“Shouldn't we at least get the paper and quills? Isn't that why we came here in the first place?”
Blake flexed his hands into tense starfishes and slowly said, “Yes. Yes, that would be a good idea.”
She scurried across the room and gathered her supplies while he swore at himself under his breath. He was getting soft, growing weak. It wasn't like him to forget something as simple as a quill and ink. More than anything he wanted out of the War Office, away from all the danger and intrigue. He wanted to live a life where he didn't have to worry about seeing his friends get killed, where he could do nothing but read and raise lazy, spoiled hounds and—
“I've everything we need,” Caroline said breathlessly, breaking into his thoughts.
He nodded, and they made their way into the hall. When they reached the door to the south drawing room, Blake tapped seven times on the wood, his fingers finding the familiar rhythm he and James had worked out years ago, when they were both schoolboys at Eton.
The door swung inward, just a fraction of an inch, and then Blake pushed it open far enough for him and Caroline to squeeze through. James had his back to the wall and his finger poised on the trigger of his gun. He breathed an audible sigh of relief when he saw that it was only Caroline and Blake entering the room.
“Didn't you recognize the knock?” Blake asked.
James gave a curt nod. “Can't be too careful.”
“I'll say,” Caroline agreed. All of this spywork was leaving her stomach rather queasy. It was exciting, to be sure, but nothing in which she'd wish to participate on a regular basis. She had no idea how the two of them had lasted this long without fraying their nerves completely.
She turned to James. “Did Oliver come in here?”
He shook his head. “But I heard him in the hall.”
“He had us trapped for a few minutes in the east drawing room.” She shuddered. “It was terrifying.”
Blake shot her an oddly appraising look.
“I brought the paper, quills, and ink,” Caroline continued, depositing the writing equipment on Oliver's desk. “Shall we copy the documents now? I should like to get going. I really had never intended to spend so much time at Prewitt Hall again.”
There were only three pages in the folder, so they each took a page and hastily copied it down onto a new sheet of paper. The results weren't terribly neat, with more than one ink splotch marring the effort, but they were legible, and that was all that mattered.
James carefully replaced the file in the drawer and relocked it.
“Is the room in order?” Blake asked.
James nodded. “I straightened everything while you were gone.”
“Excellent. Let's be off.”
Caroline turned to the marquis. “Did you remember to take an older file as evidence?”
“I am certain he knows how to do his job,” Blake said curtly. Then he turned to James and asked, “Did you?”
“Good God!” James said in a disgusted voice. “The two of you are worse than a pair of toddlers. Yes, of course I have the file, and if you don't stop arguing with one another, I'm going to lock the both of you in here and leave you to Prewitt and his sharpshooting butler.”
Caroline's jaw dropped at the outburst from the normally even-tempered marquis. She stole a glance at Blake and noticed that he looked rather surprised as well—and perhaps a touch embarrassed.
James scowled at both of them before pinning his stare on Caroline and asking, “How the hell do we get out of here?”
“We can't go out the window for the same reason we couldn't go in that way. If Farnsworth is still awake he would certainly hear us. But we can leave the way we came.”
“Won't someone be suspicious tomorrow when the door isn't locked?” Blake asked.
Caroline shook her head. “I know how to shut the door so that the latch fastens itself. No one will ever know.”
“Good,” James said. “Let's be off.”
The trio moved silently through the house, pausing outside the south drawing room so that James could relock the door, and then exited into the side yard. A few minutes later they reached the men's horses.
“My mount is over there,” Caroline said, pointing to a small collection of trees across the garden.
“I suppose you mean my mount,” Blake snapped, “which you conveniently borrowed.”
She snorted. “Pray forgive my use of imprecise English, Mr. Ravenscroft. I—”
But whatever she was going to say—and Caroline wasn't even certain herself what that would be—was lost under the sound of James's cursing. Before she or Blake could say another word, he'd called them both baconbrains, idiots, and something else entirely, which Caroline didn't quite understand. She was fairly certain, however, that it was an insult. And then, before either one of them had a chance to respond, James had hopped onto his horse and ridden off over the hill.
Caroline blinked and turned to Blake. “He's rather irritated with us, isn't he?”
Blake's response was to heave her up onto his horse and hop up behind her. They rode the perimeter of Prewitt Hall's property until they reached the tree where she'd tied her horse. Soon Caroline was atop her own mount.
“Follow me,” Blake instructed, and he took off at a canter.
An hour or so later Caroline followed Blake through the front door of Seacrest Manor. She was tired and sore and wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, but before she could dash up the stairs he took her by the elbow and steered her into his study.
Or perhaps propelled would be a more accurate term.
“Can't this wait until morning?” Caroline asked, yawning.