To Catch an Heiress

by Julia Quinn

  If her hands hadn't been bound she would have clapped them together with glee. She couldn't have escaped any faster if she'd arranged transport herself. This man might think she was someone else—a Spanish criminal to be precise—but she could straighten all that out once he'd taken her far, far away. In the meantime, she'd be quiet and still, and let him kick the horse into a full gallop.

  Thirty minutes later a very suspicious Blake Ravenscroft dismounted in front of Seacrest Manor, near Bournemouth, Dorset. Carlotta De Leon, who had done everything short of hurl fire at his toenails when he'd cornered her in the meadow, hadn't put up even the tiniest resistance the entire ride to the coast. She hadn't struggled and she hadn't tried to escape. She'd been so quiet, in fact, that the gentlemanly side of him—which reared its polite head all too often for Blake's liking—was tempted to remove her gag.

  But he resisted the impulse to be nice. The Marquis of Riverdale, his closest friend and frequent partner in crime prevention, had had previous dealings with Miss De Leon, and he had told Blake that she was deceptive and deadly. Her gag and bindings would not be removed until she was safely locked away.

  He pulled her down off of the horse, holding her elbow firmly as he led her into his home. Blake employed only three houseservants—all of them discreet beyond compare—and they were used to strange visitors in the middle of the night. “Up the stairs,” he grunted, pulling her through the hall.

  She nodded cheerfully—cheerfully?!?—and picked up the pace. Blake led her up to the top floor and pushed her into a small but comfortably furnished bedchamber. “Just so you don't get any ideas about escaping,” he said roughly, holding up two keys, “the door has two locks.”

  She looked over at the doorknob but other than that had no obvious reaction to his words.

  “And,” he added, “it's fifty feet down to the ground. So I wouldn't recommend trying the window.”

  She shrugged, as if she'd never for a moment considered the window a viable escape option.

  Blake scowled at her, irritated by her nonchalance, and looped her wristcuffs over the bedpost. “I don't want you attempting anything while I'm busy.”

  She smiled at him—which was really quite a feat with the filthy gag in her mouth. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. He was utterly confused by her, and he didn't like the feeling one bit. He checked to make certain that her bindings were secure and then began to inspect the room, making sure he'd left no objects lying about that she might turn into weapons. He'd heard Carlotta De Leon was resourceful, and he had no plans to be remembered as the fool who'd underestimated her.

  He pocketed a quill and a paperweight before shoving a chair out into the hall. He didn't think she looked strong enough to break the chair, but if she somehow managed to snap off a leg, the splintered wood would be a dangerous weapon indeed.

  She blinked with interest when he returned.

  “If you want to sit down,” he said curtly, “you can do it on the bed.”

  She cocked her head in an annoyingly friendly manner and sat on the bed. Not that she had much choice—he'd bound her hands to the bedpost, after all.

  “Don't try to charm me by being cooperative,” he warned. “I know all about you.”

  She shrugged.

  Blake snorted with disgust and turned his back on her as he finished his inspection of the room. Finally, when he was satisfied that the chamber would make an acceptable prison, he faced her, his hands planted firmly on his hips. “If you have any more weapons on your person, you might as well give them up now, since I'm going to have to search you.”

  She lurched backward in maidenly horror, and Blake was pleased that he'd finally managed to offend her. Either that or she was a prodigiously good actress.

  “Well, have you any weapons? I assure you that I will grow considerably less gentle if I discover that you have attempted to conceal something.”

  She shook her head frantically and strained against her bindings, as if trying to get as far away from him as possible.

  “I'm not going to enjoy this either,” he muttered. He tried not to feel like a complete cad as she shut her eyes tightly in fear and resignation. He knew that women could be just as evil and dangerous as men—seven years of work for the War Office had convinced him of that basic fact—but he'd never gotten used to this part of the job. He'd been brought up to treat women like ladies, and it went against everything in his moral fiber to inspect her against her will.

  He cut one of her wrists free so that he could remove her cloak and proceeded to rifle through her pockets. They held nothing of interest, save for about fifty pounds in notes and coin, which seemed like a paltry sum for a notorious spy. He then moved his attention to her small satchel, dumping the contents onto the bed. Two beeswax candles—Lord only knew what she wanted those for, a silverbacked hairbrush, a small Bible, a leather-bound notebook, and some underthings that he could not bring himself to sully with his touch. He supposed everyone deserved some measure of privacy, even treasonous spies.

  He picked up the Bible and flipped quickly through it, making certain there was nothing concealed between its pages. Satisfied that the book contained nothing untoward, he tossed it back onto the bed, noting with interest that she flinched as he did so.

  He then picked up the notebook and looked inside. Only the first few pages contained any scribblings. “Contubernal,” he read aloud. “Halcyon. Diacritical. Titivate. Umlaut.” He raised his eyebrows and read on. Three pages full of the sort of words that earned one a first at Oxford or Cambridge. “What is this?”

  She jerked her shoulder toward her mouth, motioning to the gag.

