One fellow had purchased his copy, and he muttered, “Look what the dirty dog has done to her!”
“What is it?” Caroline asked him. “What’s happened?”
“This can’t stand, Miss!” he said. “It simply can’t stand!”
He shoved the paper under her nose, and the headline practically leapt off the page: LITTLE HENRIETTA FOUND AT LAST!
“Oh, my goodness,” she murmured.
The Little Henrietta scandal had occurred twenty years earlier. Henrietta had been Lord Roland’s baby daughter, and his crazed ex-wife had absconded with her. Lord Roland had searched for her relentlessly, but to no avail. Because of the tragedy, he was a sympathetic character for whom the masses possessed a great affection.
She continued to read, and under the large headline, there were others that were smaller, but even more shocking: Libby Carstairs, Mystery Girl of the Caribbean, Revealed as Little Henrietta! and Lord Roland Denies His Long-Lost Daughter! and Libby Carstairs Under Arrest! Lord Roland Determined to Hide the Truth!
Caroline gasped. “Libby Carstairs is Little Henrietta? Let me see that!”
She jerked the paper out of the man’s hands, and she raced through the stories. Apparently, Libby was Henrietta, but when she’d announced her identity to Lord Roland, he’d called her a liar and had had her arrested for fraud.
“I know Libby Carstairs,” she told him. “She’s a friend of mine.”
“Why would Lord Roland be so awful to her? You’d think he’d be celebrating.”
“Where would they have taken her?” Caroline asked.
He pointed to a paragraph lower in the article. “It says here Newgate Prison.”
“Newgate!” Caroline huffed with offense. “What is wrong with Lord Roland? Is he insane? Can you give me directions to the prison?”
“I’m going there myself,” he said. “I’ll show you where it is. I predict half the city will be there to protest this infamy. Libby Carstairs is England’s darling! This barbarity can’t be born!”
His opinion was shared by many. A mob marched down the street together, keeping on for quite a distance. As they neared the facility, the walls were visible, and the crowd had swelled to an enormous size. There was loud chanting of, Let her out! Let her out!
With all of Caroline’s recent troubles, she’d forgotten to seek out Libby. Now Libby was in jail, and Caroline had to talk to her. There had to be a way to aid her.
Caroline wound into the throng and to the gate. There were guards positioned in front of it, and they warily assessed the spectators, as if expecting them to storm the barricades and rescue Libby. They were holding clubs, and they looked as if they’d be delighted to use them.
Despite their angry glowers, she approached the man in the middle and asked to visit Libby.
He laughed snidely. “Allow me to guess. You’re her only sibling. Or you’re her business partner. Or are you her theater manager? What excuse will you provide?”
“I’m probably her oldest friend. How can I be admitted inside?”
“Several dozen fools have already demanded an audience. They’ve all told me sob stories.”
“Well, my story is true. I’m Caroline Grey. I’m one of the Mystery Girls too. Libby is like my very own sister.”
“That’s a novel one I haven’t heard yet, so I’ll credit you with having a very vivid imagination.”
“I am Caroline Grey. I am a Mystery Girl. May I see her?”
“No, you may not.” He nodded to another guard. “Harry, would you get this woman out of here? She’s annoying me.” The fellow, Harry, grabbed her, and the first guard said, “She tells me she’s a bloody Mystery Girl of the Caribbean, just like Miss Carstairs, so treat her with all the respect she deserves.”
Her identity was declared loudly and rudely, and the other guards snickered. Then Harry dragged her away. She struggled to free herself, and he said, “Don’t come back, Miss. We have a situation brewing, and there’s no time to deal with nonsense like this.”
“I have to be sure Libby is all right.”
“The entire citizenry wants to be sure about Miss Carstairs,” he said, “and schemers like you will never be permitted to bother her.”
He tossed her away, and she lost her balance, then fell to the ground. Her bonnet went flying, her shawl too. She scraped her palms and tore her skirt. The area was packed with protesters, and they were wedged shoulder to shoulder. She curled into a ball, terrified she’d be stepped on and trampled.
Suddenly, her reticule was yanked off her wrist.
She shouted and reached for it, but there was too much noise, so her cry of alarm wasn’t noted. She glared into a forest of legs and saw a pair of shoes dashing away. Her purse—and all her money—was gone.
She staggered about and climbed to her knees as a man leaned down and lifted her up.
“Are you hurt, Miss?”
“My purse!” she wailed. “Someone stole my purse!”
“Oh, no.”
He frowned, as if he’d chase after the interloper, but the crowd was milling, shifting, heaving. They were immediately separated, and she was worried she might be crushed in the melee.
She ducked and moved in the direction of those felonious feet. Eventually, she was spit out onto the edge of the mob. She peered about, expecting to espy a miscreant running down the block with her reticule tucked under his arm.
But there was no sign of the fiend. There were just teeming, livid people bellowing for Libby’s release, and no one noticed Caroline at all.
Caroline was hovered outside the prison, yearning to talk to Libby in a manner that was almost manic in its intensity. Over the past few days, she’d visited several times, but she still hadn’t been admitted into the facility.
When she’d initially arrived in the city, she’d believed herself lucky and shrewd, but she’d been a fool to think she knew what she was doing. Women constantly moved to London, and the kingdom was rife with horror stories about the disasters that befell them when they behaved so rashly.
Janet hadn’t replied to any of her advertisements, and Caroline’s money had been stolen. She’d
