“I’ll be in London for the next week,” he said.
“You mention it like a threat.”
“I’ll be watching for you everywhere. You could have mercy on me and simply tell me where you’ll be tomorrow evening. That way, I wouldn’t have to wade through every soiree in the city in order to stumble on you.”
“I don’t go out much in the evenings.” If she was out after dark, it was because she was working. “Tonight was an exception.”
He studied her, then scoffed. “You’re lying about so many topics. Why?”
“Why would you think I’m lying?”
“You have the most expressive face I’ve ever seen. I can read every emotion that’s written there.”
“Your comment alarms me. I constantly cultivate an air of mystery, and I deem myself to be completely enigmatic.”
“You have no secrets from me.”
“Then I will have to create some.”
She winked and sauntered away, figuring he’d jump up and escort her after all, but he wasn’t the type to chase after any woman. The more likely scenario was that women chased him and probably always had.
He was handsome, landed, and maybe even titled, so he’d expect to be fawned over as his absolute due. She’d never been a sycophant though, so clearly, she was wrong for him in every way.
She’d enjoyed meeting him though, and she’d spend weeks, replaying every word they’d spoken so she could consider what might have been. She lived every moment, wondering what might have been.
What if her mother hadn’t been deranged? What if she hadn’t sailed for the Caribbean with Libby? What if she hadn’t drowned in that violent storm? What if Libby hadn’t been rescued on that deserted island? What if Harry hadn’t claimed her when she’d been brought back to London? What if he hadn’t taught her to sing, dance, and spew sad stories?
What sort of woman might she have become instead?
Luke was one more intriguing character, added to a long list of them, who’d drifted by. She was adept at reflecting on the roads that could have been taken, but it never changed anything.
“I’ve agreed to one more week.”
“Why just one? Isn’t he happy with me?”
Libby scowled at her cousin, Simon Carstairs, who used the stage name of Simon Falcon.
He was Harry’s bastard son and looked exactly like him: blond hair, blue eyes, handsome, slender, and fit. He was flamboyant like Harry, smart like Harry, cunning like Harry. He’d just turned twenty, but he could read people and situations better than anyone.
He had Harry’s knack for feigned empathy and insincere flattery, but for chicanery and vice too. He could talk to a person for a minute, and he’d have deduced all sorts of secrets he oughtn’t to have discovered. Because he had no scruples and possessed convoluted morals, others befriended him at their peril.
“He’s very happy,” Simon said, “and with you on the poster out front, the house is filling up every night, but he’s not willing to shell out what it’s worth to have you here.”
They were discussing the theater manager. He was a wily cretin she couldn’t abide.
“It won’t kill me to accept a bit less,” she said.
“It might kill me,” Simon retorted. “I won’t let him take advantage of you. He’s a brute who doesn’t deserve to have you gracing his establishment.”
“It’s kind of you to put your foot down, but we have to pay our bills.”
“We’re paying them.”
They were in a changing room at the rear of the theater. She was seated at the dressing table, and he leaned over and dropped a bag of coins onto it. He’d negotiated a deal whereby she could keep half the coins tossed to her by the crowd during her act, and she had no idea how he’d arranged it.
The actors didn’t usually get to keep any of the money thrown at them, but then, they didn’t ever generate the level of applause or weeping Libby induced.
“It was a grand night,” Simon said, and he kissed her on the cheek. “You were particularly sorrowful.”
She snorted with amusement. “I try my best.”
“Even the men were bawling into their sleeves.”
“What if they tire of me someday? They’ve been listening to my pathetic narrative for twenty years. What if some other unlucky female suffers a tragedy, then bursts forward and steals my thunder?”
“I would never allow that to happen.”
She hoped he wouldn’t.
She supported him and Fish. It was her talent and drive that kept them clothed, housed, and fed. If she somehow lost her ability to tantalize, she couldn’t imagine what would become of them. Simon would probably join a circus and perform dazzling magic tricks. Fish was a skilled seamstress and costumer, and she could work at a theater until her fingers and eyes gave out.
But what would Libby do?
“Besides,” he added, “who could be as mesmerizing as you? No one can spin a yarn like you.”
Harry had crafted hundreds of vignettes where she wove story and song to entice spectators with her baffling history. All these years later, the tale still riveted.
Little Lost Libby . . . Mystery Girl of the Caribbean!
Who was she? Who had her parents been? How and why had her ship sunk? How had she reached the deserted island where she’d been found? How long had she been stranded? How had she and her two companions survived?
She had few answers to any of those questions. Her memories were sparse and sprinkled with tidbits Harry had wedged into her mind, so she wasn’t clear on what was true and what was fiction. When she was younger, she’d had vivid recollections of her mother, but those had faded with time until she recalled nothing that she would consider valid.
Harry had been adamant that her parents were Kit and Maude Carstairs. Kit Carstairs was his brother, and they’d been missionaries, sailing to Jamaica to settle and preach. Libby had swallowed that lie for two decades. It was only recently, after Harry had died, that she’d stumbled on
