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, 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 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.”