It was exactly the wrong comment. Her eyes flashed with a spark of temper. “How could you keep this from me?”
“That’s not fair. You’re angry about Mrs. Starling, so you’re blaming me for Gregory’s conduct with her.”
“I don’t blame you for his conduct. I blame you because you would have let me march blindly to the altar without giving me a hint as to the morass that was about to envelop me.”
“That’s not fair either. I warned you about Gregory from the very first minute.”
“Well, you didn’t bother to point out the very worst part of it. What on earth am I to do?”
“I’ve provided my opinion over and over: You shouldn’t marry him.”
“It’s easy for you to say, but quite a bit harder for me to accomplish.”
“As I’ve previously stated, I’m happy to talk to your uncle for you, although I can’t guess if he’d listen to me.” She rounded the sofa and started for the door, and he asked, “Where are you going?”
She stopped beside him, so he was able to clasp her hand and link their fingers.
“I have to speak to my uncle. I can’t keep putting it off, but he’s been out of the house since this morning. I have to find out if he’s home so I can get this over with.”
“Shall I come with you?”
“No. This is a conversation I have to have on my own.”
He dipped down and kissed her. “Be a warrior, Caro. He’ll try to humor you. Or he’ll treat you like a child. Don’t let him.”
“He’ll try to humor and distract me, but for once, he won’t succeed.”
She swept out and vanished.
He couldn’t predict what was about to happen, but the party would probably be ending shortly. If the wedding was called off, the party would be too. He’d head to London and wouldn’t have a reason to see her again. The dismal prospect was much more disheartening than it should have been, and as he reflected on it, he scoffed.
As if her Uncle Samson would allow her to back out. As if Gregory would agree. Of course he’d see her again.
He was positive, when he next bumped into her, naught would have changed.
Howard Periwinkle pulled a slip of paper from his coat and checked the directions the clerk in the village had jotted down for him. He thought he was in the correct spot. It wasn’t as if there were any other cottages in the vicinity, but then, he was a Londoner and every tree in the forest looked exactly alike to him.
He opened the rickety gate and strolled up the walk. It was a cozy cottage, set deep in the woods, with a brook babbling in the distance. There were rose bushes blooming along the front, green shutters framing the windows. The thatched roof appeared thick and dry, as if the dwelling was well-tended.
It was the sort of place a bewitched princess might have resided. Or maybe it was an abode for fairies. Or, more likely, a witch lived in it and the charming façade was simply a ploy to lure in unsuspecting travelers.
He tamped down a shiver and knocked several times, but there was no answer. He stepped over and peeked in a window, but no one was home.
The afternoon sun was barely visible through the dense foliage, so he returned to the lane. A more potent shiver bubbled up, and it made its way to the surface. He’d heard too many stories as a boy about wolves and goblins, so he wasn’t a fellow to lurk in the countryside.
He hurried off, anxious to get to the village before evening was any nearer. He’d try again the following day. Or better yet, he’d leave a letter at the inn and request that it be delivered. The locals wouldn’t have any qualms about venturing into such an isolated location, but he didn’t care for it overly much.
As he reached the road, a young woman was approaching. He watched her come, and he was swamped by the certainty that he’d found the person he’d been seeking. She was the right age, twenty-four or so, and she was very pretty as the man at the inn had said she was: auburn hair, big green eyes.
She was slender and petite, as if her ordeal as a child had altered her physique so she would never garner the height or weight another adult female might have.
“Miss James?” he called. “Joanna James?”
She halted and studied him, her magnificent eyes calculating whether he was friend or foe, and he couldn’t blame her. They were in the middle of nowhere, and she was a tiny thing. He was harmless though, and she realized it.
“Yes, I’m Miss James.”
He went over to her, removed his cap, and bowed. “I am Mr. Howard Periwinkle. I’m a newspaper reporter for the London Times.”
“My goodness, what a thrilling remark. I always thought it would be so exciting to write for a living. You love your work, don’t you? I can see that you do.”
“Well, yes. Yes, I do love it.”
“You’re quite a distance from the city, but you’re not lost. What brings you to my neighborhood?”
“I was looking for you.”
“For me! My goodness again. I’m flattered. What is it you need from me?”
“I’ve been searching for you,” he told her. “Aren’t you a Mystery Girl of the Caribbean? You were in a shipwreck when you were little. You survived with your two companions, Libby and Caroline.”
She smiled a weary smile, and he couldn’t determine if he’d jogged a sad memory or a dear one.
“Yes, I was a Mystery Girl. You sought me out over that? How very odd.”
“The three of you are famous.”
She chuckled, her voice sweet and enchanting, and he was reminded again of princesses and fairies. “We are famous? I find that very hard to believe.”
“No
