by Julia Quinn
“He'll probably be apprehended himself,” Blake replied. “We'll have to call in men from London.”
James nodded. “Moreton is going to want some evidence before deploying his men on such a grand scale. We're going to need to take these files.”
“I shouldn't take them all, were I you,” Caroline interjected. “Oliver comes into this room nearly every day. I'm sure he'll notice if his files have gone missing.”
“You're getting quite good at this,” James replied with a chuckle. “Are you certain you don't want to sign up?”
“She is not working for the War Office,” Blake growled. Caroline had the feeling he would have roared the statement had they not been prowling in Oliver's study.
“We'll just take a couple,” James replied, ignoring Blake's interjection. “But we can't take this one.” He held up the file on the upcoming mission. “He'll be wanting to go over this sometime soon.”
“Get Caroline a piece of paper,” Blake drawled. “I'm sure she'll be happy to copy the information down. After all, she has exquisite penmanship.”
“I don't know where Oliver keeps blank paper,” she replied, ignoring his sarcasm. “He almost never allowed me into this room. I do, however, know where we can get some just down the hall. And a quill and ink, as well.”
“Good idea,” James said. “The less we ransack in here, the less chance there is Prewitt will notice someone's been through his things. Caroline, go get the paper and quill.”
“Right.” She gave him a jaunty salute and scurried out the door.
But Blake was fast on her heels. “You're not going alone,” he hissed. “Slow down.”
Caroline didn't slow her pace at all, having no doubt that he would follow her down the hall and into the east drawing room. It was the chamber she had used to entertain neighborhood ladies. Not that many had come to call, but still, Caroline had kept paper, quills, and ink there, in case anyone needed to jot down a note or correspondence.
But just as she was about to dart into the room, she heard a noise coming from the front door. A noise that sounded suspiciously like a key turning in a lock. She turned to Blake and hissed, “It's Oliver!”
He didn't even waste time on words. Before Caroline had any idea what was about, she'd been shoved into the east drawing room and was crouched behind a sofa. Her heart was beating so loudly she was surprised it didn't wake up the entire household. “What about James?” she whispered.
Blake put his finger to her lips. “He'll know what to do. Now hush, he's coming in.”
Caroline clenched her teeth to keep herself from squeaking with fear as she listened to the sound of Oliver's shoes clicking down the hall. What if James hadn't heard him enter? What if James had heard him but wasn't able to hide in time? What if he was able to hide in time but forgot to close the door?
Her head ached with the myriad possibilities for disaster.
But Oliver's heels weren't clicking toward the south drawing room. They were clicking right toward her! Caroline stifled a gasp and nudged Blake in the ribs. He made no response save for the tightening of his already stiff posture.
Caroline glanced over to a side table, her eyes falling on a decanter of brandy. Oliver liked to take a glass up with him to bed. If he didn't turn around while pouring he wouldn't see them, but if he did…
Thoroughly panicked, she yanked on Blake's arm. Hard.
He didn't budge.
With frantic motions she poked at his chest and then pointed at the brandy decanter.
“What?” Blake mouthed.
“The brandy,” she mouthed back, furiously jabbing her finger at the decanter.
Blake's eyes widened, and he looked quickly around the room, searching for another hiding place. The light was dim, though, and it was hard to see.
Caroline had the advantage, however, of knowing the room like the back of her hand. She jerked her head to the side, motioning for Blake to follow, and crawled behind another sofa, thanking her maker all the while that Oliver had chosen to lay down a carpet. A bare floor would have echoed her every movement, and then they would have been lost for sure.
At that moment Oliver entered the room and poured himself a brandy. A few seconds later she heard his glass thunk down on the table, followed by the sound of more brandy being poured. Caroline bit her lip in confusion. It was very unlike Oliver to drink more than one glass before bed.
But Oliver must have had a rough evening, for he sighed, “God, what a disaster.”
And then, horror of horrors, he flopped his body directly onto the sofa behind which they were hiding and plopped his legs down on the table.
Caroline froze. Or she would have, she thought wildly, if she wasn't already paralyzed with fear. There could be no doubt about it.
They were trapped.
Chapter 12
pal-li-a-tive (noun). That which gives superficial or temporary relief.
A kiss, I am learning, is a weak palliative when one's heart is breaking.
—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent
Blake clamped his hand over Caroline's mouth. He knew how to be quiet; he'd had years of experience in the art of keeping oneself utterly silent. But God knew what Caroline would do. The crazy woman might sneeze at any moment. Or hiccough. Or fidget.
She glared at him over his hand. Yes, Blake thought, she would be a fidgeter. He moved his other hand to her upper arm and held firm, determined to keep her still. He didn't care if she had bruises for a week; there was no telling what Prewitt would do if he found his wayward ward hiding behind a sofa in the drawing room. After all, when Caroline had run away, she'd effectively taken her fortune with her.
Prewitt yawned and stood up, and for a moment Blake's heart raced with hope. But the blasted man just crossed to the side table and poured himself another brandy.
