She pulled the curtains, then retrieved her cards from their box. She shuffled them, then asked about Libby and Caro, about whether they were about to meet, and it definitely seemed as if they were. It seemed too as if Libby might be about to wed.
“Libby getting married,” Joanna murmured to the quiet room. “What a pretty thought.”
She tucked the cards away and smiled with gladness—and satisfaction too.
Jacob sat with friends at the theater. Miss Libby Carstairs, billed as the famous Mystery Girl of the Caribbean, was performing a monologue, and the audience was riveted on her story. He couldn’t deny that he was riveted too.
It was the twentieth anniversary of her rescue, so people were gossiping about the shipwreck, and his father, Miles, was the main character in any reminiscence. Miss Carstairs had spent the prior decades earning money from the tragedy. She toured the kingdom, and it had made her notorious to the public.
He’d never seen her previously, but evidently, she had dozens of soliloquies and ballads she used to describe what she remembered of the incident. According to his acquaintances, she shared a different tale every evening, so a person could never be certain what narrative would be supplied.
She and her two companions had been the sole survivors, and they’d been dubbed the little Lost Girls. No one could explain why or how they’d survived. They’d been so young when it had happened that it had been hard to glean much information. If their families had pried out subsequent facts, he hadn’t heard about it.
Miss Carstairs was twenty-five and stunningly beautiful, but she was a talented actress too, so it was easy to forget she was an adult. Currently, she was attired in an unadorned white shift, her blond hair tied with a strip of leather, her feet bare, so she looked like an orphaned waif. A single lamp illuminated her.
She was talking about the day Captain Miles Ralston had sailed into the bay to save them. She told the event from the perspective of a child: how large the ship had been, how scary to watch the sailors rowing ashore, how big and gruff Jacob’s father had seemed.
It was a bit like having his father whisper from the grave, and shivers kept racing down his spine. He viewed himself as a very manly man, and he was surprised to find that a theatrical scene could have such an effect on his equilibrium.
He blamed his response on his father, which was an excuse he frequently utilized. He harbored so many conflicting opinions about Miles Ralston. He’d been a brave, brash navy captain, but he’d also had two wives and two families.
Jacob and his half-brother, Caleb, were the same age of thirty, proving Miles had been an immoral dog. Jacob often wondered how his father had dared, how he’d coped with the pressure.
Of course, his wife, Esther, had been in England, and his wife, Pearl, had been in Jamaica, so the distance had helped to hide his mischief. Had Miles possessed nerves of steel? Or had he tossed and turned at night, terrified his bigamy was about to be exposed?
Miles’s rescue of the Lost Girls was his most famous exploit, so for once, Jacob forced himself to ignore his father’s many failings and simply revel in Miss Carstairs’s recitation of the incredible feat.
She waxed on about what a hero Miles Ralston had been, how he’d saved her life. Jacob had considered him a hero too—until Caleb and Blake had knocked on their door. Since then, his memories had been quite a bit darker.
The monologue wound to a close, and Miss Carstairs took her bows. The audience came to its feet, hooting, hollering, and throwing flowers and coins at her. She dashed away from the ruckus, and the play resumed. It was a half-hearted comedy that wasn’t funny, and after it ended, his friends escorted him backstage. They all knew Miss Carstairs and had promised him an introduction.
Every gentleman in the city was hoping to coax her into becoming their mistress, and when he discovered how many dandies had rushed to speak with her, he was embarrassed to be one of them.
He’d missed his chance with her though. By the time he elbowed his way into her dressing room, she’d already departed, and he couldn’t determine if he was relieved or not. For years, he’d pondered tracking her down and having a conversation about his father, but he’d been afraid of what she might confide.
Clearly, she had only a fond recollection, so he’d have to try again in the future, but he wouldn’t lurk backstage. He’d have a clerk investigate her situation, and he’d send her a letter to request an appointment. It’s what he should have done.
His companions were heading off to gamble, and he pleaded fatigue and left them to their merriment. It was an odd decision. In the past, London had never exhausted him. He’d loved the camaraderie and wild escapades, but to his great bewilderment, he was weary and bored.
Earlier in the evening, he’d stopped by Caleb’s gambling club. They’d had a civil chat—the first one they’d ever managed—and Jacob had extended an invitation to his house party in September. He’d conveniently neglected to mention that it was a betrothal party too, and he was struggling to figure out why.
Why hadn’t he been able to confess the truth to Caleb? Had he changed his mind about the engagement to Roxanne?
He stood on the busy street, watching as the theater emptied, as people jumped in their carriages and rolled off to other venues. Everyone was going somewhere except for him, and it dawned on him that he wished he was at Ralston Place.
Actually, he wished he was with Joanna so he could tell her about his discussion with Caleb, as well as his attempt to meet Libby Carstairs. Joanna had quickly wedged herself
