“They just need one. Two of them are servants, so they can bunk down in the attic.”
“This is outrageous,” Millicent fumed.
“Yes, yes, I figured you’d think so.” Penny waved a hand, as if incorrigible manners were of no account. “I want them here.”
“Why?”
“The woman is famous on the stage in London.”
Millicent was surprised she didn’t faint. “You expect me to play hostess to an actress?”
“She’s not an actress. She’s a performer.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s not.”
“What’s her name?” Millicent inquired.
“She’s one of the Lost Girls of the Caribbean. Libby Carstairs?”
“I haven’t heard of her in years. I can’t believe she’s still alive.”
“She’s such a celebrity!” Penny gushed. “If she attends, people will be agog, and they’ll talk about my party for ages.”
“It would have been a success whether she was included or not.”
“I was wondering this,” Penny said. “Would it be uncouth of me to ask her to perform for us? And how many times could I ask? Since she’s barging in, it’s only fair that she entertain us. Or would she feel as if she has to sing for her supper?”
“I’ll have to reflect on this. She might love to show off for us or she might consider that we’re forcing her to work. We’ll have to wait until we meet her. Once we have a notion of the sort of person she is, we can decide the best course.”
“That sounds like a good plan.”
Penny jumped up and headed to the door, and Millicent attempted to command her. “Find Mrs. Skaggs, would you?” Skaggs was the housekeeper. “Tell her we have to change the bedchamber assignments so we can make room for Miss Carstairs.”
“You tell her,” Penny snottily replied. “I’m just as busy as you are. I have a full plate today.”
Then she was gone, and Millicent yearned to chase after her, to scold her and warn her to guard her impertinent tongue. But from long, exhausting experience, she’d learned that it was futile to reprimand Penny on any topic.
She and Penny had never bonded, and Penny had never recognized her as the mother she was anxious to be. She had limited maternal tendencies, and Penny had never acknowledged her as having any authority.
Millicent’s sister, Florence, had been Charles’s second wife. They were all cousins, and he’d married Florence after Amanda had vanished with Henrietta.
As a young man, he’d been betrothed to Florence, but he’d been swept off his feet by Amanda who’d been a cunning, seductive siren. They’d eloped without Charles first breaking it off with Florence, apprising his father, or garnering the man’s permission. The shock of it had ultimately killed the poor fellow who’d suffered an abrupt apoplexy and died shortly after.
It was another layer of guilt under which Charles still labored.
After Amanda had run off with her lover, he’d promptly divorced her. He’d settled down, regrouped, and walked the path he’d been destined to walk from the start. He’d trudged to Florence and had begged her to wed him. He was an earl, so she’d relented without much argument or dithering. She’d never forgiven him though, and she’d never recovered from the shame of having a divorced man as her spouse.
She’d locked herself away in the country, never having guests or socializing. She’d been determined to never face anyone who knew of the scandal, but just about everyone knew.
She’d quickly birthed Warwick and Penny, then she’d perished when they were two and four years old. Millicent had been eager to take her place. She’d always loved Charles and had felt Florence didn’t deserve him. Florence had been plain, boring, and miserable, while Millicent—with her lush brown hair, big brown eyes, and slender physique—was pretty and could be vivacious when the situation called for amusement.
She’d moved in when Penny and Warwick were toddlers, and she’d never left. She’d been certain that Charles—as a grieving widower—would be so happy to have her loyal assistance that he would finally notice her in an amorous way. But he never had.
Despite how helpful she’d been, how proficiently she’d managed his home and cared for his children, he remained blind to her keen interest in being his third wife.
She’d arrived when she was nineteen, and she was thirty-five now, an aging spinster who had nothing to show for her fond devotion. Charles didn’t seem any closer than he’d ever been to picking another bride. He was content with Penny and Warwick and wasn’t inclined to sire more children.
As to herself, her other romantic chances had passed her by. She didn’t have any money of her own, and her brother had married a harpy who hated Millicent and would never let her move back to the family estate. She was stuck at Roland, a sort of glorified housekeeper and unnecessary nanny.
One of Charles’s two children, Warwick, had fled. The other was about to, and Millicent had to hope—once Penny departed—Charles would realize that Millicent had been waiting for him to step up.
Penny would leave for Barrett with Luke, and Millicent’s sole regret was that Barrett was just a few miles away. If Millicent had been allowed to choose Penny’s husband, she’d have selected someone whose residence was up on the moon, but she couldn’t ever mention that aloud.
She could simply smile and carry on in her role as Charles’s dedicated sister-in-law. She intended to push the wedding along and get it accomplished as rapidly as she could. After Penny was gone for good, Charles would have to notice her then.
Wouldn’t he? He’d have to see that his next wife was standing by his side, and it was time to claim her.
She refused to accept any other conclusion.
Luke was in his library at Barrett, and he stared out the window at the park, wishing he could think of a reason to tarry. It was a pleasant summer day, the sky blue, the sun shining brightly, the
