To Catch an Heiress

Chapter 5

pule (verb). 1. To cry in a thin or weak voice, as a child. 2. To pipe plaintively, as a chicken.

Had I any voice left, I'm sure I should have puled

-From the personal dictionary of

Caroline Trent

"Oh dear," Caroline croaked, forgetting that she was supposed to be mute.

"And how the hell long have you had your damned voice back?" her captor demanded.

"I... ah.. ,Not so long, really."

"Really, Blake," the second man said.

"You might want to mind your language. There is a lady pres­ent."

"Bugger that!" Blake exploded. "Do you know how much time I've wasted with this woman? The real Carlotta De Leon is probably halfway to China by now."

Caroline swallowed nervously. So his name was Blake. It fit him somehow. Short and to the point. She wondered if it was his Christian name or his surname.

"And," he continued in a blaze of fury, "since you're obviously not the woman you said you are, who the devil are you?"

"I never said I was Carlotta De Leon," she in­sisted.

"The devil you didn't!"

"I just never said I wasn't."

"Who are you?"

Caroline pondered this question and decided that her only recourse was absolute honesty. "My name is Caroline Trent," she replied, her eyes meeting Blake's for the first time in their conversation. "Oliver Prewitt is my guardian."

There was a beat of dead silence as both men stared at her in surprise. Finally Blake turned to his friend and roared, "Why the hell didn't we know that Prewitt had a ward?"

The other man swore under his breath, then swore again, much louder the second time. "I'm damned if I know. Someone is going to answer for this."

Blake turned to Caroline and demanded, "If in­deed you are Prewitt's ward, then where have you been the past fortnight? We've been surveying the house day and night, and you, my girl, were most definitely not in residence."

"I was in Bath. Oliver sent me to care for his el­derly aunt. Her name is Marigold."

"I don't care what her name is."

"I didn't think you did," she mumbled. "I just thought I ought to say something."

Blake grabbed her shoulder and stared her down. "There is quite a bit you're going to have to say, Miss Trent."

"Let her go," Blake's friend said in a low voice. "Don't lose your temper."

"Don't lose my temper?!" Blake roared, sounding very much as if he'd already lost it. "Do you understand what-"

"Think," the other man said intently. "This makes sense. Prewitt had a large shipment arrive last week. He'd want her out of the way. She's ob­viously smart enough to sniff out what he's doing."

Caroline beamed at the compliment, but Blake didn't seem to care about her intellect one way or another. "That was the fourth time Oliver sent me off to visit his aunt," she added helpfully.

"See?" Blake's friend said.

Caroline smiled tentatively at Blake, hoping he'd accept the olive branch she'd just offered, but all he did was plant his hands on his hips in a most irri­tated manner and say, "What the hell do we do now?"

The other man didn't have an answer, and Car­oline took advantage of their momentary silence by asking, "Who are you? Both of you." -The two men glanced at each other, as if trying to decide whether to reveal their identities, and then the one who had just recently arrived gave a nearly imperceptible nod before saying, "I am James Sidwell, Marquis of Riverdale and this is Blake Ravenscroft, second son of Viscount Damsby."

Caroline smiled wryly at such a barrage of titles. "How nice for you. My father was in trade."

The marquis let loose a loud hoot of laughter be­fore turning to Blake and saying, "Why didn't you tell me she was so entertaining?"

Blake scowled and said, "How would I know? She hasn't spoken two words since the night I captured her."

"Now that isn't entirely true," Caroline protested.

"You mean to say you've been making speeches and I've gone deaf?" Blake returned.

"No, of course not. I merely meant that I have been quite entertaining."

The marquis clapped his hand over his mouth, presumably to stifle a laugh.

Caroline groaned. Another in a long list of sen­tences that came out absolutely wrong. Dear God, Mr. Ravenscroft must think she was referring to the kiss! "What I meant to say was... well, I have no idea what I meant to say, but you must admit you liked my little paper bird. At least until it crashed into the rosebush."

"Paper bird?" the marquis queried, looking con­fused.

"It- Oh, never you mind. Never both of you mind," Caroline said with a sigh and slow shake of her head. "I apologize for any frustration I might have caused."

