“If it hadn't been for you,” the other man interrupted, yanking Caroline against him, “we would never have been detected in the first place. Ravenscroft and Riverdale certainly didn't learn of our assignation from me.”
“You know my husband?” Caroline said, too surprised to even struggle.
“I know of him,” he replied. “And by tomorrow, so will all of France.”
“Dear God,” she whispered. Oliver must be smuggling out a list of agents. Agents who would then be targets for assassination. Agents like Blake and James.
She thought of ten different plans all at once and dismissed them all. A scream seemed useless; if Blake was watching the beach, he'd surely already have seen her and would not need to be alerted to her presence. And attacking either Oliver or the French agent would only get her killed. The only possibility was to somehow stall for time until Blake and James arrived.
But then what would happen? They would have no element of surprise. Oliver knew they were there.
She caught her breath. Oliver seemed rather unconcerned with the War Office's presence. Without thinking, she jerked her gaze up to the clifftop, but saw nothing.
“Your husband isn't going to save you,” Oliver said with cruel satisfaction. “My men are taking care of him even as we speak.”
“Then why did you bring me here?” she whispered, her heart shattering within her chest. “You didn't need me.”
He shrugged. “Whimsy. I wanted him to know I had you. I wanted him to see me give you to Davenport.”
The man he called Davenport chuckled and pulled her closer. “She may prove entertaining.”
Oliver scowled. “Before I let you make off with her—”
“I can go nowhere until the shipment arrives,” Davenport bit off. “Where the hell is she?”
She? Caroline blinked and tried not to show a reaction.
“She's coming,” Oliver snapped. “And how long have you known about Ravenscroft?”
“A few days. Perhaps a week. You are not my only means of transport.”
“You should have told me,” Oliver growled.
“You have given me no reason to trust you with anything other than the providing of a boat.”
Caroline took advantage of the two men's absorption in their argument to scan the beach and cliff for any signs of action. Blake was up there fighting for his life and there wasn't a damned thing she could do about it. She had never felt so utterly hopeless in all her life. Even with her parade of horrible guardians, she'd always held on to hope that eventually her life would turn aright. But if Blake were to be killed…
She choked on a sob. It was too awful even to contemplate.
And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement at the bottom of the path on which she'd just descended. She fought the urge to jerk her head and stare; if it was Blake or James come to rescue her, she didn't want to ruin the element of surprise.
But as the figure crept closer, Caroline realized that it was far too small to be Blake or James, or any man for that matter. In fact, it moved in a way that was decidedly female.
Her lips parted with shock. Carlotta De Leon. It had to be. The irony was astounding.
Carlotta moved closer, quietly clearing her throat once she was in earshot. Oliver and Davenport stopped arguing immediately and turned to her.
“Do you have it?” Davenport demanded.
Carlotta nodded and spoke, her voice tinged by a vague, lilting accent. “It was too dangerous to bring the list. But I have committed it to memory.”
Caroline stared at the woman who was, in a way, responsible for her marriage to Blake. Carlotta was petite, with alabaster skin and black hair. Her eyes had an aged look to them, as if they belonged to someone much older.
“Who is this woman?” Carlotta asked.
“Caroline Trent,” Oliver replied.
“Caroline Ravenscroft,” she snapped.
“Ah, yes, Ravenscroft. How silly of me to forget that you are now a wife.” Oliver pulled out his pocket watch and snapped it open. “Forgive me, now a widow.”
“I'll see you in hell,” she hissed.
“Of that I have no doubt, but I do believe that you will be seeing far more interesting sights with Mr. Davenport first.”
Caroline completely forgot that the aforementioned Mr. Davenport was holding her arm, and she lunged at Oliver. Davenport held firm, but she managed to land one good punch against Oliver's stomach. He doubled over in pain but unfortunately didn't lose his grasp on his gun.
“My compliments,” Davenport said in a low, mocking voice. “I've been wanting to do that for months.”
Caroline whirled around. “Whose side are you on?”
“My own. Always.” And then he lifted his arm, displaying for the first time a dark, gleaming pistol, and shot Oliver in the head.
Caroline screamed. Her body shook with recoil of the gun, and her ears buzzed and rang from the explosion. “Oh, my God,” she whimpered. “Oh, my God.” She had no great love for Oliver; she'd even agreed to furnish the government with information that might send him to the gallows, but this…this was too much. Blood on her dress and in the foamy surf, Oliver's body floating facedown in the water…
She wrenched herself away from Davenport and threw up. When she was able to stand again, she turned to her new captor and asked, simply, “Why?”
He shrugged. “He knew too much.”
Carlotta looked at Caroline and then slowly and purposefully shifted her gaze to Davenport. “So,” she said, in that delicately Spanish accent Caroline was coming to detest, “does she.”