“This is hard,” Libby said. “I have no idea where to begin.”
Fish’s patience was exhausted. “Just tell us, Libby!”
“Yes, Libby,” Simon concurred. “Spit it out so we can figure out where we are.”
He poured himself a glass of liquor, then sat next to Fish. They glared at Libby, almost daring her to voice a remark they were determined not to like.
“After Uncle Harry died,” she tentatively started, “I found some letters.”
“And . . . ?” Fish pressed.
“They were from Harry’s brother, Kit Carstairs. I know who I am now. Harry lied to me about my identity. All these years, he lied.”
“That’s not a surprise,” Simon said. “He was always a liar.”
“So who are you?” Fish asked. “Weren’t your parents missionaries who were off to preach to the natives in the New World?”
“They weren’t missionaries,” Libby told them.
She felt as if she was running toward a high cliff and about to jump over. Where would she be when she landed at the bottom? She couldn’t imagine, but once she spoke the words aloud, there could be no retracting them.
“I am Little Henrietta, Lord Roland’s lost daughter.”
Fish and Simon froze and gaped at her, then Simon’s jaw dropped. “No bloody way! You’re joking!”
Fish simply studied Libby intently, as if checking for Pendleton features. Then cautiously, as if testing how the comment would sound, she said, “Harry had letters that claim you’re Little Henrietta?”
“They don’t claim it, Fish,” Libby said. “They prove it.”
“This is so brilliant!” Simon practically crowed. “I can’t believe you thought of it!”
“It’s the truth,” Libby insisted.
“We can make a fortune off this story!” he said.
“We will not make money off it,” Libby sternly replied. “I merely need the two of you to tell me how to proceed.”
“I know how we’ll proceed,” Simon said. “Is this a ploy to snag Lord Barrett?”
Libby scowled. “What?”
“He would never wed you because of your low status, but if you’re an earl’s daughter, you’re perfect for him.” Simon clucked his tongue like an annoying hen. “It’s so cunning! If you’re Roland’s long-lost daughter, think of how we can use it to ingratiate ourselves to him!”
“Simon!” Fish chided. “Calm down. We’re not scheming on Lord Roland.”
Simon, the craftier of the three of them, hurried over to the door and spun the key, locking them in again. Then he sat back down.
“I’m stunned that Libby concocted this before I did!” He turned to Libby. “Why didn’t you confer with me about the details? I could have rounded the edges so there aren’t any flaws.”
“Simon, hush!” Fish sharply snapped, and she shifted her attention to Libby. “Explain this to me,” Fish said. “I’m trying to understand.”
“My mother was Amanda Pendleton, Lord Roland’s runaway wife. The man with her when she perished at sea was Harry’s brother, Kit Carstairs.”
“When your ship sank in that storm,” Fish asked, “weren’t you bound for Jamaica? That’s what I always heard, but Amanda went to Europe. It’s an established fact, and Lord Pendleton had investigators search there.”
“She fled to Europe with her lover—when she first left the marriage—but he died in an accident in Rome. She was destitute, desperate, and alone, and she bumped into Kit Carstairs who was a university student on holiday. She begged him to save her, and it seems as if he was a young, gullible idiot. Harry warned him to stay away from her, but Kit was besotted, and he ignored his brother’s advice. They sailed for Jamaica, and they concealed their plans so Lord Roland could never find her.”
“Why would Harry hide that news?” Fish asked.
“Why did Harry do any insane thing?” Simon rhetorically responded.
Fish kept on. “If this is true, when you were returned to England, why didn’t Harry admit who you were? Why didn’t he give you back to your father?”
“My mother had regaled Kit Carstairs with dreadful stories about Lord Roland and how terrified she was of him. Mr. Carstairs presumed he was rescuing a damsel in distress from a violent ogre.”
Fish huffed with offense. “Charles Pendleton wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“It’s how my mother persuaded Mr. Carstairs to help her, and he made Harry promise to never tell a soul their destination. He assumed—if Lord Pendleton found me or my mother—we’d be endangered.”
Fish scoffed with disgust. “So Harry—the confirmed bachelor and confidence artist—decided to secretly raise you, rather than hand you over to your rich, important family?” Fish’s incredulity was depressing. “I’m sorry, Libby, but you’re aware of what Harry was like. He didn’t have a benevolent bone in his body, and he wouldn’t have cared if your father was a fiend. He wouldn’t have aided you out of the goodness of his heart. If anything, he’d have sold you to your father.”
“When he took custody of me,” Libby said, “it wasn’t exactly altruistic, was it? I spent my life earning the income that supported us. I did all the work, and he collected all the benefits.”
Fish frowned. “Are you claiming that he figured out—from the very start—that he could fabricate your identity, then use you for his own financial purposes? Even for Harry, that’s too calculating. He couldn’t have invented a plot that devious. He wasn’t smart enough.”
On hearing the derogatory comment, Libby felt as if all her energy had drained out. She sank onto her chair and gripped the arms so she didn’t simply slide to the floor.
“You don’t believe me.”
“It’s just so far-fetched,” Fish said.
“You think I’d lie about it?” Libby asked.
Fish shook her head. “No, I don’t think you’d lie. Do you have the letters with you? Could I look at them?”
“They’re in London.”
“I want to read them. I want to see them for myself.”
“I’m happy to show them to you—the instant we’re in town again.”
After Simon’s initial outburst, he’d been silent. He’d been listening to Libby and Fish argue, turning to and fro as if watching a ball being swatted back and forth.
He jumped into the conversation. “Wait a minute. If Kit Carstairs wasn’t your father and if Lord Pendleton is, then you
