When Blake reached the door to Carlotta's room he could hear her coughing.
“Damn,” he muttered. Crazy woman. She must have begun to get her voice back and decided to cough it away again. He deftly balanced the tea service as he unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Still coughing, I hear,” he drawled.
She was sitting on the bed, nodding, and her light brown hair looked a touch stringy. She didn't look well.
Blake groaned. “Don't tell me you're really sick now.”
She nodded, looking for all the world as if she were about to cry.
“So you admit you faked your illness yesterday?”
She looked sheepish as she wiggled her hand in a manner that meant, Sort of.
“Either you did or you didn't.”
She nodded ruefully, but pointed to her throat.
“Yes, I know you really couldn't speak yesterday, but we both know that was no accident, now was it?”
She looked down.
“I'll take that as a yes.”
She pointed to the tray and mouthed, Tea?
“Yes.” He set the service down and placed his hand against her forehead. “I thought to help you regain your voice. Damn, you've a fever.”
She sighed.
“Serves you right.”
I know, she mouthed, looking utterly contrite. In that moment he almost liked her.
“Here,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “you'd better have some tea.”
Thank you.
“Will you pour?”
She nodded.
“Good. I've always been clumsy with that sort of thing. Marabelle always said—” He cut himself off. How could he even think of talking about Marabelle with this spy?
Who is Marabelle? she mouthed.
“No one,” he said sharply.
Your fiancée? she mouthed, her lips moving carefully to enunciate her silent words.
He didn't answer her, just stood up and strode to the door. “Drink you tea,” he ordered. “And yank the bellpull if you start to feel ill.”
He exited the room, slamming the door behind him before twisting the two locks shut with a vicious click.
Caroline stared at the door and blinked. What had that been all about? The man was as changeable as the wind. One minute she would swear he was actually growing fond of her, and the next …
Well, she thought, as she reached for the tea and poured herself a cup, he did think she was a traitorous spy. That ought to explain why he was so often brusque and insulting.
Although—she took a deep sip of the steaming tea and sighed with pleasure—it didn't explain why he'd kissed her. And it certainly didn't explain why she'd let him.
Let him? Hell, she'd enjoyed it. It had been like nothing else she'd ever experienced, more like the warmth and security she'd known when her parents were still alive than anything she'd felt since. But there had been a spark of something different and new, something exciting and dangerous, something so very beautiful and wild.
Caroline shuddered to think what would have happened if he hadn't called her Carlotta. It was the only thing that had jolted her back to her senses.
She reached out to pour herself another cup of tea, and in the process, brushed up against a cloth napkin covering a plate. What was this? She lifted the napkin.
Shortbread! It was heaven right here in a plate of biscuits.
She bit into a piece and let it melt in her mouth, wondering if he even knew he'd brought her food. She rather doubted he'd prepared the tea. Perhaps his housekeeper had put the shortbread on the tray without his instruction.
Better eat fast, she told herself. Who knew when he'd be back?
Caroline shoved another piece of shortbread into her mouth, giggling silently as the crumbs flew all over the bed.
Blake ignored her for the rest of the day and the next morning, only checking in on her to make certain she hadn't taken a turn for the worse and to bring her some more tea. She looked bored, hungry, and pleased to see him, but he did nothing other than silently leave the tea service on the table and check her forehead for signs of fever. Her skin was a little warm but by no means burning up, so he just told her again to ring the bellpull if she felt sick, and left the room.
He noticed that Mrs. Mickle had added a plate of small sandwiches to the tray, but he didn't have the heart to remove them. There was no use in starving her, he'd decided. The Marquis of Riverdale would surely arrive soon, and she wouldn't be able to keep silent with both of them questioning her.
There was nothing to do, really, but wait.
The marquis did arrive the next day, pulling his carriage to a halt in front of Seacrest Manor just before sundown. James Sidwell jumped down, elegantly dressed as always, his dark brown hair just a shade too long for fashion. He had a reputation that would make the devil blush, but he would give his life for Blake, and Blake knew it.
“You look terrible,” James said bluntly.
Blake just shook his head. “After spending the past few days cooped up with Miss De Leon, I consider myself a worthy candidate for Bedlam.”
“That bad, eh?”
“I vow, Riverdale,” he said, “I could kiss you.”
“I do hope it doesn't come to that.”
“She's nearly driven me insane.”
“Has she?” James replied with a sideways look. “How?”
Blake scowled at him. James's suggestive tone hit a little too close to the mark. “She can't talk.”
“Since when?”
“Since she stayed up half the night coughing herself hoarse.”
James chuckled. “I never said she wasn't resourceful.”
“And she bloody well can't write.”
“I find that difficult to believe. Her mother was the daughter of a baron. And her father is quite well-connected in Spain.”
“Allow me to rephrase. She can write, but I defy you to decipher the marks she puts down on paper. Furthermore, she has a book full of the oddest words, and I vow I can't make any sense of them.”
“Why don't you take me to see her? I may be able to convince her to locate her voice.”
Blake shook his head and rolled his eyes. “She's all yours. In fact, you can take over the entire damned mission if you like. If I never laid eyes on the woman—”
“Now, now, Blake.”
“I told them I wanted out of this,” Blake muttered as he tromped up the stairs. “But did they listen? No. And what do I get? Not excitement. Not fame, not fortune. No, I get her.”
James looked at him thoughtfully. “If I didn't know you better I'd think you were in love.”
Blake snorted, turning away so that James couldn't see the light blush that stained his cheeks. “And if I didn't enjoy your company so well, I would call you out for that statement.”
James laughed out loud and watched Blake as he stopped in front of a door and turned the keys in the locks.
Blake swung the door open and marched in, his hands on his hips as he turned to Miss De Leon with a belligerent expression. She was lounging on the bed, reading a book as if she hadn't a care in the world. “Riverdale's here,” he barked, “so you'll see that your little game is over.”
Blake turned to James, gleefully ready to watch him make mincemeat out of her. But James's expression, usually so controlled and urbane, was one of total and utter shock.
“I don't know what to tell you,” James said, “except that this most definitely is not Carlotta De Leon.”
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, B
lake,” 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 Darnsby.”
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.