  “Right,” he said with a curt nod, setting the notebook next to the Bible. “But before I remove that, I'll have to …” His words trailed off, and he let out an unhappy exhale. Both of them knew what he had to do. “If you don't struggle I'll be able to do this faster,” he said grimly.

  Her entire body was tense, but Blake tried to ignore her distress as he quickly patted her down. “There, we're done,” he said, his voice gruff. “I must say I'm rather surprised you weren't carrying anything other than that pistol.”

  She glared at him in return.

  “I'll remove the gag now, but one loud noise and it's going right back in.”

  She nodded curtly, coughing as he removed the rag.

  Blake leaned insolently against the wall as he asked, “Well?”

  “Nobody would hear me if I made a loud noise, anyway.”

  “That much is true,” he conceded. His eyes fell back upon the leather-bound notebook, and he picked it up. “Now, suppose you tell me what this is all about.”

  She shrugged. “My father always encouraged me to expand my vocabulary.”

  Blake stared at her in disbelief, then flipped through the opening pages again. It was some kind of code. It had to be. But he was tired, and he knew that if she confessed to something that night, it wasn't going to be anything as destructive to her cause as the key to a secret code. So he tossed the book on the bed and said, “We'll talk more about this tomorrow.”

  She gave another one of those annoying shrugs.

  He gritted his teeth. “Have you anything to say for yourself?”

  Caroline rubbed her eyes, reminding herself that she had to remain on this man's good side. He looked dangerous, and despite his obvious discomfort at searching her, she had no doubt that he would hurt her if he deemed it necessary to his mission.

  Whatever that was.

  She was playing a dangerous game and she knew it. She wanted to remain here at this cushy estate as long as possible—it was certainly warmer and safer than any place she could afford on her own. To do that, however, she had to let him continue to believe that she was this Carlotta person. She had no idea how to do this; she didn't know Spanish and she certainly didn't know how a criminal was supposed to act when apprehended and tied to a bedpost.

  She supposed Carlotta would try to deny everything. “You have the wrong person,” she s
aid, knowing he wouldn't believe her and taking a wicked delight in the fact that she was telling the truth.

  “Ha!” he barked. “Surely you can come up with something a little more original.”

  She shrugged. “You can believe what you want.”

  “You seem to be acting very confidently for someone who is clearly at the disadvantage.”

  He had a point there, Caroline conceded. But if Carlotta truly was a spy, she'd be a master at bravado. “I don't appreciate being bound, gagged, dragged across the countryside, and tied to a bedpost. Not to mention,” she bit off, “being forced to submit to your insulting touch.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, and if Caroline hadn't known better she would have thought he was in some sort of pain. Then he opened them and once again looked at her with a hard and uncompromising gaze. He said, “I find it difficult to believe, Miss De Leon, that you have come so far in your chosen profession without having had yourself searched before.”

  Caroline didn't know what to say to that so she just glared at him.

  “I'm still waiting for you to talk.”

  “I have nothing to say.” That much, at least, was true.

  “You might reverse your opinion after a few days without food or water.”

  “You plan to starve me, then?”

  “It has broken stronger men than you.”

  She hadn't considered this. She'd known he would yell at her, she'd thought he might even hit her, but it had never occurred to her that he might withhold food and water.

  “I see the prospect doesn't excite you,” he drawled.

  “Leave me alone,” she snapped. She needed to develop a plan. She needed to figure out who the devil this man was. Most of all, she needed time.

  She looked him in the eye and said, “I'm tired.”

  “I'm sure you are, but I'm not particularly inclined to let you sleep.”

  “You needn't worry about my comfort. I'm not likely to feel well-rested after spending an evening tied to the bedpost.”

  “Oh, that,” he said, and with a quick step and flick of his wrist, he cut her free.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked suspiciously.

  “It pleased me to do so. Besides, you have no weapon, you can hardly overpower me, and you have no means of escape. Good night, Miss De Leon.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You're leaving?”

  “I did bid you good night.” Then he turned on his heel and left the room, leaving her gaping at the door. She heard two keys turn in two locks before she regained her composure. “My God, Caroline,” she whispered to herself, “what have you gotten yourself into?”

  Her stomach rumbled, and she wished she'd had something to eat before she'd run off that evening. Her captor appeared to be a man of his word, and if he said he wasn't going to give her food or water, she believed him.

  She ran to the window and looked out. He hadn't been lying. It was at least fifty feet to the ground. But there was a ledge, and if she could find some sort of receptacle, she could put it out to collect rain and dew. She'd been hungry before; she knew she could handle that. But thirst was something else altogether.

  She found a small, cylindrical container used to hold quills on the desk. The sky was still clear, but English weather being what it was, Caroline figured there was a decent chance it'd rain before morning, so she set the container on the ledge just in case.

  Then she crossed to her bed and put her belongings back in her satchel. Thank the heavens her captor hadn't noticed the writing inside the Bible. Her mother had left the book to her when she died, and surely he'd have wanted to know why the name Cassandra Trent was inscribed on the inside front cover. And his reaction to her little personal dictionary … good heavens, she was going to have trouble explaining that.

