“I only just learned about it myself! You have more information about it than I do. How dare you accuse me of bad conduct!”
“I’ve asked her to vacate the premises.”
“Oh, Charles. You didn’t.”
“She’s involved in a torrid affair with Lord Barrett, and it’s distracting him from proposing to Penny. I thought it would be best if she departed.”
“You’ve seen how he gazes at her,” Fish said, “so if you think you can tamp down his fascination by sending her back to town, you’re mad. He’s wild for her, and I doubt you can persuade him to leave her alone.”
“You’d watched their amour unfold, yet you brought her here anyway.”
“I didn’t know the enamored scoundrel would be at Roland! Libby didn’t either. We were attempting to hide from him, but when we rolled in, he was standing in your driveway. Don’t blame me because he’s a rutting dog who can’t control himself.”
“You have to speak to Libby for me.”
“About what?”
“You must dissuade her so she doesn’t circulate these bizarre tales about being Henrietta. It would stir a scandal that would never die down, and she has to promise she’ll never mention it to anyone. She has to realize that there would be dire consequences for disseminating baseless rumors.”
“Are you threatening her?”
“No.” He scoffed as if the notion was absurd.
“It definitely sounds to me as if you’re threatening her. What if I read the letters and they seem genuine? Have you considered that for a single second?”
“Letters can be forged.”
“And some letters might not be. What if she’s your daughter? Aren’t you concerned about that possibility? What if you spurn her now, only to discover in the future that she was telling the truth? How will you ever convince her to forgive you?”
“Henrietta is dead,” he callously stated. “She’s been dead for two decades, and I won’t have Libby Carstairs and Simon Falcon dredging up this painful issue.” He paused, then added with a grim finality, “I won’t tolerate it.”
“Fine. I’ll talk to her for you.”
Fish wasn’t serious precisely, and in any dispute, she’d side with Libby. Harry had certainly been wily enough to perpetrate such a fraud, but he could never have coerced Libby into being the bait. And if he was planning to run a swindle, why hadn’t he begun much earlier? Why wait until Libby was grown?
Charles had offered a huge reward for Henrietta’s safe return, so Harry would have profited financially if he’d handed her over, and it wasn’t like him to ignore his worst impulses. Could the reality be that a very deranged Amanda Pendleton had glommed onto his brother Kit, then Kit had perished at sea, while trying to rescue her from Charles?
Afterward, had Harry wound up with Libby dumped in his lap, but not sure of what to do about it?
Might he have debated and pondered, but as the months—then years—went by, perhaps he’d lost the chance to come forward? Or had he actually suffered a fatherly affection for Libby? They’d been very close. Had she gradually become the daughter he’d never had?
With Harry deceased and unable to explain, who could guess how his devious mind had worked? Should Fish theorize over any of that? Probably not. In light of Charles’s angry mood, she wasn’t about to expound on cunning, deceitful Harry Carstairs.
She was anxious to smooth over their bitter words, so she was stunned when he said, “I think you should depart with her.”
She bristled. “You’re kicking me out too?”
“Let’s not say I’m kicking you out. Let’s just say I need an interval away from you while I digest what’s transpired.”
“Why is any of this my fault?”
“I’m not claiming it’s your fault. I’m simply bewildered by events, and I refuse to be dragged into a quagmire by your two acquaintances.”
“I haven’t caused any trouble. I just crawled into your bed because you’re a randy goat who can’t keep his trousers buttoned.”
“We shouldn’t have rekindled our affair. It was a mistake.”
She was surprised she didn’t slap him. “It’s a little late for you to decide it was a mistake, but it’s what I should have expected from you. Twenty years have passed, but you’re still a pompous ass.”
“I’m sorry.” His cheeks heated, so apparently, he was capable of some shame.
“You don’t look sorry,” she fumed.
She downed her whiskey, slammed the glass on the table, then stood and marched out.
As she reached the door, he said, “Fish!”
She halted and glared over her shoulder. “What?”
“I’ll write you in a few days or . . . or . . . next time I’m in town, we’ll get together.” He forced a smile. “I apologize for upsetting you. Once I calm down, I’ll contact you.”
Could he assume she’d want to hear from him again? After he’d insulted and offended her? After he’d accused her of duplicitous conduct? After he’d threatened Libby and accused her of awful conduct too?
“Don’t put yourself out on my behalf, Lord Roland.” She hurled the comment with an incredible amount of venom. “Should you ever deign to lower your grand self to write me, I will always be too busy to respond.”
She whipped away and continued on, and to her great annoyance, he didn’t call to her again. Nor did he chase her down to stop her from going.
Howard Periwinkle, who pictured himself as the most dedicated of newspaper reporters, lurked in the woods near the gate that led onto Lord Roland’s estate. Previously, after he’d tried to speak with Miss Carstairs, the earl had had a pair of burly footmen run him off. Lord Roland probably assumed he’d fled back to town like a scared rabbit, but he didn’t have to be in London until the next day, so he hadn’t left the area.
Instead, he’d been loafing on the lane to the village and buying people drinks at the local tavern. He’d heard many stories about the party at Roland, and he remained dreadfully curious about Miss Carstairs. Everyone in the
