To Catch an Heiress

Chapter 2

pug-na-cious (adjective). Disposed to fight; given to fighting; quarrelsome.

I can be pugnacious when backed into a corner.

-From the personal dictionary of

Caroline Trent

Blake Ravenscroft wasn't certain what he thought the woman would look like, but this certainly wasn't it. He'd thought she'd look soft, coy, manipulative. Instead, she stood tall, held her shoulders square, and stared him in the eye.

And she had the most intriguing mouth he'd ever seen. He was at a complete loss to describe it, except that her upper lip arched in the most delightful way and-

"Do you think you could possibly point that gun elsewhere?"

Blake snapped out of his reverie, appalled by his lack of concentration. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Well, yes, actually, I would. I have this thing about guns, you see. I don't mind them, precisely. They're good for some purposes, I suppose-hunt­ing and the like. But I don't particularly enjoy having them pointed at me, and-"

"Quiet!"

She shut her mouth.

Blake studied her for several moments. Some­thing about her wasn't right. Carlotta De Leon was Spanish... well, half-Spanish at least, and this girl looked English through and through. Her hair couldn't be called blond, but it was definitely a light shade of brown, and even in the dark night he could see that her eyes were a clear bluish-green.

Not to mention her voice, which was tinged with the pommy accents of the British elite.

But he'd seen her sneaking out of Oliver Prewitt's house. In the dead of night. With all the servants dismissed. She had to be Carlotta De Leon. There was no other explanation.

Blake-and the War Office, which didn't pre­cisely employ him but did give him orders and the occasional bank draft-had been after Oliver Prewitt for nearly six months now. The local authorities had known for some time that Prewitt was smug­gling goods to and from France, but it was only recently that they had begun to suspect mat he was allowing Napoleonic spies to use his small boat to carry secret diplomatic messages along with his usual cargo of brandy and silk. Since Prewitt's boat sailed from a little cove on the southern coast be­tween Portsmouth and Bournemouth, the War Of­fice hadn't originally paid much attention to him. Most spies made their crossings from Kent, which was much closer to France. Prewitt's seemingly in­convenient location had made for an excellent ruse, and the War Office feared that Napoleon's forces had been using him for their most delicate mes­sages. One month ago they had discovered that Prewitt's contact was one Carlotta De Leon-half-Spanish, half-English, and one hundred percent deadly.

Blake had been on the alert all evening, as soon as he'd learned that all of the Prewitt servants had been given the night off-an uncommon gesture for a man as notoriously stingy as Oliver Prewitt. Clearly something was afoot, and Blake's suspicions were confirmed when he saw the girl slip out of the house under the cover of darkness. So she was a trifle younger than he'd supposed-he wasn't going to let her guise of innocence deter him. She proba­bly cultivated that look of blooming youth. Who would suspect such a lovely young lady of high treason?

Her long hair was pulled back into a girlish braid, her cheeks had that pink, well-scrubbed look, and...

And her delicately boned hand was slowly reach­ing down toward her pocket.

Blake's finely tuned instincts took over. His left arm shot out with startling speed, knocking her hand off course as he lunged forward. He hit her with all his weight, and they tumbled to the ground.

She felt soft beneath him, except, of course, for the hard metal gun in her cloak pocket. If he'd had any doubts of her identity before, they were now gone. He grabbed the pistol, shoved it in his waistband, and stood back up, leaving her sprawled on the ground.

"Very amateur, my dear." She blinked, then muttered, "Well, yes. That's to be expected as I'm hardly a professional at this sort of thing, although I do have some experience with..."

Her words trailed off into an unintelligible mum­ble, and he wasn't at all sure if she was speaking to him or herself. "I've been after you for nearly a year," he said sharply. That got her attention.

"You have?"

"Not that I knew who you were until last month. But now that I've got you, I'm not letting you go."

"You're not?"

Blake stared at her in irritated confusion. What was her game? "Do you think I'm an idiot?" he spat out.

"No," she said. "I've just escaped from a den of idiots, so I'm well familiar with the breed, and you're something else entirely. I am, however, hop­ing you're not a terribly good shot." "I never miss."

She sighed. "Yes, I feared as much. You look the sort. I say, do you mind if I get back up?"

He moved the gun a fraction of an inch, just enough to remind her that he was aiming at her heart. "Actually, I find I prefer your position on the ground."