  Then she had the strangest feeling …

  She took off her shoes and slid off the bed, walking on silent, stockinged feet until she reached the wall that bordered the hall. She moved closely along the wall until she reached the door. Bending down, she peered through the keyhole.

  Aha! Just as she'd thought. A wide gray eye was peering back at her.

  “And good evening to you!” she said loudly. Then she took her bonnet and hung it over the doorknob so that it blocked the keyhole. She didn't want to sleep in her only dress, but she certainly wasn't about to disrobe with the chance that he might be watching.

  She heard him curse once, then twice. Then his footsteps echoed as he strode down the hall. Caroline stripped down to her petticoat and crawled into bed. She stared up at the ceiling and started to think.

  And then she started to cough.

  Chapter 3

  a-kim-bo (adjective). Of the arms: In a position in which the hands rest on the hips and the elbows are turned outwards.

  I cannot begin to count the number of times he has stood before me, arms akimbo. In fact, I shudder even to contemplate it.

  —From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent

  Caroline coughed through the night.

  She coughed through the dawn.

  She coughed as the sky turned bright blue, stopping only to check on her water-collector on the ledge. Blast. Nothing. She could have used a few drops of liquid. Her throat felt as if it were on fire.

  But sore throat or no, her plan had worked like a charm. When she opened her mouth to test her voice, the sound that came out would have put a frog to shame.

  Actually, she rather thought the frog itself would have been ashamed to have made a noise like that. No doubt about it, Caroline had rendered herself temporarily mute. That man could ask her all the questions he wanted; she wasn't going to be able to answer a thing.

  Just to make certain her captor wouldn't think she was faking the affliction, she opened her mouth wide and looked in the mirror, angling her head so that the sunlight shone on her throat.

  Bright red. Her throat looked positively monstrous. And the bags she'd developed under her eyes from staying up the entire night made her look even worse.

  Caroline nearly jumped for joy. If only there were some way she could fake a fever to make her seem even more sickly. She supposed she could put her face next to a candle in the hope that her skin would grow unnaturally warm, but if he came in she'd have a devil of a time explaining why she had a candle lit on such a bright morning.

  No, the mute throat would have to be enough. And even if it weren't, she didn't have any choice in the matter, because she could hear his footsteps sounding loudly down the hall.

  She dashed across the room and scrambled into the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. She coughed a couple of times, then pinched her cheeks to give them the appearance of being flushed, then coughed some more.

  Cough cough cough.

  The key turned in the lock.

  Cough cough cough COUGH. It was murder on her throat, but Caroline wanted to give an especially good performance right as he was coming in.

  Then another key started turning in another lock. Blast. She'd forgotten that there were two locks on the door.

  Cough cough cough. Hack hack. Cough. GAG.

  “Good God! What is that infernal noise?”

  Caroline looked up, and if she weren't already mute she would have lost her voice. Her captor had looked dashing and dangerous in the dark, but by day he put Adonis to shame. He seemed somehow larger in the light. Stronger, too, as if his clothing only barely leashed the power of his body. His black hair was neatly trimmed, but an errant lock fell forward to his left eyebrow. And his eyes—they were clear and gray, but that was the only innocent thing about them. They looked like they had seen far too much in their lifetime.

  The man grabbed her shoulder, his touch burning through her dress to her skin. She gasped, the covered it up with another cough.

  “I believe I told you last night that I have grown weary of your playacting.”

  She shook her head quickly, grabbed her neck with her hands, then coughed again.

  “If you for one moment
think that I believe—”

  She opened her mouth wide and pointed at her throat.

  “I'm not going to look at your throat, you little—”

  She pointed again, this time urgently jabbing her finger into her mouth.

  “Oh, very well.” His lips were clamped into a firm line as he turned on his heel, strode across the room, and wrenched a candle out of its holder. Caroline watched with undisguised interest as he lit the taper and crossed back to the bed. He sat down next to her, the weight of his body depressing his side of the mattress. She rolled a little toward him and put her hand out to stop her descent.

  She connected with his thigh.

  COUGH!

  She very nearly flew to the other side of the bed.

  “Oh, for the love of God, I've been touched by women more appealing and more interested than you,” he snapped. “You needn't fear. I may starve the truth out of you, but I won't ravish you.”

  Oddly enough, Caroline believed him. His inclinations toward abduction aside, he didn't seem the type to take a woman against her will. In a rather strange sort of way she trusted this man. He could have hurt her—he could even have killed her—but he hadn't. She sensed he had a code of honor and morals that had been absent in her guardians.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  She inched back toward his end of the bed and placed her hands primly on her lap.

  “Open up.”

  She cleared her throat—as if that were necessary—and opened her mouth. He brought the candle flame close to her face and peered in. After a moment he drew back, and she snapped her mouth closed, staring up at him expectantly.

  His face was grim. “It looks as if someone took a razor to your throat, but I expect you know that.”

  She nodded.

  “I suppose you were up all night coughing.”

  She nodded again.

  He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second longer than was necessary before saying, “You have my reluctant admiration for this. Inflicting such pain upon yourself just to escape a few questions shows true dedication to the cause.”