To Catch An Heiress (10 page)

“Oh. Is that bad?”

“Not at all. Although I daresay you won't want to try to earn a living as a professional gambler.”

She laughed at that. “Certainly not, but I—” Her eyes narrowed. “If you can tell so well what I am thinking, what precisely did you think I was thinking?”

Blake felt something young and carefree taking hold of him, something he hadn't felt in all the years since Marabelle's death, and even though he knew this couldn't possibly go anywhere, he was powerless to stop himself as he stepped forward and said, “You were thinking you'd like to kiss me again.”

“I was not!”

He nodded slowly. “You were.”

“Not even a little bit. Perhaps when we were in the study—” She bit her lip.

“Here, in the study. Does it really matter?”

She planted her free hand on her hip. “I am trying to be of assistance to your mission or operation or whatever you want to call it, and you're talking about
kissing
me!”

“Not precisely. I was actually talking about
you
kissing
me
.”

Her mouth fell open. “You must be insane.”

“Probably,” he agreed, closing the distance between them. “I certainly haven't acted this way in a rather long while.”

She looked up into his face, her mouth trembling as she whispered, “You haven't?”

He shook his head solemnly. “You have a very odd effect on me, Miss Caroline Trent.”

“In a good way or a bad way?”

“Sometimes,” he said with a crooked smile, “it's hard to tell. But I tend to think good.”

He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. “What were you going to tell me about the window?” he whispered.

She blinked. “I forgot.”

“Good.” And then he kissed her again, this time more deeply, and with more emotion than he thought he had left in his heart. She sighed and leaned into him, allowing his arms to wrap more fully around her.

Caroline dropped her cane, snaked her arms around his neck, and completely gave up trying to think. When his lips were on hers, and she was warm in his embrace, there didn't seem much sense in trying to figure out whether kissing him was such a good idea. Her brain, which had just seconds ago been trying to deduce whether he was likely to break her heart, was now thoroughly occupied with devising ways to keep this kiss going on and on and on…

She moved closer, standing on her tiptoes, and then—

“Owww!” She would have fallen if Blake weren't already holding her up.

“Caroline?” he asked, his expression dazed.

“My stupid stupid ankle,” she muttered. “I forgot, and I tried to—”

He put a gentle finger to her lips. “It's better this way.”

“I don't think so,” she blurted out.

Blake carefully disentangled her arms from around his neck and stepped away. With one graceful swoop of his arm, he reached down and retrieved her forgotten cane from the ground. “I don't want to take advantage of you,” he said gently, “and in my current frame of mind and body, I'm liable to do just that.”

Caroline wanted to scream that she didn't care, but she held her tongue. They had reached a delicate balance, and she didn't want to do anything to jeopardize that. She felt something when she was near this man—something warm and kind and good, and if she lost it she knew she would never forgive herself. It had been so very long since she'd felt a sense of belonging, and heaven help her, she belonged in his arms.

He just didn't realize it yet.

She took a deep breath. She could be patient. Why, she even had a cousin named Patience. Surely that should count for something. Of course, Patience lived rather far away with her puritanical father in Massachusetts, but—

She nearly smacked herself on the side of the head.
What
was she doing thinking about Patience Merriwether?

“Caroline? Are you all right?”

She looked up and blinked. “Fine. Lovely. Never better. I was just…I was simply…”

“Simply what?” he asked.

“Thinking.” She chewed on her lower lip. “I do that sometimes.”

“A commendable pastime,” he said, slowly nodding his head.

“I tend to wander off the subject on occasion.”

“I noticed.”

“You did? Oh. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. It's rather endearing.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I rarely lie.”

Her lips twisted into a vague grimace. “‘Rarely’ isn't terribly reassuring.”

“In my line of work one cannot last very long without the occasional fib.”

“Hmmph. I suppose if the good of the country is at stake…”

“Oh, yes,” he said with sincerity so absolute she couldn't possibly believe him.

She really couldn't think of anything else to say besides, “Men!” And she didn't say that with much grace or good humor.

Blake chuckled and took her arm to turn her face to the building. “Now then, you wanted to tell me something about the windows?”

“Oh yes, of course. I might be a bit off, but I would estimate that the bottom sill of the window in the south drawing room at Prewitt Hall is about as high as the third mullion on the study window.”

“From the bottom or from the top?”

“The top.”

“Hmmm.” Blake examined the window with an expert eye. “That would make them about ten feet high. Not an impossible task, but still, a bit annoying.”

“That seems an odd way to describe your job.”

He turned to her with a somewhat weary expression. “Caroline, most of what I do is annoying.”

“Really? I should have thought it rather dashing.”

“It's not,” he said harshly. “Trust me on this. And it isn't a job.”

“It isn't?”

“No,” he said, his voice a touch too forceful. “It's just something I do. It's something I won't be doing for very much longer.”

“Oh.”

After a moment of silence, Blake cleared his throat and asked, “How is that ankle?”

“It's fine.”

“Are you certain?”

“Truly. I just shouldn't have stood on my tiptoes. It will most likely be completely healed by tomorrow.”

Blake crouched down beside her and, to her great shock and surprise, took her ankle into his hands, gently palpating it before standing back up. “Tomorrow might be a bit optimistic. But the swelling has gone down considerably.”

“Yes.” She shut her mouth, suddenly at a complete loss for words. It was a most unusual state of affairs. What was one supposed to say in such a situation?
Thank you for the lovely kiss. Would it be possible to have another
?

Somehow, Caroline didn't think that sounded particularly appropriate, even if it would be most heartfelt.
Patience patience patience
, she told herself.