"I had a feeling you would," she muttered. "I don't suppose you're going to let me go on my way."

His answer was a bark of laughter. "I'm afraid not, my dear. Your spying days are over."

"My spying-my what?"

"The British government knows all about you and your treasonous plots, Miss Carlotta De Leon. I think you'll find we do not look kindly upon Spanish spies."

Her face was a perfect picture of disbelief. God, this woman was good. "The government knows about me?" she asked. "Wait a moment, about who?"

"Don't play dumb, Miss De Leon. Your intelli­gence is well-known bom here and on the conti­nent."

"That's a very nice compliment, to be sure, but I'm afraid there has been a mistake."

"No mistake. I saw you leaving Prewitt Hall."

"Yes, of course, but-"

"In the dark," he continued, "with all the ser­vants dismissed. You didn't realize we'd been watching the hall, did you?"

"No, no, of course I didn't," Caroline replied, blinking furiously. Someone had been watching the house? How had she not noticed? "For how long?"

"Two weeks."

That explained it. She'd been in Bath for the past fortnight, attending to Oliver's sickly maiden aunt. She'd only returned this afternoon.

"But that was long enough," he continued, "to confirm our suspicions."

"Your suspicions?" she echoed. What the devil was this man talking about? If he was insane, she was in big trouble, because he was still pointing a gun at her midsection.

"We have enough to indict Prewitt. Your testi­mony will ensure that he hangs. And you, my dear, will learn to love Australia."

Caroline gasped, her eyes lighting up with delight. Oliver was involved in something illegal? Oh, this was wonderful! Perfect! She should have guessed he was nothing more man a lowly crook. Her mind raced. Despite what the man in black had said, she doubted Oliver had done anything bad enough to hang for it. But perhaps he'd be sent to jail. Or forced into indentured servitude. Or-

"Miss De Leon?" me man said sharply.

Caroline's voice was excited and breathy as she asked, "What has Oliver been doing?"

"For the love of God, woman, I've had enough of your playacting. You're coming with me." He stepped forward with a menacing growl and grabbed her by the wrists. "Now."

"But-"

"Not another word unless it's a confession."

"But-"

"That's it!" He stuffed a rag into her mouth. "You'll have plenty of time to talk later, Miss De Leon."

Caroline coughed and grunted furiously as he bound her wrists with a coarse piece of rope. Then, to her amazement, he put two fingers into his mouth, and let out a low whistle. A glorious black gelding pranced out of the trees, its steps high and graceful.

While she was gaping at the horse-who must have been the quietest and best-trained animal in the history of creation-the man hefted her up onto the saddle.

"Jiiii shrr..." she croaked, quite unable to speak with the grimy gag in her mouth.

"What?" He looked over at her and took in the way her skirts were cutting into her legs. "Oh, your skirts. I can cut them or you can dispense with pro­priety."

She glared at him.

"Propriety goes, then," he said, and hiked her skirts up so that she could straddle the horse with more comfort. "Sorry I didn't think to bring a side­saddle, Miss De Leon, but trust me when I tell you that you've far greater worries just now than my seeing your bare legs."

She kicked him in the chest.

His hand closed painfully around her ankle. "Never," he spat out, "kick a man who is pointing a gun at you."

Caroline stuck her nose in the air and looked away. This farce had gone on quite long enough. As soon as she got rid of this blasted gag she'd tell this brute she'd never even heard of his Miss Carlotta De Leon. She would bring the force of the law down on his head so fast he'd be begging for the hang­man's noose.

But in the meantime, she would have to settle for making his life miserable. As soon as he mounted the horse and settled into the saddle behind her, she elbowed him in the ribs. Hard.

"What now?" he snapped.

She shrugged innocently.

"Another move like that and I'm stuffing a sec­ond rag in your mouth. And this one is considera­bly less clean than the first."

As if that were possible, Caroline thought angrily. She didn't even want to think about where her gag had resided before her mouth. All she could do was glare at him, and from the way he snorted at her she feared she didn't look fierce enough by half.

But then he set his horse into a canter, and Car­oline realized that while they weren't riding toward Portsmouth, they also weren't heading anywhere near Prewitt Hall.

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 Rav-enscroft 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^juiet, 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 mat 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 mat 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 said, 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 title 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.