by Julia Quinn
“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 fiancée 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 fiancée 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 Seacrest 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 over-confident. 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.
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 secrets 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 houseg
uest.
She strolled into the 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 closed 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 and 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. Ravenscroft 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.