With his not wishing to fuel speculation in the kitchen as to who was joining him for the meal, he hadn’t ordered breakfast for two. He’d had a tray delivered with one plate, napkin, and fork, so they’d had to share everything. The entire interval had been amazingly romantic in a way he’d relished much more than he should have.
Though it was ridiculous to admit, he felt as if he’d been reborn, as if he’d been unconscious and had been violently shaken to life. Colors were brighter, sounds louder, the sky so blue, the sun so vibrant. For once, he was disgustingly happy.
Two women were strolling in the park, away from the other guests, and as he assessed them, he realized it was Penny and Miss Carstairs.
He glanced over at Fish and said, “Have you noticed how Penny and Miss Carstairs look alike?”
“No.”
“Come here. They’re out in the garden.”
Fish walked over, and he draped an arm over her shoulders and snuggled her to his side. He was intrigued by how easily they’d fallen into their prior pattern of fond acquaintance. It seemed as if they hadn’t been parted a single day.
She studied them, then said, “They do look alike, don’t they?”
“In a few years—when Penny is a bit older—she’ll be Miss Carstairs’s exact double.”
“Yes, but Libby is much more flamboyant than your daughter. There are similarities in their features, but they’re not really that similar.”
The girls were having an intimate discussion, the resemblance becoming more pronounced. They were standing with the same posture, their heads cocked at the same angle, and a shiver slid down his spine. Suddenly, there was the eeriest perception in the air that powerful forces were at work and that he ought to pay attention to them.
“What can you tell me about Miss Carstairs’s past?” he asked. “I don’t remember how those three lost girls resolved their fates. Was there ever any news about her family?”
“She was claimed by an uncle. Her parents were missionaries, sailing for the Caribbean, but their ship sunk in a storm. He raised her.”
“Is that the fellow to whom you were attached? Harry, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Harry. He’s mostly responsible for how she turned out. He honed her talents so he could make money off them.” Fish snorted with disgust. “He was never one to let a financial opportunity go to waste.”
“She probably would have burst out into some sort of fame no matter what. Somehow, I can’t imagine her being ordinary. I can’t see her tucked away in a cottage and rearing a dozen brats.”
Fish chuckled. “No, neither can I.”
“You’re sure her parents were missionaries?”
“It’s the story Harry always told, but with him, you could never be certain if he was being truthful.”
“She’s simply so stunning. I can’t picture her springing from humble beginnings.”
“I agree. It’s utterly possible that she has lofty kin. If I ultimately discover that she’s actually a king’s natural child, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“You don’t suppose . . .”
A demented notion riveted him, and his voice trailed off.
His crazed first wife, Amanda, had fled England with her lover, and she’d taken his daughter, Little Henrietta, with her. He’d been a detached, disinterested father, and when Amanda had vanished, he’d been separated from them for months. He’d cut ties so he’d had no idea where they were living or how Amanda was supporting herself. Weeks had passed before he’d learned they were gone.
He’d been too angry at Amanda to keep track of her, but he should have. Henrietta hadn’t been safe with her, yet he’d left her with her mother anyway.
He’d barely known Henrietta and hadn’t exhibited any paternal tendencies toward her, but he’d fretted over her plight. Where was she? How was she faring? Was she still alive?
No, she wasn’t, and in fact, she’d been declared deceased by the courts.
Now, on observing Miss Carstairs with Penny, he wondered about her. Was there a bizarre chance in the universe that Miss Carstairs might be Henrietta?
He shoved away the fantastical prospect. As if Henrietta would waltz into his life after twenty-three years! As if Libby Carstairs was his long-lost daughter! The whole scenario was preposterous.
“Suppose . . . what?” Fish inquired when he didn’t finish his sentence.
“Nothing. I was woolgathering. Don’t mind me.”
He continued to watch Miss Carstairs though, his disquiet increasing as they returned to the party, and Penny was whisked off by her friends. Miss Carstairs tarried and drank some punch. After a bit, she frowned and peeked over her shoulder.
Luke was lurking a few feet away and avidly staring at her. They shared a heated visual exchange that was so torrid and filled with lust and yearning that he noticed it even though he was quite a distance away.
Miss Carstairs scowled at Luke, flashed a warning, then rushed off.
“Did you see that?” he asked Fish, but she’d briskly slithered away and was seated at the table and pretending not to have witnessed the odd encounter.
“No, what?” Her tone was much too casual.
“Lord Barrett and Miss Carstairs appear to be very cordial.”
“Do they?”
Her nonchalance was alarming, and he said, “Spill your secrets, Fish. Are they . . . involved?”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t really want the answer to.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. How close are they?”
Fish shrugged. “Close enough, I guess.”
“What does that mean? I’m hoping he’ll propose to Penny. If it comes to fruition, will there be a third person in the middle of their matrimonial relationship?”
Fish was silent forever, pondering the situation. She’d always been very loyal, and she would never disparage Miss Carstairs.
“I don’t have a comment on that topic,” she said.
“Your reply terrifies me.”
“If you’re curious about Lord Barrett and his habits, you should speak to him directly.”
“I intend to.”
“But again, Charles, are you sure you should pry? It might be better to leave well-enough alone.”
Fleetingly, he tried to envision having a conversation with Luke on
