“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 houseguest.
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.