To Catch an Heiress

Chapter 6

in-con-se-quen-ti-al-i-ty (noun). The quality of not being consequential.

There is little more unsettling than a per­ceived sense of inconsequentiality, ex­cept, perhaps, for the embarrassment one feels when one tries to pronounce it.

-From the personal dictionary of

Caroline Trent

Caroline was so delighted about being allowed to remain at Seacrest Manor that it wasn't un­til the following morning that she realized a rather pertinent point: She had no information to share. She knew nothing about Oliver's illegal dealings. In short, she was useless.

Oh, they hadn't figured that out yet. Blake and James probably thought she had all of Oliver's se

crets stored neatly in her brain, but the truth was, she knew nothing. And her "hosts" were going to figure that out soon. And then she'd be right back where she'd started.

The only way to keep from being tossed into the cold was to make herself useful. Perhaps if she helped around the house and garden Blake would let her stay at Seacrest Manor even after he realized that she had nothing to offer the War Office. It wasn't as if she needed a permanent home-just a place to hide for six weeks.

"What to do, what to do," she mumbled to her­self, walking aimlessly through the house as she looked for a suitable task. She needed to find a proj­ect that would take a long time to complete, some­thing that would require her presence for at least several days, maybe a week. By then she should be able to convince Blake and James that she was a polite and entertaining houseguest.

She strolled into die music room and ran her hand along the smooth wood of the piano. It was a pity she didn't know how to play; her father had always intended to arrange for lessons, but he'd died before he could carry out his plans. And it went without saying that her guardians never both­ered to have her meet with an instructor.

She lifted the lid and tapped her finger against one of the ivory keys, smiling at the sound it made. Music somehow brightened the whole morning. Not that her peckings could be called music without gravely insulting scores of great composers, but still, Caroline felt better for having made a little noise.

All she needed now to brighten the day in truth was to get a bit of light into the room. The music room had obviously not been occupied yet this morning, for the drapes were still pulled tightly shut. Or perhaps no one used this room on a regular basis, and they were kept dosed to keep the sun off the piano. Never having owned a musical instru­ment, Caroline couldn't be sure whether too much sunlight could be damaging.

Whatever the case, she decided, one morning's worth of sun couldn't hurt too much, so she strode over to the window and pulled the damask drapes back. When she did, she was rewarded with the most perfectly splendid sight.

Roses. Hundreds of them.

"I didn't realize I was right below my little room," she murmured, opening the window and sticking her head out to look up. These must be the rosebushes she could see from her window.

Closer inspection proved her correct. The bushes were terribly neglected and overgrown, just as she remembered, and she saw a flash of white lodged just out of her reach that looked suspiciously like her little paper bird. She leaned out further to get a better look. Hmmm. She could probably reach it from the outside.

A few minutes later Caroline had her paper bird in her hand arid was regarding the rosebushes from the other side. "You are in dire need of pruning," she said aloud. Someone had once told her that flowers responded well to conversation, and she had always taken the advice to heart. It wasn't dif­ficult to talk to flowers when one had guardians like hers. The flowers inevitably compared quite favor­ably.

She planted her hands on her hips, cocked her head, and perused her surroundings. Mr. Ravens-croft wasn't the sort to boot her out while she was tidying his garden, was he? And Lord knew, the garden needed tidying. Aside from the rosebushes, there was honeysuckle that needed to be cut back, hedges that ought to be trimmed, and a lovely pur­ple flowering bush she didn't know the name of that she was convinced would do better in full sun.

Clearly this garden needed her.

Her decision made, Caroline marched back into the house and introduced herself to the house­keeper, who, interestingly enough, didn't look the least bit surprised by her presence. Mrs. Mickle was quite enthusiastic about Caroline's plans for the gar­den, and she helped her to locate a pair of work gloves, shovel, and some long-handled shears.

She attacked the rosebushes with great enthusi­asm and vigor, snipping here and trimming there, chattering to herself-and the flowers-all the while.

"Here you are. You will be much happier with­out"-snip-"this branch, and I'm sure you'll do better if you're thinned out"-clip-"right here."