Blake looked at Caroline. Hadn't she once said Prewitt never overindulged in spirits? She shrugged, clearly at a loss as to what her guardian was doing.
Prewitt sat back down on the sofa with a loud grunt, then muttered, “Goddamn that girl.”
Caroline's eyes widened.
Blake pointed to her and mouthed, You?
She lifted her shoulders and blinked.
Blake closed his eyes for a moment and tried to figure out who Prewitt meant. There was no way to be certain. It could be Caroline; it could be Carlotta De Leon.
“Where the hell could she be?” Prewitt said, followed by a swallowing sound that had to be more brandy.
Caroline pointed to herself and Blake felt her mouth form the word, Me? under his hand. He didn't respond, though. He was too busy focusing on Prewitt. If the traitorous bastard discovered them now the mission would be ruined. Well, not entirely. Blake was certain that he and James could easily apprehend Prewitt that night if the need arose, but that would mean that his co-conspirators might go free. Better to be patient and wait out the next three weeks. Then the espionage ring would be closed down for good.
Then, just when Blake felt his feet start to fall asleep under him, Prewitt plunked his glass down on a table and strode from the room. Blake counted to ten, then removed his hand from Caroline's mouth and heaved a sigh of relief.
She sighed, too, but it was a quick one, followed by the question, “Do you think he was talking about me?”
“I have no idea,” Blake said honestly. “But I wouldn't be surprised if he was.”
“Do you think he discovered James?”
He shook his head. “If he had, we would have heard some sort of commotion. That doesn't mean we're safe yet, though. For all we know, Prewitt is taking a leisurely stroll down the hall before entering the south drawing room.”
“What do we do now?”
“We wait.”
“For what?”
He turned sharply to face her. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“It's the only way to learn anything useful.”
“We wait,” Blake said with an impatient exhale, “until we get a si
gn from Riverdale.”
“What if he is waiting for a sign from us?”
“He's not.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Riverdale and I have worked together for seven years. I know his methods.”
“I really don't see how you could have prepared for this particular scenario.”
He shot her a look of such irritation that she clamped her mouth shut. But not before rolling her eyes at him.
Blake ignored her for several minutes, which wasn't easy. The mere sound of her breathing excited him. His reaction was completely inappropriate under the circumstances, and one with which he had no experience, even with Marabelle. Unfortunately, there seemed to be nothing he could do about it, which pushed his temper even further into the vile.
Then she moved, and her arm accidentally brushed against his hip, and—
Blake absolutely refused to let that thought go any further. Abruptly he took her hand and stood. “Let's go.”
Caroline looked around in confusion. “Did we receive some sort of sign from the marquis?”
“No, but it's been long enough.”
“But I thought you said—”
“If you want to be a part of this operation,” he hissed, “you need to learn to take orders. Without question.”
She raised her brows. “I'm so glad you've decided to let me participate.”
If Blake could have torn out her tongue at that moment, he would have done it. Or at least tried. “Follow me,” he snapped.
Caroline saluted him and then did a little tiptoe march behind him to the door. Blake thought he deserved a medal for not picking her up by the collar and tossing her out the window. At the very least, he was going to demand some sort of hazard pay from the War Office. If they couldn't give him money, there had to be some small property somewhere that had been confiscated from a criminal.
Surely he deserved a little something extra for this mission. Caroline might be rather delightful to kiss, but on assignment she was bloody annoying.
He reached the open doorway and motioned for her to stay behind him. Hand on gun, he peered into the hall, ascertained that it was empty, and stepped out. Caroline followed without his verbal instruction, as he knew she would. That one certainly needed no prodding to step out into the face of danger.
She was too headstrong, too careless. It brought back memories.
Marabelle.
Blake squeezed his eyes shut for a split second, trying to drive his late fiancée from his mind. She might live in his heart, but she had no place here, this night, in Prewitt Hall. Not if Blake wanted to get the three of them out alive.
Marabelle's memory, however, was quickly put aside by Caroline's incessant poking at his upper arm. “What now?” he snapped.
“Shouldn't we at least get the paper and quills? Isn't that why we came here in the first place?”
Blake flexed his hands into tense starfishes and slowly said, “Yes. Yes, that would be a good idea.”
She scurried across the room and gathered her supplies while he swore at himself under his breath. He was getting soft, growing weak. It wasn't like him to forget something as simple as a quill and ink. More than anything he wanted out of the War Office, away from all the danger and intrigue. He wanted to live a life where he didn't have to worry about seeing his friends get killed, where he could do nothing but read and raise lazy, spoiled hounds and—
“I've everything we need,” Caroline said breathlessly, breaking into his thoughts.
He nodded, and they made their way into the hall. When they reached the door to the south drawing room, Blake tapped seven times on the wood, his fingers finding the familiar rhythm he and James had worked out years ago, when they were both schoolboys at Eton.
The door swung inward, just a fraction of an inch, and then Blake pushed it open far enough for him and Caroline to squeeze through. James had his back to the wall and his finger poised on the trigger of his gun. He breathed an audible sigh of relief when he saw that it was only Caroline and Blake entering the room.
