggy tarried at just the right angle—was audible.
Apparently, Miss Carstairs was no better than she had to be. She’d misbehaved with Lord Barrett and was feeling guilty, but Peggy wasn’t about to chastise her for the lapse. Actresses had no morals, and Peggy wouldn’t begrudge any female for dallying with Lord Barrett. She might have tried any ruse if it would have guaranteed the handsome lord noticed her.
She was curious as to how Lady Penny would view the relationship though. Would she like to know that her likely fiancé was immersed in a fling with Miss Carstairs? W
ould she be glad or incensed? Would she kill the messenger?
Peggy debated the issue, wondering if there could be a benefit in telling.
Probably not . . .
This was a delicious secret she would keep to herself. It was like a plot in a scandalous theatrical play.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs behind her, and she continued on as if she had a destination in mind. When she glanced back, she saw that the cheeky scoundrel, Mr. Falcon, had arrived. Miss Carstairs let him in to join the conversation.
Mr. Falcon was another handsome devil who’d tantalized Peggy. The other housemaids were all in love with him, but he was busy flirting inappropriately with Lady Penny.
Had her Aunt Millicent realized what was occurring? Should she be informed? Could there be an advantage to speaking up?
Probably not . . .
She wandered toward the door, desperately anxious to discover what sorts of topics the three fascinating people would discuss. To her great delight, the door hadn’t closed tightly when Mr. Falcon had entered the room. She could hear some of their comments and didn’t even have to press her ear to the wood.
Suddenly, Miss Carstairs said, “I am Little Henrietta, Lord Roland’s lost daughter.”
Peggy bit down a gasp, as Mr. Falcon gushed, “This is so brilliant! I can’t believe you thought of it! We can make a fortune off this story!”
Peggy’s heart was hammering so loudly that she could hardly discern any words, but Miss Carstairs definitely said, “I merely need the two of you to tell me how to proceed.”
Mr. Falcon responded with, “I know how we’ll proceed. Is this a ploy to snag Lord Barrett? He would never wed you because of your low status, but if you’re an earl’s daughter, you’re perfect for him. It’s so cunning! If you’re Roland’s long-lost daughter, think of how we can use it to ingratiate ourselves to him!”
Peggy lurched away, feeling afraid, and very, very excited. She could never get Miss Pendleton’s attention, and she always dickered over how to curry favor. Well, she’d certainly found a stellar route.
Miss Pendleton had to be notified immediately, and—Peggy was sure—when the devious scheme was exposed, Peggy would wind up the heroine for revealing the whole sordid charade.
She reached the stairs and raced down them, eager to locate Miss Pendleton and confess what she’d learned.
Millicent rushed down the hall toward Charles’s bedroom suite, hoping he was in it. There were too many blasted guests observing her every move, so she couldn’t run around hunting for him.
The housemaid, Peggy, had just revealed the most appalling story about Miss Carstairs and her two dubious companions. They were a trio of scheming confidence artists who were about to play a terrible trick on all of them, but especially on Charles.
Millicent had warned Charles about them, but he’d refused to heed her, and look where it had left them!
While he could be stern and unbending when the situation called for it, he could also be extremely gullible, particularly where women were concerned. If Miss Carstairs had already managed to speak to him, there was no predicting what catastrophe she could set in motion. He might make promises or hand over money or . . . or . . . who could guess what else before Millicent intervened to stop him.
The door to his sitting room was open, and she hurried in, seeing that it was empty, the bedroom too. He probably wasn’t in the dressing room behind it, but to be sure, she went over and peeked in.
To her great astonishment, she came face to face with Miss Fishburn. Millicent blanched so violently she was surprised she didn’t fall down. As to Miss Fishburn, if she was discomfited by being found—quite alone—in Lord Roland’s private quarters, she gave no sign at all.
She was holding a glass of liquor, and she brazenly toasted Millicent with it. Then she stared blandly, as if it was perfectly normal for her to be where she was.
Millicent’s immediate and urgent thought was to wonder if Miss Fishburn was a thief. Had she been pilfering Charles’s dressers? Charles’s most valuable jewels were locked in the family vault, but he had diamond cufflinks and other items in a top drawer.
What might she have taken?
“Miss Fishburn!” Millicent’s tone was shocked and firm. “Why are you in Lord Roland’s dressing room?”
“He asked me to wait for him, so I’m waiting.”
“You can’t have the nerve to tarry in here. Tell me your business—and be quick about it.”
“He had an important meeting downstairs, but I expect him shortly. What is it you need? Can I help you?”
Miss Fishburn strolled by Millicent and out to the bedchamber where she flopped down in a chair by the window. She sipped her drink, appearing very relaxed, as if she’d loafed there a thousand times prior.