Blake looked like he might cheerfully toss her out the window.

"It's just that-"

"It's just that what?" he snapped.

"Rein in your temper, Ravenscroft," the marquis said. "She might still be of use to us."

Caroline gulped. That sounded rather ominous. And the marquis, even though he was proving to be far more affable and friendly than Mr. Ravens­croft, looked as if he could be quite ruthless when the occasion warranted.

"What do you suggest, Riverdale?" Blake asked in a low voice.

The marquis shrugged. "We could ransom her. And then when Prewitt comes to collect-"

"No!" Caroline cried out, one hand moving to her throat at the burst of pain the shout caused. "I won't go back. I don't care what's at stake.-I don't care if it means Napoleon takes, over England. I don't care if it means both of you lose your jobs, or whatever it is you do for the government. I will never go back." And then, just in case they were hugely ob­tuse, she repeated, "Never."

Blake sat down at the foot of her bed, his expres­sion hard. "Then I suggest you start talking, Miss Trent. Fast."

Caroline told them everything. She told them of her father's death and her five subsequent guardi­ans. She told them of Oliver's plans to gain per­manent control of her fortune, Percy's ill-fated attempt to rape her, and how she needed to spend the next six weeks in hiding. She told them so much that her voice gave out again and she had to write down the last third of her tale.

Blake noted grimly that when she used her left hand to write, her penmanship was exquisite.

"I thought you said she couldn't write," James said.

Blake stared at him with pure menace. "I don't want to talk about it. And you," he added, pointing at Caroline. "Stop smiling."

She glanced up at him, raising her eyebrows into a guileless expression.

"Surely you can allow the chit her pride at having outsmarted you," James said.

This time Caroline didn't even try to hide her smile.

"Get on with your story," Blake growled at her. She acquiesced, and he read each line of her history with grim anger, disgusted by the way Oliver Prewitt had treated her. She may have frustrated the hell out of him during the past few days, both intellec­tually and physically, but he couldn't deny a grudg­ing measure of respect for this girl who had managed to thwart him at every turn. That the man who was supposed to be her guardian would treat her so abominably -it made him shake with fury.

"What do you suggest we do with you?" he asked when she finally stopped scribbling her life story.

"For the love of God, Ravenscroft," the marquis said. "Get the girl some tea. Can't you see she can't speak?"

"You get her some tea."

"I'm not leaving you alone with her. It wouldn't be proper."

"Oh, and I suppose it would be proper for you to remain with her?" Blake scoffed.

"Your reputation is blacker than the Death."

"Of course, but-"

"Out!" Caroline croaked. "Both of you."

They turned to face her, seemingly having for­gotten that the subject of their argument was still in the room.

"I beg your pardon," the marquis said.

I would like a few moments alone, she wrote down, shoving the paper in his face. Then she hastily scrawled, my lord.

"Call me James," he replied. "All of my friends do."

She shot him a wry look, clearly doubtful that their bizarre predicament qualified as friendship.

"And he is Blake," James added. "I gather the two of you are on a first name basis?"

I didn't even know his name until just now, she wrote.

"Shame on you, Blake," James said. "Such man­ners."

"I'm going to forget you said that," Blake growled, "because if I don't, I will have to kill you."

Caroline chuckled despite herself. Say what you will about the enigmatic man who'd abducted her, he did have a sense of humor to match her own. She glanced at him again, this time doubtfully. At least she hoped he was joking.

She shot him another worried glance. The glare he was sending the marquis would have felled Napoleon. Or at the very least delivered an extremely painful injury.

"Pay him no mind," James said cheerfully. "He has the devil's own temper. Always has."

"I beg your pardon," Blake replied, sounding very irritated.

"I've known him since we were twelve," James said. "We roomed together at Eton."

"Did you?" she said hoarsely, testing her voice out again. "How nice for you both."

James chuckled. "The unspoken portion of that sentence, of course, being that we deserve each other. Come along, Ravenscroft, let us leave the poor girl to her privacy. I'm sure she'll want to dress and wash and do all that stuff females like to do."

Blake took a step forward. "She's already dressed. And we'll need to ask her about-"

But James put up a hand. "We've all day to badger her into submission."

