“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.
Charles’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.”
“I wouldn’t consider that,” he murmured, but she knew he wasn’t serious.
“Yes, you would. You’d pay any price to have Henrietta back in your life. Don’t deny it.”
“I won’t, but I don’t want it to transpire like this. I don’t want charlatans to burst into my home and improperly gain my sympathy.”
“Precisely, Charles! So this is how you should proceed.”
“Yes, you have to apprise me. For I must admit, I am bewildered by this revelation.”
“We shall immediately remove her from the manor.”
“I had already planned on that. You were correct that there’s an issue with her and Luke, and I decided it would be best if she left. It’s not wise to have her around and tempting
