She, Caroline, and Joanna had created an enormous stir when they’d first arrived back in England. They’d scarcely known their names and could furnish no details about their families. An article, along with a drawing of the three of them, had been printed in the newspapers, and Libby still had a tattered copy of it. Occasionally—when she was feeling lonely or nostalgic—she’d pull it out and study it.
On the island, they’d been living like feral wolf pups, and the authorities had been determined to reunite them with responsible kin. Numerous people had stepped forward, and they’d been swiftly separated and whisked off to different destinations without being given a chance to say goodbye to each other.
She remained haunted by that separation. Who had claimed Caroline and Joanna? Where had they gone? Harry had always insisted he had no information and couldn’t find out, but as with so much of what Harry had shared, she was certain it was false.
She had thrived in the world Harry had handed to her. What about them?
It was the twentieth anniversary of their being rescued, and she caught herself thinking about them constantly. Could she locate them? Might someone at the navy be able to help her? Should she purchase an advertisement in the newspaper? Might it be that easy?
Unfortunately, any publicity would fuel the flames of speculation. A reporter was already sniffing around, anxious to interview her for a retrospective, but she’d been avoiding him. What purpose would be served by dragging it all up again?
She thought there might be dangerous secrets lurking beneath the surface. Whenever she was distressed, they tried to break out, but she kept them tamped down. With her having read Harry’s letters and discovering her real father’s identity—it definitely hadn’t been Kit Carstairs—she couldn’t bear to look too closely at the past.
She needed more time to decide how to proceed. She needed more time to figure out the best path.
Fish was with them, in the adjoining closet where she was fussing with Libby’s costume for the following evening. She peeked out and asked, “If Libby only performs for another week, what will we do after she’s finished?”
“We’ve been invited to a house party,” Simon told her.
“In the country?” Fish asked.
“No, in the middle of the ocean,” Simon facetiously replied. “Of course it’s in the country.”
Fish glanced at Libby. “What is your opinion? Would you enjoy it? Or would you rather stay in town?”
Libby shrugged. She loved loafing in fancy houses, being waited on hand and foot and treated like a princess. She was so comfortable in posh surroundings that she’d always assumed, and Harry had always teased, that she must have had many gallons of blue blood running in her veins.
She asked Simon, “Where’s the party?”
“It’s at Lord Roland’s estate. Roland Manor?”
Libby could barely keep from sucking in a sharp breath, but she managed to refrain. She’d been desperately plotting to devise a reason to visit Roland. Was this Fate providing a sign? Or was Fate tricking her? If she forged ahead, would it all collapse in a huge morass?
“He’s showing off his daughter,” Simon said. “The mansion will be open, the liquor will flow, and the guests will be elegant and wealthy. In other words, Libby, it will be right up your alley.”
Fish scoffed and said to Simon, “How on earth have you wrangled an invitation from Charles Pendleton?”
“Who is Charles Pendleton?”
“Lord Roland,” Fish said, and when Libby and Simon glared at her, demanding she clarify her familiarity, she explained, “He and I are old friends, and he’d never welcome a measly crew like us, so please tell me how you finagled this.”
“I met a Pendleton cousin.”
“Gambling?”
“Yes, and he absolutely adores Libby,” Simon said. “He thinks I’m a grand fellow too.”
“Then he’s obviously an idiot.”
Fish rolled her eyes and whipped into the closet.
Simon was a magician who was adept at slight-of-hand. If he was gambling, he was cheating. Libby and Fish were terrified—if his nefarious tendencies were ever unmasked—he’d get himself killed.
“Shall I accept or not?” Simon asked Libby.
Libby called to Fish, “What’s your preference, Fish? Shall we spend a week at an ostentatious mansion and let ourselves be spoiled rotten? Or would you like to dawdle in town and trudge along in the rut where we’re currently stuck?”
Fish called back, “I guess we can go. It’ll be a nice change.”
“We heartily agree,” Libby said to Simon.
He grinned and strutted out. He was as proficient at manipulating them as Harry had been, and they always wound up following his suggestions. The fact that he usually had ulterior motives never seemed to prevent them from latching onto any proposal.
Once the door shut behind him, Fish emerged. She was forty, a short, plump, pretty woman with auburn hair and emerald eyes who’d never wed. Instead, she’d wasted her life trailing after charismatic, debauched men like Harry. She liked the freedom of the theater and traveling troupes, and she had a stellar reputation as a seamstress and costumer.
She’d been Harry’s mistress off and on for years and was a kind of substitute mother to Libby. Or maybe an older sister with loose morals and a pragmatic view of the world. She never lectured or scolded, and she felt that females labored under too many unfair restrictions.
She constantly advised Libby to shuck off her prim inclinations and enjoy herself a bit more, but Libby had had all the excitement she could abide by staggering after Harry for two decades.
“Will we really go to Roland?” Fish asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I declare that it will be very fun, and who can predict what might happen? Perhaps we’ll both meet handsome scoundrels and make fools of ourselves over them.”
“You are the consummate optimist, Fish.”
“Someone should be. If you grew anymore dour, your face would crack from all your frowning.”
“I miss Harry,” Libby said. “I didn’t think I would, but I do. Don’t you miss him too?”
“I