After a while, however, the shears grew heavy, and Caroline decided to put them down on the grass while she dug up the purple flowering plant and moved it to a sunnier location. It seemed pru­dent to dig a new hole for the plant before moving it, so she surveyed the property and picked out a nice spot that would be visible from the windows.

But then she saw some other lovely flowering plants. These were dotted with pink and white blos­soms, but they looked as if they ought to be pro­ducing more blooms. The garden could be a delightful riot of color if someone would only care for it properly. "Those should also get more sun," she said aloud. And so she dug up some more holes. And then some more, just for good measure.

"That ought to do it." With a satisfied exhale, she went over to the purple flowering bush that had initially captivated her and started to dig it up.

Blake had gone to bed in a bad mood and had woken up the next morning feeling even worse. This assignment-his last assignment, if he had any­thing to say about it-had turned into a fiasco. A nightmare. A walking disaster with blue-green eyes.

Why had Prewitt's stupid son chosen that night to attack Caroline Trent? Why did she have to go off running into the night the very evening he was expecting Carlotta De Leon? And worst of all, how the devil was he supposed to concentrate on bring­ing Oliver Prewitt to justice with her running about underfoot?

She was a constant temptation, and an aching re­minder of all that had been stolen from him. Cheer­ful, innocent, and optimistic, she was everything that had been missing from his heart for so very long. Since Marabelle had been killed, to be precise. The entire bloody situation seemed to prove the existence of a higher power-one whose sole purpose was to drive Blake Ravenscroft absolutely and ir­revocably insane.

Blake stomped out of his bedroom, his expression black.

"Ever cheerful, I see."

He looked up to see James standing at the end of the hall. "Do you lurk in dark corners, just waiting to bedevil me?" he growled.

James laughed. "I have far more important peo­ple to bedevil than you, Ravenscroft. I was just on my way down to breakfast."

"I've been thinking about her."

"I'm not surprised."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

James shrugged, his expression beyond innocent.

Blake's hand descended heavily on his friend's shoulder. "Tell me," he ordered.

"Merely," James replied, removing Blake's hand and letting it drop, "that you look at her a certain way."

"Don't be stupid."

"I've many bad qualities, but stupidity has never been among them."

"You're insane."

James ignored his comment. "She seems like a nice girl. Perhaps you should get to know her bet­ter."

Blake turned on him in fury. "She isn't the sort one gets to know better/' he roared, sneering the last word. "Miss Trent is a lady."

"I never said she wasn't. My my, what did you think I was implying?"

"Riverdale," Blake warned.

James just waved his hand in the air. "I was merely thinking that it has been quite some time

since you've courted a female, and as she's conven­iently right here at Seacrest Manor-"

"I have no romantic interest in Caroline," Blake bit out. "And even if I did, you know that I will never marry."

"Never is a very strong word. Even I don't go around saying I will never marry, and Lord knows I have more reason to avoid the institution than you do."

"Don't start, Riverdale," Blake warned.

James stared him hard in the eye. "Marabelle is dead."

"Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I don't remember that every single bloody day of my life?"

"Maybe if s time you stopped remembering that every single bloody day. It's been five years, Blake. Almost six. Stop doing penance for a crime you didn't commit."

"The hell I didn't! I .should have stopped her. I knew it was dangerous. I knew she shouldn't-"

"Marabelle had a mind of her own," James said with surprising gentleness. "You couldn't have stopped her. She made her own decisions. She al­ways did."

"I swore to protect her," Blake said in a low voice.

"When?" James asked flippantly. "I don't recall attending a wedding between the two of you."

In half a second Blake had him pinned up against the wall. "Marabelle was my affianced bride," he ground out. "I swore to myself that I would protect her, and in my view, that oath is more binding than anything sworn before God and England."

"Marabelle isn't here. Caroline is."

Blake abruptly let him go. "God help us."

"We have to keep her at Seacrest Manor until she's free of Prewitt's guardianship," James said, rubbing his shoulder where Blake had grabbed him. "It's the very least we can do after you abducted her and tied her to the bedpost. Tied her to the bed­post, eh? I should have liked to have seen that."

Blake glared at him with a ferocity that could have felled a tiger.

"And beside that," James added, "she may very well prove useful."