Caroline gulped. She didn't like the sound of that.

The two men left the room, and she jumped up, splashed some water on her face, and donned shoes. It felt heavenly to get up and stretch her muscles. She'd been stuck in bed for the past two days and was not used to such inactivity.

Caroline righted her appearance as best as she could, which wasn't saying much, as she'd been wearing the same clothes for four days. They were horribly wrinkled, but they looked clean enough, so she arranged her hair in a single thick braid, then tested the door. She was delighted to see that it was not locked. It wasn't difficult to find her way to the staircase, and she quickly ran down to the ground floor.

"Going somewhere?"

She looked up sharply. Blake was leaning inso­lently against the wall, his sleeves rolled up and his arms crossed. "Tea," she whispered. "You said I could have some."

"Did I?" he drawled.

"If you didn't, I'm sure you meant to."

His lips curved into an unwilling smile. "You do have a way with words."

She offered him a too-sweet grin. "I'm practicing. After all, I haven't used any for days."

"Don't push me, Miss Trent. My temper is hang­ing by a very slender thread."

"I rather thought it had already snapped," she retorted. "And beside that, if I'm to call you Blake, you might as well call me Caroline."

"Caroline. It suits you much better than Carlotta ever did."

"Amen to that. I haven't a drop of Spanish blood in me. A touch of French," she added, aware that she was babbling but too nervous in his presence to stop, "but no Spanish."

"You've quite compromised our mission, you re­alize."

"I can assure you it was not my intention."

"I'm sure it wasn't, but the fact remains that you're going to have to make amends."

"If my making amends will result in Oliver spending the rest of his life in prison, you can be assured of my complete cooperation."

"Prison would be unlikely. The gallows are a much more distinct probability."

Caroline swallowed and looked away, suddenly realizing that her involvement with these two men might send Oliver to his death. She\detested the man, to be sure, but she couldn't like being the cause of anyone's demise.

"You'll need to discard your sentimentality," Blake said.

She looked up in shock. Was her face that easy to read? "How did you know what I was thinking?"

He shrugged. "Anyone with a conscience faces that dilemma when they first start in this business."

"Did you?"

"Of course. But I outgrew that quickly."

"What happened?"

He cocked a brow. "You ask a lot of questions."

"Not half as many as you did," she returned.

"I had a government-sanctioned reason to be ask­ing so many questions."

"Was it because your fiancee died?"

He stared at her with such furious intensity that she had to look away. "Never mind," she mumbled.

"Don't bring her up again."

Caroline took an unintended step back at the harsh pain in his voice. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

"For what?"

"I don't know," she said, hesitant to mention his fiancee after the way he'd reacted the last time. "Whatever made you so unhappy."

Blake stared at her with interest. She seemed sin­cere, which surprised him. He'd been something considerably less than polite to her during the past few days. But before he could think of a reply, they heard the marquis enter the hall.

"I vow, Ravenscroft," James said, "can't you see your way to hiring a few more servants?"

Blake cracked a smile at the sight of the elegant Marquis of Riverdale balancing a tea service. "If I could find another I trust, I'd hire him in a minute. At any rate, as soon as I'm done with my duties at the War Office, the discretion of my servants will no longer be quite as paramount."

"Are you still determined to quit, then?"

"You have to ask?"

"I think he means yes," James said to Caroline. "Although with Ravenscroft, one never knows. He has an appalling habit of answering questions with questions."

"Yes, I'd noticed," she murmured.

Blake pushed himself off the wall. "James?"

"Blake?"

"Shut up."

James grinned. "Miss Trent, why don't we retire to the drawing room? The tea ought to restore your voice at least somewhat. Once we have you speak­ing without pain, we ought to be able to figure out what the devil to do with you."

Blake closed his eyes for a moment as Caroline trailed after James, listening to her raspy voice as she said, "You should call me Caroline. I've already given Mr. Ravenscroft leave to do so."

Blake waited for a minute or two before follow­ing, needing a moment of solitude to sort out his thoughts. Or at least to try. Nothing seemed clear where she was concerned. He'd felt such a rush of relief when he'd found out that Carlotta De Leon was not really Carlotta De Leon.

