He scowled, not able to unravel the puzzle. “Who is it?”
“It’s Charles Pendleton. I’m his lost daughter, Little Henrietta.”
His jaw dropped, and he scornfully scrutinized her. Then he provided the exact response she’d expected.
“Libby Carstairs, you are not Henrietta Pendleton.”
“I am,” she firmly stated, “so you see, Lord Barrett, my father is an earl, and Lady Penny is my sister. With that information on the table, are you still desperate to wed her rather than me?”
“You’re not Henrietta,” he repeated. “Why would you tell such a whopping falsehood?”
“People have been calling me a liar all day, so I shouldn’t be irked by your attitude, but I must admit that I am sincerely crushed by it.”
He clucked his tongue with disgust. “Libby, you have to recognize how bizarre this sounds. Who persuaded you to make such a claim? Was it Mr. Falcon? I consider him to be a shady character. I hope you haven’t permitted him to drag you into an untenable morass.”
“He didn’t persuade me of anything. I learned about it from my uncle’s letters. I couldn’t decide how to proceed, so I kept the news to myself until this afternoon.”
“Gad, you can’t have apprised Charles. It would be such a cruel trick to play on him. He’d be devastated.”
“Lord Roland just happens to be my father.”
“Would you stop saying that?”
“Yes, I will stop. For now. I simply want you to hear—from my own lips—that my father is an earl, that I was born with very high blood. And Penny is my sister, and you’re about to marry her. If my world had spun in a different direction, I would have been the perfect bride for you, but Fate and my mother snatched it all away. So you’ll pick Penny instead of me, and it will kill me forever.”
“I can’t imagine how I should reply to such a peculiar outburst.”
“I’m feeling a tad hysterical, so you probably shouldn’t stand too close. Who can predict what I’ll do next?”
He stared at her across the mattress, an impasse as vast as the ocean opening up between them.
He could have shaken off his stupor and told her he didn’t mean to denigrate her, that he believed her and was certain she would never lie about such a monumental topic. He could have rounded the bed, pulled her into his arms, and told her he was excited for her, that he would help her maneuver through the harrowing future that would arrive after the truth was disseminated.
But he didn’t round the bed. He didn’t pull her into his arms.
“You mentioned this to Charles?” he asked.
“No, he mentioned it to me. I guess a housemaid was spying on me while I was talking about it with Simon. She tattled before I could reveal the secret in my own way, but just so you know, Lord Roland thought I was lying too. His only concern was to be sure I didn’t blab to anyone.”
“I can understand why. Have you any idea of the upheaval this will stir if it spreads?”
“Oh, yes, I’m prepared for it. I’ve been the Mystery Girl of the Caribbean for twenty years. I have a fairly clear notion of what that entails.”
“Don’t tell people about this, Libby. Please don’t. It can’t end well for you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She waited a second, then another and another, dying a little when he didn’t take a step toward her.
Ultimately, he said, “I should check on Charles. He’s likely quite distraught over this situation.”
“We can’t have Charles distraught, can we?”
“You stay right here,” he ludicrously commanded, as if she was prone to following orders. “I’ll be back in a bit. We’ll discuss this further.”
“I won’t move a muscle until then.”
“Good.”
He dawdled, appearing as if he’d offer a profound remark, as if he’d apologize for calling her a fraud, but it wasn’t voiced.
He whipped away and left, and she listened as he exited the suite. She wondered if he’d bothered to look in the hall first before he strutted out. What if he’d been observed by her nosey housemaid?
Well, it was his problem. Not Libby’s. She wasn’t the one who was about to become engaged to an earl’s daughter. She was single and free, and he was the least of her worries.
“Pompous idiot,” she muttered as his strides faded away.
She went into the dressing room to dig out a satchel so she could pack a few clothes for her trip to London.
Penny arrived at Libby’s bedchamber, and she peeked into an empty sitting room, but in the bedroom beyond, Libby was next to the bed. There was a satchel on the mattress, and she appeared to be stuffing clothes into it.
She hurried in, saying, “Libby! What are you doing? You can’t be leaving. Please tell me you aren’t.”
Libby froze, then crudely muttered, “I should have locked the bloody door.” Then she turned around. “I’m sorry, but I can’t have a visitor right now.”
Penny bustled over, and she studied Libby. It was very strange, but from the moment they’d met, she’d felt such a potent connection to the beautiful female.
It wasn’t just that Libby was famous and glamorous. She was the woman Penny would like to be when she was older. Penny had always been the quiet daughter, the perfect child, but a stubborn streak bubbled below the surface.
She envied Libby her autonomy and freedom. Libby didn’t answer to anyone, didn’t heed silly orders or edicts. She made up her own mind and chose her own path. No female in Penny’s world was ever allowed such liberty.
Penny intended to watch and imitate Libby, so she would gradually learn how to display the exact sort of brazen attributes.
“The party isn’t over for a week,” she said. “You can’t abandon me. You’re the only guest I truly want in residence.”
“I can’t stay here another minute.”
“Why not? Was someone rude to you? Who was it? I shall deal with him or her at once.”
Libby stared, and Penny received the distinct impression that