"I don't want to use a woman. Last time we did that in the name of the War Office she ended up dead."

"For the love of God, Ravenscroft, what will hap­pen to her here at Seacrest Manor? No one knows she's in residence, and if s not as if we're going to send her out on missions. She'll be fine. Certainly safer than if we turned her out on her own."

"She'd do better if we packed her off to one of my relatives," Blake grumbled.

"Oh, and how are you going to explain that? Someone is going to wonder how you came to be in possession of Oliver Prewitt's ward, and then any hope we have of secrecy will be destroyed."

Blake grunted in irritation. James was right. He couldn't let his connection to Caroline Trent be made public. If he was going to protect her from Prewitt, he had to do it here at Seacrest Manor. It was either that or turn her out. He shuddered to think what would happen to her, alone on the streets of Portsmouth, which was where she'd been heading when he'd abducted her. It was a rough harbor town, filled with sailors-definitely not the safest place for a young woman.

"I see you concede my point," James said.

Blake nodded curtly.

"Very well, then. Shall we break our fast? I find myself salivating at the thought of one of Mrs. Mickle's omelettes. We can discuss what to do with our lovely houseguest over our meal."

Blake let James lead the way down the stairs, but when they reached the ground floor there was no sign of Caroline.

"Do you suppose she slept in?" James asked. "I imagine she must be quite tired after her ordeal."

"It wasn't an ordeal."

"For you, perhaps. The poor girl was kid­napped."

"The 'poor girl,' as you so sweetly put it, had me running around in circles for days. If anyone suffered an ordeal," Blake said rather firmly, "it was I."

While they were discussing Caroline's absence, Mrs. Mickle bustled into the room with a plate of scrambled eggs. She smiled and said, "Oh, there you are, Mr. Ravenscroft. I met your new houseguest."

"She was here?"

"What a lovely girl. So polite."

"Caroline?"

"It's so nice to meet a young person with such a sweet temperament. Clearly she was taught manners."

Blake just raised a brow. "Miss Trent was raised by wolves."

Mrs. Mickle dropped the eggs. "What?"

Blake closed his eyes -anything not to see the yellow eggs splattered on his perfectly polished boots. "What I meant, Mrs. Mickle, was that she might as well have been raised by wolves, given the pack of guardians to which she was subjected."

By then the housekeeper was on the floor with a cloth napkin, trying to clean up the mess. "Oh, but the poor dear," she said with obvious concern. "I had no idea she'd had a difficult childhood. I shall have to make her a special pudding this evening."

Blake's lips parted in consternation, as he tried to recall the last time Mrs. Mickle had done the same for him.

James, who'd been grinning to himself in the doorway, stepped forward and asked, "Do you have any idea where she went, Mrs. Mickle?"

"I believe she's working in the garden. She took with her quite a bit of equipment."

"Equipment? What kind of equipment?" Blake's mind was flashing with horrific images of mangled trees and hacked up plants. "Where did she find equipment?"

"I gave it to her."

Blake turned on his heel and strode out. "God help us."

He wasn't prepared for what he saw.

Holes.

Big, gaping holes, all over his formerly pristine lawn. Or at least he'd thought it had been pristine. In all truth, he had never paid much attention to it. But he did know that it had definitely not looked like this, with brown clumps of earth littered across the grass. He didn't see Caroline, but he knew she had to be there.

"What have you done?" he bellowed.

A head popped out from behind a tree. "Mr. Ravenscroft?"

"What are you doing? This is a disaster. And you," he said to James, who hadn't made a sound, "stop laughing."

Caroline emerged from behind the tree, her dress liberally streaked with dirt. "I'm fixing your gar­den."

"You're fixing my- You're what? This doesn't look the least bit fixed to me."

"It's not going to look so wonderful until I finish with my work, but when I do-"

"Your work? All I see is a dozen holes."

'Two dozen."

"I shouldn't have said that, were I you," James commented from a safe distance.

Caroline stuck the end of her shovel in the dirt and leaned on it as she spoke to Blake. "Once you hear my explanation, I'm sure you will under­stand-"

"I understand nothing!"

"Yes." She sighed, "men usually don't."