Millicent felt as if she’d been turned to stone. Never in her life had she witnessed such brash conduct, and she’d like to search the woman’s pockets. Dare she? Or should she summon a footman to assist her? Or should she send a servant to bring Charles upstairs so they could search her together?
Finally, Millicent shook herself out of her stupor, and she stomped over to stand directly in front of the shameless harpy. “You still haven’t told me why you’re in here. I suggest you offer an explanation at once!”
Miss Fishburn pondered the request, and ultimately, she said, “You should probably talk to Charles about it.”
At her using his Christian name, Millicent sucked in a sharp breath. “Why would I waste any energy discussing you with Lord Roland?”
“I won’t clarify any issue with regard to him and me. I doubt he’d want me to.”
Millicent had never been so flummoxed, and her mind raced. There was only one reason Miss Fishburn would be so confident in her current location. Were they . . . they . . . philandering?
The notion didn’t bear contemplating.
Charles belonged to Millicent! She’d decided on that ending when she’d been little more than a girl and jealously watching her older sister marry him. Florence had been all wrong for him, and after she’d died, Millicent had jumped at the chance to correct his mistake.
She’d frittered away the decades, pretending to be his wife. She’d served as his hostess, had raised his children, and supervised his home. She’d engaged in every act she could devise that would push him to recognize the obvious.
They were supposed to wed. She, Millicent, was supposed to be his next wife. Miss Fishburn—this interloper, this glorified seamstress, this . . . this . . . trollop who tended an actress—couldn’t have him! Millicent would commit murder to keep it from occurring.
Without another word, she whipped away and dashed out, sweeping down the hall, then the stairs. She bellowed like a lunatic at every servant she passed, demanding to be informed as to Charles’s whereabouts until, blessedly, she was pointed to the library.
By the time she reached it, she was in a frenzied state, her combs falling out, her chignon sagging down her back.
He was seated behind the desk, and she bustled over, sliding to a very ungracious stop against the wood. Frantically, she glanced around, seeing that they were alone. Luckily, there was no sign of Miss Carstairs, and Millicent hoped she’d arrived before it was too late.
He frowned up at her. “Millicent, my goodness. You look distraught. What’s happened?”
“In the past few minutes, have you spoken to Miss Carstairs?”
“No, but I’m about to. Why?”
The butler huffed in, so most likely, the servants who’d observed her running like a madwoman had tattled to him and he was checking to learn what problem had flared.
“Shut the door!” she snapped at him. “Don’t let anyone in. Especially not Miss Carstairs. She can cool her heels until we’re finished.”
At her sharp tone, he inhaled stiffly, but obeyed and sealed them in.
C
harles’s frown deepened. “Honestly, Millicent, there’s no need to be rude to the servants. You’re aware that I don’t like that kind of behavior.”
“He’ll get over it,” she caustically said. “Now be silent and listen to me.”
“I can see you’re upset. What is it?”
“A housemaid was walking by Miss Carstairs’s room when she was inside with her cousin and her costumer.” Millicent wouldn’t debase herself by uttering Miss Fishburn’s name aloud. “She overheard an outrageous conversation, and you have to hear it too.”
“Fine. I ask you again: What is it?”
Millicent leaned nearer and lowered her volume. “Miss Carstairs and her cousin are preparing to implement a hideous hoax that will devastate you.”
“You’re being incredibly melodramatic. Would you calm down?”
“This is not a moment for calm. They are about to claim that Miss Carstairs is Little Henrietta.”
He froze, blatantly confused, as if she’d babbled in a language he didn’t understand. “She’s about to what?”
“She will declare herself to be Henrietta. She and her cousin, that awful Mr. Falcon, intend to shout the story to the whole world.”
“In the hopes of accomplishing what goal?”
“Why, to pressure you into accepting her as your daughter, of course. And get this! She’s obsessed with Luke, and apparently, he’s fascinated with her too. She thinks—if she can coerce you into believing her—he’ll marry her instead of Penny. He’ll realize she’s an earl’s daughter rather than a common slattern, and he’ll make her his bride.”
Charles shook his head with derision. “That’s madness. Henrietta is dead. The courts and all of my investigators have said so.”
“None of that matters to her. She’ll dangle her bait anyway.”
“She wouldn’t pursue such a despicable scheme. I’ve chatted with her, and we’ve discussed personal topics. She wouldn’t hurt me in such a painful way.”
Millicent threw up her hands in frustration. “She was playing a part, you demented fool! She’s an actress! She was ingratiating herself so you’d grow fond. She’s roped you in, and now, she’ll spring the news on you, figuring you’ll announce that she’s your long-lost girl.”