“Didn't you recognize the knock?” Blake asked.
James gave a curt nod. “Can't be too careful.”
“I'll say,” Caroline agreed. All of this spywork was leaving her stomach rather queasy. It was exciting, to be sure, but nothing in which she'd wish to participate on a regular basis. She had no idea how the two of them had lasted this long without fraying their nerves completely.
She turned to James. “Did Oliver come in here?”
He shook his head. “But I heard him in the hall.”
“He had us trapped for a few minutes in the east drawing room.” She shuddered. “It was terrifying.”
Blake shot her an oddly appraising look.
“I brought the paper, quills, and ink,” Caroline continued, depositing the writing equipment on Oliver's desk. “Shall we copy the documents now? I should like to get going. I really had never intended to spend so much time at Prewitt Hall again.”
There were only three pages in the folder, so they each took a page and hastily copied it down onto a new sheet of paper. The results weren't terribly neat, with more than one ink splotch marring the effort, but they were legible, and that was all that mattered.
James carefully replaced the file in the drawer and relocked it.
“Is the room in order?” Blake asked.
James nodded. “I straightened everything while you were gone.”
“Excellent. Let's be off.”
Caroline turned to the marquis. “Did you remember to take an older file as evidence?”
“I am certain he knows how to do his job,” Blake said curtly. Then he turned to James and asked, “Did you?”
“Good God!” James said in a disgusted voice. “The two of you are worse than a pair of toddlers. Yes, of course I have the file, and if you don't stop arguing with one another, I'm going to lock the both of you in here and leave you to Prewitt and his sharpshooting butler.”
Caroline's jaw dropped at the outburst from the normally even-tempered marquis. She stole a glance at Blake and noticed that he looked rather surprised as well—and perhaps a touch embarrassed.
James scowled at both of them before pinning his stare on Caroline and asking, “How the hell do we get out of here?”
“We can't go out the window for the same reason we couldn't go in that way. If Farnsworth is still awake he would certainly hear us. But we can leave the way we came.”
“Won't someone be suspicious tomorrow when the door isn't locked?” Blake asked.
Caroline shook her head. “I know how to shut the door so that the latch fastens itself. No one will ever know.”
“Good,” James said. “Let's be off.”
The trio moved silently through the house, pausing outside the south drawing room so that James could relock the door, and then exited into the side yard. A few minutes later they reached the men's horses.
“My mount is over there,” Caroline said, pointing to a small collection of trees across the garden.
“I suppose you mean my mount,” Blake snapped, “which you conveniently borrowed.”
She snorted. “Pray forgive my use of imprecise English, Mr. Ravenscroft. I—”
But whatever she was going to say—and Caroline wasn't even certain herself what that would be—was lost under the sound of James's cursing. Before she or Blake could say another word, he'd called them both baconbrains, idiots, and something else entirely, which Caroline didn't quite understand. She was fairly certain, however, that it was an insult. And then, before either one of them had a chance to respond, James had hopped onto his horse and ridden off over the hill.
Caroline blinked and turned to Blake. “He's rather irritated with us, isn't he?”
Blake's response was to heave her up onto his horse and hop up behind her. They rode the perimeter of Prewitt Hall's property until they reached the tree where she'd tied her horse. Soon Caroline was atop her own mount.
“Follow me,” B
lake instructed, and he took off at a canter.
An hour or so later Caroline followed Blake through the front door of Seacrest Manor. She was tired and sore and wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, but before she could dash up the stairs he took her by the elbow and steered her into his study.
Or perhaps propelled would be a more accurate term.
“Can't this wait until morning?” Caroline asked, yawning.
“No.”
“I'm terribly sleepy.”
No response.
Caroline decided to try a different tactic. “What do you suppose happened to the marquis?”
“I don't particularly care.”
She blinked. How odd. Then she yawned again, unable to help herself. “Is it your intention to scold me?” she asked. “Because if it is, I might as well warn you that I'm really not up to it, and—”
“You're not up to it?!” he fairly roared.
She shook her head and headed for the door. There was no use trying to reason with him when he was in such a mood. “I'll see you in the morning. I'm certain whatever it is that has you so upset will keep until then.”
Blake caught a handful of the fabric of her skirt and hauled her back to the center of the room. “You are not going anywhere,” he growled.
“I beg your pardon.”
“Just what the hell did you think you were doing tonight?”
“Saving your life?” she quipped.
“Don't make jokes.”
“I wasn't. I did save your life. And I don't recall hearing one word of thanks for it.”
He muttered something under his breath, followed by, “You didn't save my life. All you did was endanger your own.”
“I won't quibble with the latter sentence, but I certainly did save your life this evening. If I hadn't rushed out to Prewitt Hall to warn you about Farnsworth and his ten o'clock tea, he would surely have shot you.”
“That's a moot point, Caroline.”
“Of course it is,” she replied with a disdainful sniff. “I saved your miserable life, and Farnsworth was never given the opportunity to shoot at you.”
He stared at her long and hard. “I am going to say this only once. You are not to get involved with our work bringing your former guardian to justice.”