Blake started looking around the garden, his head whipping frantically from side to side as he tried to assess the damage. "I'm going to have to call in an expert from London to repair what you've done. Good God, woman, you're going to cost me a bloody fortune."

"Don't be silly," she replied. "These holes will all be filled up by evening. I'm merely moving your flowering plants into the sun. They'll do much better. Except for that impatiens, of course," she added, pointing to the lovely pink and white flowers planted right next to the house. "Those thrive in the shade."

"I say, Ravenscroft," James said, "perhaps you ought to let her continue."

"They were getting too much sun," Caroline ex­plained. "The buds were Burning off before they had a chance to bloom."

James turned to Blake and said, "It does sound as if she knows what she's doing."

"I don't care if she's earned a bloody doctorate in horticulture. She had no right to tear apart my gar­den."

Caroline planted her free hand on her hip. She was starting to get more than a little irritated with his attitude. "It's not as if you gave a care to the garden before I started my work here."

"And why would you think that?"

"Anyone with an ounce of gardening sense would have been appalled by the state of your rose­bushes," she scoffed, "and the hedges are in dire need of trimming."

"You're not to touch my hedges," he warned.

"I wasn't planning on it. They've grown so high I couldn't possibly reach the top, anyway. I was go­ing to ask you to do it."

Blake turned to James "Did I really agree to let her stay?"

James nodded.

"Damn."

"I was merely trying to be of help," she said, bris­tling at his insults.

He gaped at her, then gaped at the holes. "Help?"

"I thought it only polite to earn my keep."

"Earn your keep? It'd take you ten years to earn your keep after this damage!"

Caroline had been trying to keep her temper in check. In fact, she'd been mentally congratulating herself for remaining so level-headed and cheerful in the face of his anger.

No longer.

"You sir," she exploded, barely resisting the urge to swing the shovel at him, "are the rudest, most

ill-mannered man in all creation!"

He raised a brow. "Surely you can do better than that."

"I can," she growled, "but I'm in polite com­pany."

"You don't mean Riverdale?" Blake said with a laugh as he flicked his head toward his grinning friend. "He's about the least polite company I know."

"However," the marquis cut in, "I would have to agree with the lady on her assessment of your character, Ravenscroft." He turned to Caroline. "He's a brute."

"God save me from the two of you," Blake mut­tered.

"The least you could do," Caroline said with a little sniff, "is thank me."

"Thank you!?"

"You're welcome," she said quickly. "Now then, would you like to assist me in moving these plants to their new locations?"

"No."

James stepped forward. "I would be delighted."

"You're too kind, my lord," she said with a sunny smile.

Blake scowled at his friend. "We've work to do, Riverdale."

"We do?"

"Important work," Blake practically roared.

"What could be more important than assisting a lady while she's working in the hot sun?"

Caroline turned to Blake with a questioning smile and mischievous eyes. "Yes, Mr. Ravenscroft, what could possibly be more important?"

Blake stared at her in utter disbelief. She was a guest in his home -a guest!- and not only had she dug up his garden, she was also scolding him like some recalcitrant schoolboy. And Riverdale, who was supposed to be his best friend, was standing by her side, grinning like an idiot.

"I've gone mad," he murmured. "I've gone mad, or you've gone mad, or perhaps the whole world has gone mad."

"My vote's on you," James quipped. "I'm quite sane, and Miss Trent shows no signs of derangement."

"I don't believe this. I just don't believe this." Blake threw up his arms as he strode away. "Dig up the entire garden! Add a new wing to the house! What do I matter? I just own the place."

Caroline turned to James with concern as Blake disappeared around the corner. "How angry do you suppose he is?"

"On a scale of one to ten?"

"Er... if you think his mood would fit on such a scale."

"It wouldn't."

She chewed on her lower lip. "I was afraid of that."

"But I wouldn't worry," James said with a reas­suring wave of his hand. "He'll come around. Rav­enscroft isn't used to having his life disrupted. He's a bit grumpy, but he's not entirely unreasonable."

"Are you certain of that?"

James recognized her question as rhetorical and took the shovel from her hands. "Here now," he said, "tell me what you need me to do."