Caroline. Her name was Caroline. Caroline Trent. And he wasn't lusting after a traitor.

He shook his head in disgust. As if that were the only problem facing him just now. What the hell was he supposed to do with her? Caroline Trent was smart, very smart. That much was abundantly clear. And she hated Oliver Prewitt enough to help bring him to justice. It might take a little convincing to help her get past her distaste for espionage, but not much. Prewitt had, after all, ordered his son to rape her. Caroline wasn't likely to turn the other cheek after something like that.

The obvious solution was to keep her here at Sea-crest Manor. She was surely full of information they could use against Prewitt. It was doubtful that she was privy to his illegal dealings, but with the proper questioning, he and James could unearth clues that she probably didn't even realize she knew. If nothing else, she'd be able to give them the layout of Prewitt Hall-invaluable information if he and James decided to break in.

So then, if she was such a good addition to their team why was he so reluctant to ask her to stay?

He knew the answer. He just didn't want to look deep enough within his soul to admit it.

Cursing himself for seven different kinds of a coward, Blake turned on his heel and strode out the front door. He needed some air.

"What do you suppose is keeping our good friend Blake?"

Caroline looked up at the sound of James's voice as she poured his tea. "He certainly isn't my good friend," she replied.

"Well, I wouldn't call him your enemy."

"No, he isn't that. It's just that I don't think friends tie friends to the bedpost."

James choked on his tea. "Caroline, you have no idea."

"The point is moot, anyway," she said, glancing out the window. "He's walking away."

"What?" James shot up from the sofa and crossed the room. "Bloody coward."

"Surely he's not afraid of me," she joked.

James turned his head to look at her, his eyes bor­ing into her face so sharply she grew uncomfortable. "Perhaps he is," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

"My lord?"

James shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts, but he didn't stop staring at her. "I told you to call me James." He grinned mischievously. "Or 'dear friend' if you think James is too familiar." .

She let out a ladylike snort. "Both are too familiar, as you well know. Given my remarkable predicament, however, it seems silly to split hairs over such a matter."

"An eminently practical woman," he said with a smile. "The very best sort."

"Yes, well, my father was in trade," she quipped. "One must be practical to succeed in such endeavors."

"Ah, yes, of course. Trade. You keep reminding me. What sort of trade?"

"Shipbuilding."

"I see. You must have grown up near the coast, then."

"Yes. In Portsmouth until my- Why are you looking at me so oddly?"

"I'm sorry. Was I staring?"

"Yes," she said baldly.

"It's simply that you remind me of someone I once knew. Not in looks. Not even quite in man­nerisms. It's more of a..." He cocked his head as he searched for the right word. "It's more of a re­semblance of spirit, if there is such a thing."

"Oh," Caroline replied, for the lack of anything more intelligent to say. "I see. I do hope she was someone nice."

"Oh, yes. The very best. But never mind that." James walked back across the room and sat down in the chair adjacent to her. "I've been giving our situation a great deal of thought."

Caroline sipped at her tea. "Have you?"

"Yes. I think you should stay here."

"I have no problem with that."

"Not even for your reputation?"

Caroline shrugged. "As you said, I'm practical. Mr. Ravenscroft has already mentioned that his servants are discreet. And my other options are re­turning to Oliver-"

"Which really isn't an option at all," James inter­rupted, "unless you want to end up married to that lackwit son of his."

She nodded emphatically. "Or I can go back to my original plan."

"Which was?"

"I'd thought to find work at an inn."

"Not exactly the safest of prospects for a woman alone."

"I know," Caroline agreed, "but I really didn't have a choice."

James stroked his jaw thoughtfully. "You'll be safe here at Seacrest Manor. We're certainly not about to return you to Prewitt."

"Mr. Ravenscroft hasn't yet agreed to let me stay," she reminded him. "And this is his house."

"He will."

Caroline thought James was being a trifle over­confident. But then again he didn't know about the

kiss she and Blake had shared. Blake had seemed rather disgusted by the entire affair.

James turned to face her suddenly. "We'll want you to help us bring your guardian to justice."

