“Yes.” She didn’t really want to tell Charlotte Wight where she was staying. She’d learned the mistake of that when she’d shown Lottie her room at the Château. Once Lottie knew where to find her, there was never any guarantee of peace within the walls. But what help was there for it? Mama would no doubt wire Mrs. Wight the information if Libby didn’t supply it herself. “One of the cottages along the garrison wall.”

“They’re sweet, aren’t they? I’ve walked this way and was admiring them. We rented those three there. I must say, I’m highly enjoying the whole island—or what we’ve seen of it. We’ve been here only a week. We’d been in London since the new year, but Mother was tiring of it, and Father said there was as much to be accomplished here as there.” She giggled, bumping their arms together. “He meant Mr. Bryant. We’d been introduced in late February, but he’d already been planning to summer here. Quite an avid sailor, you see, but he doesn’t much like the motorized versions his set has taken to racing.”

Libby was tempted to pray for an escape, though she wasn’t quite sure the Lord would respect such a prayer. Why, oh why, hadn’t Lottie already found another friend whose ear she could chatter numb?

“Do you know Lady Emily Scofield?”

Suspecting she’d missed whatever sentence or two connected the current question to the talk of sailing, Libby shook her head. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but she was fairly certain she hadn’t made her acquaintance.

“Oh, I suppose you didn’t meet her at the Château, since you only stayed a year. She came in the next year, and our paths have crossed a few times in London since then. Great patrons of the British Museum, the Scofields—and she’s very pretty, and of course well dowried, so I expect she’ll land whomever she fancies. But at any rate, she has another friend from a finishing school she attended before she came to Switzerland who’s actually from here. Well, not here, St. Mary’s. But here, the Scillies. She told me I ought to make her acquaintance, but I’ve had quite a time of it. Miss Beth Tremayne.”

Though Libby’s attention had wandered a bit through the initial talk, Beth’s name drew her back with a jolt.

Which Lottie clearly noted, given that she hushed for half a second and turned her frank blue eyes on her. “Do you know her?”

“I’ve . . . met her brother.” Twice, she nearly said.

“No! Which one?”