“In the meantime, you should talk to your father. If he’s behind this, he might have to withdraw his complaint before any of it will calm down.”
“I’ll deal with my father. You just help Libby. Tell her I’ll visit her shortly.”
“I will tell her.”
They had quite an audience by then, with guests staring as if it were an exciting theatrical play.
“What’s happened?” one of Penny’s friends asked. “Why is Miss Carstairs under arrest?”
“Libby Carstairs is my father’s lost daughter,” Penny announced to the assembled company. “She is Little Henrietta, and there are some people—my aunt for instance—who want to deny it and hide her away.”
The declaration brought gasps, titters, and even a few shouts of astonishment.
“Is this some kind of party joke?” another friend asked. “Is it a trick?”
“No, it’s no joke,” Penny said. “Libby Carstairs is my sister, and my father and aunt are working hard to keep the news from spreading.”
Millicent stepped into the hall, and she was aghast as she demanded of Penny, “What have you done?”
“I’ve admitted the truth, Aunt Millicent. This isn’t a secret you can conceal. It’s too big.”
“The story is not true!” Millicent insisted to the gaping crowd. “Penny hasn’t been well, and she’s babbling nonsense.”
Spectators mumbled their disdain, and several openly laughed at her, but others were slipping outside, eager to ride to London as fast as they could so they could brag about how they’d been present when the information was first disseminated.
When Libby had originally told Simon about her being Henrietta, he hadn’t known what to think, but that cat was out of the bag. From this moment on, the whole world would believe she was Henrietta, so he’d believe it too.
“I have to go,” he said to Penny.
“Go! But hurry back!”
“I will.”
He dipped down and kissed her right in front of everyone. Some of the onlookers gawked with amazement, but most of them were rushing upstairs to pack so they could return to town and join in the frenzy over Libby. The party was definitely over.
As he and Penny drew apart and she smiled up at him, it dawned on him that he might like having her for his very own. In fact, he might like it just fine. His seduction had started as a lark, but maybe it would be much more than that. He might wind up obscenely rich too and that would simply be icing on the cake.
He spun away and skipped out the door. Libby needed him, and he’d always been the one man who could keep her out of trouble.
“Were you successful?”
“Yes, much more than I thought I’d be when I initially departed for town.”
Luke sighed with relief and nodded at Charles. It was a chilly day, and they were sitting by the fire in the small family parlor at Barrett. Charles had stopped by on his way home from London so he could report on how he’d fared in tamping down Libby’s rumors. They were having a brandy, and Charles was warming himself, then he would continue on to Roland.
“I managed to reach the newspaper office,” Charles said, “and chat with the owner before that weasel, Mr. Periwinkle, arrived. He was a very rational fellow, and he realized how a whiff of innuendo would set off pandemonium we couldn’t control. He agreed to ignore it.”
“You didn’t have to bribe or threaten him?” Luke asked.
“No. He was extremely reasonable. Years ago, he’d published articles about Henrietta’s disappearance, as well as about Libby and those other girls being rescued. He recognized how fascinating both tales were to the masses, and he swore he would never distress me by reigniting the controversies.”
“I don’t imagine Periwinkle will be too thrilled to have this quashed. He didn’t seem the type to give up easily.”
“Apparently, he’s a loyal employee, and if he’s ordered to forget about it, he will.”
Luke snorted at that, not trusting the cretin for a single second. “What will you do about Libby? You’ve suppressed a public airing of her claims, but you still have to deal with her inclination to share it more quietly.”
Charles blew out a heavy breath. “I haven’t decided the best route. I’ve been fussing about it the entire trip to the city and back.”
“What if she’s telling the truth, Charles? Have you considered that possibility?”
“I’ve reflected on nothing else since I left for London.”
“She could be your daughter.”
“You don’t have to remind me.”
Luke liked having an excuse to discuss Libby. The prior time he’d been at Barrett, she’d been there with him. It had been the rainy day when they’d been caught in a deluge out on the lane. He’d slyly convinced her to tarry, then he’d taken advantage of their isolation and her affection. After that marvelous night, everything had fallen to pieces.
The last occasion he’d seen her, they’d fought quite viciously. She’d surprised him with her shocking assertion about being Henrietta, and he’d been so astounded—and so dubious—that he’d basically called her a liar and a fraud. They’d been stupid words uttered in the heat of the moment, and he hadn’t meant them.
Or maybe he’d meant them, but with him having calmed down, he was fervidly wishing they could be retracted.
What if he saddled a horse and rode to London to talk to her?
He was positive—if he could even locate her—she’d refuse to speak to him. If he forced his way into her presence anyway, she’d likely slap him silly for being an idiot, and he was too proud to suffer such a humiliating rejection.
Yet he was so pathetically morose without her. He’d been incessantly pondering his miserable condition, and gradually, it had dawned on him that he might be in love with her. He couldn’t deduce any other explanation for why he’d be so glum.
He ought to be glad they’d separated. He ought to be celebrating, but the pitiful fact was that he was hideously despondent. He’d never been close to a woman before. He’d never been . . . been . . . in love. That