"Yes, Mr. Ravenscroft said as much."

"Didn't he tell you to call him Blake?"

"Yes, but somehow it seems too..."

Intimate. The word hung in her mind, as did the image of his face. Dark brows, elegantly molded cheekbones, a smile that rarely appeared... oh, but when it did...

It was really embarrassing, Caroline thought, how one of his smiles could make her feel so giddy.

And his kiss! Dear Lord, it had made her feel things that couldn't possibly be good for her sanity. He had leaned toward her, and she'd simply frozen, mesmerized by his heavy-lidded stare. If he hadn't upset the moment by calling her Carlotta, heaven only knew what she would have let him do.

The most amazing thing had been that he had seemed to enjoy the kiss as well. Percy had always said that she was the third-ugliest girl in all Hamp­shire, but then again Percy was a fool and his taste had always run toward buxom blonds...

"Caroline?"

She looked up sharply.

James's lips were curved into an amused smile. "You're woolgathering."

"Oh. Terribly sorry. I was just going to say that Mr----er... I mean Blake already talked to me

about helping you arrest Oliver. I must say, it's rather disconcerting to know that he may go to the gallows as a direct result of my involvement, but if, as you say, he has been conducting treasonous ac­tivities ..."

"He has. I'm sure of it."

Caroline frowned. "He is a despicable man. It was beastly enough of him to order Percy to attack me, but to endanger thousands of British soldiers ... I cannot fathom it."

James smiled slowly. "Practical and patriotic. You, Caroline Trent, are a prize."

If only Blake thought so.

Caroline let her teacup clatter into its saucer. She didn't like the direction her thoughts were taking regarding Blake Ravenscroft.

"Ah, look," James said, standing up rather sud­denly. "Our errant host returns."

"I beg your pardon?"

James gestured toward the window. "He appears to have changed his mind. Perhaps he has decided our company is really not so bad as all that."

"Or it might just be the rain," Caroline retorted. "It has begun to drizzle."

"So it has. Mother Nature is clearly on our side."

A minute later Blake stalked into the drawing room, his dark hair damp. "Riverdale," he barked, "I've been thinking about her."

"She is in the room," Caroline said dryly.

If Blake heard her he ignored her. "She's got to go-"

Before Caroline could protest, James had crossed his arms and said, "I disagree. Strongly."

"It's too dangerous. I won't have a female risking her life."

Caroline wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended. She decided to side with "offended"-his

views seemed to stem more from a poor opinion of the female gender as a whole than from any over­whelming concern for her well-being. "Don't you think that is my decision to make?" she put in.

"No," Blake said, finally acknowledging her pres­ence.

"Blake can be rather protective of women," James said, almost as an aside.

Blake glared at him. "I won't have her getting killed."

"She won't get killed," James returned.

"And how do you know that?" Blake demanded.

James chuckled. "Because, my dear boy, I am con­fident that you won't allow it."

"Don't patronize me," Blake growled.

"My apologies for the 'dear boy' comment, but you know I speak the truth."

"Is there something going on here that I ought to know about?" Caroline asked, her head bobbing from man to man.

"No," Blake said succinctly, keeping his gaze a few inches above her head. What the hell was he supposed to do with her? It was far too dangerous for her to stay. He had to make sure she left before it was too late.

But she'd already woken up that part of him he liked to keep undisturbed. The part that cared. And the reason he didn't want her staying-it was sim­ple. She frightened him. He had spent a great deal of his emotional energy keeping his distance from women who aroused anything other than disinter­est or lust.

Caroline was smart. She was witty. She was damned appealing. And Blake didn't want her

within ten miles of Seacrest Manor. He'd tried car­ing before. It had nearly destroyed him.

"Ah, bloody hell," he finally said. "She stays, then. But I want both of you to know that I com­pletely disapprove."

"A fact which you have made abundantly clear," James drawled.

Blake ignored him and chanced a look over at Caroline. Bad idea. She smiled at him, really smiled, and it lit up her whole face, and she looked so damned sweet, and...

Blake swore under his breath. He knew this was a big mistake. The way she was smiling at him, as if she thought she could actually light the farthest corners of his heart...

God, she scared him.