“Libby!” she shouted, but it was impossible to be heard over the noise. “Libby! It’s me! It’s Caroline Grey! Do you remember me? You can’t have forgotten!”
But Libby was hustled into the vehicle, and she vanished so swiftly she might never have been there.
Upon her departure, the clamor and bellowing ceased. The protesters circled about, still filled with the energy that had been generated on Libby’s behalf. Their shared outrage had proved effective. Hadn’t it? She’d been set free, but they weren’t sure of how to act now that she’d left. They chatted in groups, their expressions beatific, as if they’d witnessed a miracle.
“I didn’t see her!” a woman complained. “I’m not tall enough! Did you see her?”
Another said, “Yes! She stared right at me! Imagine that!”
Yet another said, “The Mystery Girl of the Caribbean—she was right in front of me!”
Caroline snorted with disgust and yearned to reply, I’m a Lost Girl too. I was with her when we were found on that stupid island, but when Libby was such a glorious celebrity, who would listen? Who would believe her? Who would care?
She wondered where Libby lived and whether she could find out. If she knocked on Libby’s door, would Libby even recognize her? When Libby’s life had proceeded down such a grand and important road, why would she recollect a few frightening months she’d passed with Caroline when they were five?
No doubt Caroline and Joanna—and their sojourn on the island—were but a distant memory. How could Caroline have hoped for any other ending?
Her shoulders slumped with defeat, and she staggered away.
Luke dawdled like a dunce in the middle of the boisterous horde, watching as Libby’s carriage vanished around a corner. Her exit had been hectic and brutal, with guards shoving and whacking spectators with clubs. He’d gotten separated from her and hadn’t been able to catch up.
It was obvious she didn’t notice and wasn’t concerned. She hadn’t bothered to glance back to be certain he’d followed her, and at the realization, he couldn’t decide if he was hurt, surprised, or insulted. He figured it was a mixture of all three.
He and Simon had galloped to town together, and with very little effort, they’d arranged for Libby’s release. There had been no arguing or attempts to block him. As news of her arrest had spread, as the mob outside had swelled to an uncontrollable size, prison authorities couldn’t manage it. They’d been glad to be shed of her.
He was so vain. He’d convinced himself that she’d be thrilled to see him. He’d assumed they’d snuggle in her carriage as they hurried to her rented house. He would have profusely apologized, received her forgiveness, then he’d have had her pack a bag so they could travel on to Barrett and spend several splendid days locked in his bedchamber.
Evidently, the prospect had never occurred to her.
How had he so thoroughly misjudged her mood and feelings? He’d thought it would be easy to begin again. He’d thought she’d understand how sorry he was, but she’d been rude and dismissive.
How was he to respond? Was he supposed to chase after her? He was an arrogant prig, so she had to grasp that he wouldn’t chase after her. He wouldn’t plead with any woman.
So . . . to hell with her!
For once, he’d attached himself to a female, and look where he’d wound up! He’d let himself grow besotted, but why had he? Was he mad? Very likely yes.
She was an actress! She played on people’s sympathies so they’d give her money for a ridiculous incident that had happened when she was a tiny child. It was bizarre to carry on in that manner. She also seemed to believe she was Charles’s lost daughter, but if she was, her blue blood had been so diluted by circumstances that it had to have been totally washed away.
Yet if her claim to be Henrietta was a deception, then she was a terrible liar, so why was he mooning over her? Didn’t he have better sense? His horse was down the street, a boy holding the reins until he returned. He could dash to it, mount, and trot after her, but why would he?
If he showed up at her door, he was positive she’d be just as dismissive as she’d been in the jail. Why would he put himself through such a humiliating ordeal?
His temper flared. He never permitted anyone to treat him as she’d treated him. He didn’t have to. It was clear she was over him, that their affair hadn’t meant to her what it had meant to him, so why prostrate himself?
She could wallow in her pathetic life, with her dubious acquaintances. He had chores to attend at Barrett. He had an heiress to marry and a dowry to stick in his bank account so he could make the necessary repairs at the estate.
What he didn’t need was a snooty, beautiful shrew driving him crazy.
He spun to stomp off when a woman stepped in his way. She was pretty, but apparently, had fallen on hard times. Her dress was torn and her palms scraped as if she’d tripped or had been pushed to the cobbles by the rowdy crowd. Her face was smudged, and she could have used a bath.
“Pardon me, sir,” she said to him, “but you were gazing at Miss Carstairs so fondly. Do you know her?”
“Yes, I know her.”
“I know her too.”
He bit down a scathing retort of, I seriously doubt that.
“Good for you,” he muttered instead.
“I called to her, but she couldn’t hear me.”
“Yes, it’s been very loud.”
He tried to walk by her, but she clasped his arm. “Can you tell me
