“Are we going?” she asked Simon.
“Yes, but there’s a mob out there. It’s insane!”
“I don’t understand this ruckus,” she said. “Why is everyone outside? Why are they clamoring for my release?”
“It was in the newspapers about your being Little Henrietta!” Simon said. “That reporter, Howard Periwinkle, who was pestering you learned of it somehow. The whole country is buzzing!”
Fish muttered, “The entire kingdom has gone mad.”
“We’ll get you out,” Simon said, “if we can guide you through the protesters.”
“I’m not scared of my admirers,” Libby said. “They’ll permit us to pass unmolested.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Simon gestured toward the door, and the guards leapt to attention and started down the hall. She swept out after them.
For an instant, Lord Barrett moved forward as if he expected her to take his arm and allow him to walk her out, but she had no intention of letting him.
During her incarceration, she’d had many hours to engage in some soul searching. Gradually, it had dawned on her that she had to separate herself from him. She’d recognized that situation before she’d traveled to Roland, and she grasped it even better now.
With her father disavowing her, she’d been painfully reminded that she didn’t belong in the sphere occupied by the likes of Charles Pendleton and Lucas Watson. She might have initially been born into it, but as a child, she’d plunged from her lofty spot, and there was no way to reclaim it.
She was too tarnished, too notorious, to demand a position in their snobbish, aristocratic world. And why would she yearn to have a position there?
Her life was grand. The streets were packed with people shouting her name and wanting only what was best for her. That was enough.
For a few brief months, she’d wondered if she required more than that to be happy, but she didn’t. As Fish had wisely counseled, it was pointless to love a man who couldn’t love her back. When she was around him, she acted like a ninny who couldn’t control her emotions. But she was Libby Carstairs, was Little Henrietta Pendleton, and she’d always controlled them.
Lord Barrett had made her forget how strong she was, but her short stint in the prison had her vividly recollecting an important truth about herself: She was fine just as she was, and she didn’t need a waffling, disinterested beau in order to feel complete.
She scowled at Lord Barrett as if he was a stranger who’d wandered in by accident, then she took Simon’s arm instead. Fish took his other arm, and the three of them—her real family—strolled out together. She supposed Lord Barrett trailed after them, but she didn’t glance back to find out.
They were marched to the gate. More guards were there, and they yanked it open so her retinue could clear a route to her carriage. It was parked very close, but they would have to push through the horde to reach it.
The nearest spectators saw her, and a cheer went up. Libby! Libby! Libby! There were also assorted cries of, Henrietta! Still more of, Let her out! Let her out! and Shame on Lord Roland!
She was curious how Charles Pendleton—a man who detested scandal and strife—would fare with his reputation in tatters. He wouldn’t like to be so thoroughly disparaged, and she smiled with a grim satisfaction, thinking it served him right for being so horrid, not just to her, but to Fish who had fallen in love with him again and who was suffering from the betrayals he’d inflicted.
Then they were at the carriage. The door was jerked open, and she, Simon, and Fish were lifted in, then it was slammed shut again. Their driver cracked the whip, the horses snorted and complained, then the vehicle lurched away, sending her audience dashing away to avoid being run over. In a quick minute, they were rolling down quieter streets to her rented house.
Lord Barrett hadn’t been lifted in with them. He hadn’t been permitted to sequester himself with her, so she was snuggled between the only two people who mattered to her at all.
If she’d been a sillier female, she might have mourned that fact, but she was glad they’d left without him. She was glad! And she wouldn’t pretend otherwise.
Caroline Grey stood in the milling throng outside the prison. She was a petite woman, so it was difficult to discern what was happening around her.
Once she’d read in the newspaper that Libby had been wrongfully arrested, she’d visited the facility on several occasions. It had been a fool’s errand, but she’d asked to be admitted so she could talk to Libby, but the jailers had jeered and told her that dozens of purported acquaintances had been claiming a connection to Libby and demanding to speak with her, so Caroline’s attempts had been soundly rebuffed.
Rumors were rampant that Libby was finally going to be released, and Caroline was making her way toward the front. Up ahead, a carriage was parked, and the gate came into view. Suddenly, it swung open, and the spectators surged forward. She was whisked off her feet and carried with them.
There was no opportunity to worry that she might be crushed in the melee; it occurred too fast to fret. A line of guards rushed into the bystanders, and they began shoving and hitting with fists and clubs, clearing a path for someone approaching behind them.
Then . . . ? There she was! Dear Libby! Her oldest friend. Libby, the fearless companion who had haunted her dreams for two decades. Libby, the lone female in all the world who would comprehend the challenging life Caroline had led after their terrible ordeal in the Caribbean.
Caroline recalled Libby being very pretty, but she was even more beautiful now. Her adult years had added drama and elegance to her gorgeous face so she could have been a princess or maybe an angel who would have been painted on a church ceiling.
She was being hustled along, intent on reaching the
