She had to reestablish her position in the family. She had to remind them that she was a valued member, and they were lucky she was so loyal and faithful, but how could she rekindle their esteem?
Clearly, Charles had no ability to deal effectively with Miss Carstairs. He’d blatantly threatened her, but she wasn’t afraid of him, apparently recognizing that he would never be genuinely cruel.
Well, Millicent never worried about being too cruel. Nor did she worry much about how others viewed her. She was perfectly willing to force Miss Carstairs to respect Charles as she ought. In the process, she was positive she could get Miss Fishburn’s attention too.
The wicked slattern had waltzed into Millicent’s home and assumed she could latch onto Charles, but Charles belonged to Millicent, and she wouldn’t blithely surrender what was hers.
What would be best? What course of action would inflict the most damage on both women?
Her mind racing with possibilities, she wandered to the window and stared down into the garden. It was a beautiful summer day, and the vista always soothed her.
Penny was there, dawdling on the path, and to Millicent’s great aggravation, Simon Falcon was there too. Charles had rid them of Miss Carstairs, but he’d forgotten to ensure Mr. Falcon left too.
Even from the far distance of Millicent’s bedroom, it was obvious the pair was much friendlier than they should be and that Penny was encouraging him. Was she insane?
Mr. Falcon was little more than a criminal. He’d spent his life around circus performers, actors, and other dubious people. He was worldly and flamboyant and much too sophisticated for Penny. What scheme was he hatching? Had he asked her for money? Had she promised to give him some? Or might he have sought other favors? What might they be?
The answers to those questions were terrifying.
Suddenly, Mr. Falcon leaned down and kissed Penny. Right on the lips! Right in the garden where there could be witnesses! Then Penny grinned and sauntered toward the house.
Millicent gasped with dismay and lurched away from the window so Penny wouldn’t glance up and see her spying. She braced herself against the wall, her pulse pounding, her temper flaring to an even hotter temperature.
Libby Carstairs had burst into their lives with her horrid seamstress and her devious cousin. Could Millicent stand idly by and let the trio wreck Millicent’s bucolic existence? Could she rely on Charles to take charge and handle them?
No, she could not.
Drastic measures were required, and she had to figure out what they should be, then implement them in the quickest manner she could devise.
In the end, Charles would be glad she’d assisted him. She would free him from the machinations of the brazen pests, and he would be grateful for her intervention on his behalf. Perhaps once she’d imposed all the punishments they deserved, he would finally realize how much he cared.
“I think my heart is broken.”
“It’s the normal conclusion to a love affair with an aristocrat.”
Libby glared at Fish. “I don’t need philosophy from you. I just need you to commiserate for once.”
Fish shrugged. “Lord Barrett is a rich, handsome scoundrel who would never have fallen in love or married you, but you involved yourself anyway. In a situation like that, heartbreak is the only option.”
They were in London, in the front parlor of their rented home. They were licking their wounds and not yet ready to figure out their next steps. They’d been too battered by their experiences at Roland.
“What about you?” Libby asked. “Is your heart broken?”
“By Charles Pendleton? Are you joking? I let him torment me when I was twenty. I’m smarter now.”
“Really? You’re not devastated by his tossing you over?”
“I’m feeling a tad low,” Fish confessed, “but it will pass.”
Libby scoffed. “You’re such a liar. You’re as forlorn as I am.”
“I won’t admit that you’re correct.”
“I hate him!” Libby fumed.
“Who? Charles? He’s your father. You can’t hate him.”
They’d been back for four days, and they were like lost puppies who couldn’t find their mother. The house seemed particularly empty, the rooms echoing in a way that underscored their misery. They’d always worked for a living, and it was odd to be loafing, to have no evening show to occupy their hours with preparation.
They jumped at every sound, expecting it to be Simon returning from Roland or perhaps Luke or Charles rushing to apologize. They were wallowing in the same fantasy: that the two men would realize how horridly they’d behaved, and they’d be anxious to proclaim how profoundly sorry they were.
But that type of ending only happened in fairytales, and this was real life. If Libby had to guess, she’d predict that both men had come to their senses and were delighted to have had the liaisons terminate with so little fuss.
“Maybe I don’t hate Charles,” Libby said. “Maybe I merely loathe him to the marrow of my bones.”
“He’s complicated. He’s persnickety about status and class, but deep down, he’s kind, and he worries about how he’s viewed by others. He constantly tries to do the right thing.”
“You couldn’t prove it by me.”
Libby was aggrieved over how she’d been evicted. Luke wasn’t a gullible boy. He’d leapt into their amour, but she had been blamed for it.
She was aggrieved too over how Charles and Luke hadn’t believed her about her parentage. She comprehended Charles’s reluctance to instantly accept her story, but she’d assumed Luke knew what sort of character she possessed. How could he doubt her?
Where was he at that very moment? Was he still at Roland and ingratiating himself to Penny? Was he about to propose? Would Libby pick up the newspaper some morning and read their engagement announcement? The whole scenario left her sick at her stomach.
The box of Harry’s letters was on the table between them, and Fish gestured to it. “I’m stunned by how Harry kept your past a secret. He was such a conniver—and a talker too. How