Caroline gave him instructions to dig under the purple flowering plant and knelt down to watch his work. "Mind that you don't break the roots," she said. Then a moment later: "Why do you suppose he is always so angry with me?"

James didn't reply for a few moments, and the shovel stilled in his hands as he obviously pondered how to answer her question. "He's not angry with you," he finally said.

She gave a little laugh. "We were obviously not watching the same person just now."

"I mean it. He's not angry with you." He stepped on the edge of the shovel and pushed it further down in the dirt. "He's afraid of you."

Caroline started coughing so hard James had to whack her on the back. When she caught her breath she said, "I beg your pardon."

There was another long moment of silence, and then James said, "He was engaged once."

"I know."

"Do you know what happened?"

She shook her head. 'Just that she died."

"Blake loved her more than life itself."

Caroline swallowed, surprised by the squeezing pain in her heart elicited by James's statement.

"They'd known each other all their lives," he con­tinued. "They worked together for the War Office."

"Oh, no," she said, her hand moving to her mouth.

"Marabelle was killed by a traitor. She'd gone out on a mission in Blake's place. He had a putrid throat or something of the sort." James paused to wipe a bit of sweat from his brow. "He forbade her to go, utterly forbade her, but she was never the sort to listen to ultimatums. She just laughed and told him she'd see him later in the evening."

Caroline swallowed, but the motion did little to ease the lump in her throat. "At least her family could take solace in the fact that she died for her country," she offered.

James shook his head. "They didn't know. They were told -everyone was told- that Marabelle had been killed in a hunting accident."

"I-I don't know what to say."

"There's really nothing to say. Or do. That's the problem." James looked away for a moment, his eyes focusing on some spot on the horizon, then asked, "Do you remember when I said you re­minded me of someone?"

"Yes," Caroline said slowly, horror beginning to dawn in her eyes. "Oh, no... not her."

James nodded. "I'm not certain why, but you do."

She bit her lip and stared at her feet. Dear God, was that why Blake had kissed her? Because she somehow resembled his dead fiancee? She suddenly felt very small and very insignificant. And very un­desirable.

'It's really nothing," James said, clearly con­cerned by her unhappy expression.

"I would never take a risk like that," Caroline said firmly. "Not if I had someone to love." She swallowed. "Not if I had someone who loved me."

James touched her hand. "It's been a lonely time for you these past few years, hasn't it?"

But Caroline wasn't ready for sympathetic com­ments. "What happened to Blake?" she asked sharply. "After she died."

"He was devastated. Drunk for three months. He blamed himself."

"Yes, I'm sure he would. He's the sort to take responsibility for everyone, isn't he?"

James nodded.

"But surely he realizes now that it wasn't his fault."

"In his head, perhaps, but not in his heart."

There was a long pause while they both stared at the ground. When Caroline finally spoke, hef voice was soft and unnaturally tentative. "Do you really think he thinks I look like her?"

James shook his head. "No. And you don't look like her. Marabelle was quite blond, actually, with pale blue eyes and-"

"Then why did you say-"

"Because it's rare to meet a woman of such spirit." When Caroline didn't say anything, James grinned and added, "That was a compliment, by the way."

Caroline twisted her lips into something that was halfway between a grimace and a wry smile.

"Thank you, then. But I still don't see why he's be­ing such a beast."

"Consider the situation from his view. First he thought you were a traitor, the very breed of vermin who'd killed Marabelle. Then he found himself in the position of your protector, which can only re­mind him of how he failed his fiancee."

"But he didn't fail her!"

"Of course he didn't," James replied. "But he doesn't know that. And furthermore, it's quite ob­vious he finds you rather fetching."

Caroline blushed and was immediately furious with herself for doing so.

"That, I think," James said, "is what scares him the most. What if, horror of horrors, he were to fall in love with you?"

Caroline didn't see that as the worst horror in the world, but she kept the thought to herself.

"Can you even count how many ways he'd think he was betraying Marabelle? He could never live with himself."

She didn't know what to say in reply, so she just pointed to a hole in the ground and said, "Put the plant there."

James nodded. "You won't tell him of our little chat?"

"Of course not."

"Good." Then he did as she asked.