Blake looked at her oddly. “You look somewhat disturbed.”

“I do?”

“Forgive me,” he said immediately. “It was just that you looked so serious.”

“I was thinking about my cousin,” she blurted out, thinking that she sounded extensively foolish.

“Your cousin?”

She nodded vaguely. “Her name is Patience.”

“I see.”

Caroline was afraid he really did.

The corners of his mouth quivered. “She must be quite a role model for you.”

“Not at all. Patience is quite a harridan,” she lied. Actually, Patience Merriwether was an irritating combination of reserve, piety, and decorum. Caroline had never met her in person, but her letters were always preachy beyond measure—or, in Caroline's opinion, politeness. But Caroline had kept writing to her over the years, since anyone's letters were a welcome diversion from her awful guardians.

“Hmmm,” he said noncommittally. “Rather cruel, I should think, saddling a child with a name like that.”

Caroline thought about that for a moment. “Yes. It's hard enough living up to one's parents. Can you imagine having to live up to oneself? I suppose it might have been worse to have been named Faith, Hope, or Charity.”

He shook his head. “No. For you, I think, Patience would have been the most difficult.”

She punched him playfully in the shoulder. “Speaking of peculiar names, how did you come by yours?”

“Blake, you mean?”

She nodded.

“It was my mother's maiden name. It's a custom in my family to give the second son his mother's maiden name.”

“The second son?”

Blake shrugged. “The firstborn usually gets something important from the father's side.”

Trent Ravenscroft
, Caroline thought. It didn't sound half-bad. She smiled.

“What are you grinning about?” he asked.

“Me?” she gulped. “Nothing. Just that, well—”

“Spit it out, Caroline.”

She swallowed again, her brain whirring at triple-speed. There was no way she was going to admit to him that she was fantasizing about their off-spring. “What I was thinking,” she said slowly.

“Yes?”

Of course! “I was thinking,” she repeated, her voice growing a bit more confident, “that you're very lucky your mother didn't have one of those hyphenated surnames. Can you imagine if your name were something like Fortescue-Hamilton Ravenscroft?”

Blake grinned. “Do you think I'd be called Fort or Ham for short?”

“Or,” Caroline continued with a laugh, thoroughly enjoying herself now, “what if she were Welsh? You'd be completely without vowels.”

“Aberystwyth Ravenscroft,” he said, pulling the name from a famous castle. “It has a certain charm.”

“Ah, but then everyone should call you Stwyth, and we'd all sound as if we were lisping.”

Blake chuckled. “I had a mad crush on a girl named Sarah Wigglesworth once. But my brother convinced me that I must be a stoic and let her go.”

“Yes,” Caroline mused, “I can see where it might be difficult for a child to be named Wigglesworth Ravenscroft.”

“I rather think David just wanted her for himself. Not six months later they were engaged.”

“Oh, how perfect!” Caroline exclaimed with a hoot of laughter. “But now doesn't he have to name his child Wigglesworth?”

“No, only we second sons are obliged to follow the custom.”

“But isn't your father a viscount? Why did he have to follow the custom?”

“My father was actually a second son himself. His older brother died at the age of five. By that time my father was already born and named.”

Caroline grinned. “And what was his name?”

“I'm afraid Father wasn't nearly as lucky as I. My grandmother's maiden name was Petty.”

She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, dear. Oh, I shouldn't laugh.”

“Yes, you should. We all do.”

“What do you call him?”

“I call him Father. Everyone else simply calls him Darnsby, which is his title.”

“What did he do before he gained the title?”

“I believe he instructed everyone to call him Richard.”

“Is that one of his given names?”

“No,” Blake said with a shrug, “but he much preferred it to Petty.”

“Oh, that is funny,” she said, wiping a tear of mirth from her eye. “What happens if a Ravenscroft doesn't have a second son?”

He leaned forward with a decidedly rakish glint in his eye. “We just keep trying and trying until we do.”

Caroline's cheeks flamed. “Do you know,” she said hastily, “but I suddenly feel extensively tired. I believe I shall go inside and have a short rest. You are, of course, welcome to join me.”

She didn't wait for his reply, however, just turned on her heel and limped away—rather quickly, in fact, for one using a cane.

Blake watched her as she disappeared into the house, his cheeks unable to quit the smile that had graced his face for almost their entire interchange. It had been some time since he'd given thought to the family naming custom. Marabelle's surname had been George, and they had always joked that they should marry for this reason alone.

George Ravenscroft
. He had almost been a real person in Blake's mind, with his raven curls and Marabelle's pale blue eyes.

But there would be no George Ravenscroft. “I'm sorry, Marabelle,” he whispered. He had failed her in so many ways. He hadn't been able to protect her, and though he had tried to be faithful to her memory, he hadn't always managed that, either.

And today—today his indiscretion had moved beyond the mere needs of his body. He had enjoyed himself with Caroline, truly reveled in the sheer pleasure of her company. Guilt pierced his heart.

“I'm sorry, Marabelle,” he whispered again.

But as he strolled back to the house, he heard himself say, “Trent Ravenscroft.”

He shook his head, but the thought wouldn't go away.

B
y mid-afternoon Caroline had come to two realizations. One, James had once again disappeared, presumably off somewhere to investigate Oliver and his treasonous activities. And two, she was in love with Blake Ravenscroft.

Well, that wasn't exactly true. To be more precise, she
thought
she
might
be in love with Blake Ravenscroft. She had a little trouble believing it herself, but there didn't seem to be any other explanation for the recent changes in her personality and demeanor.

Caroline was well used to her flaw of often speaking without first thinking about her words, but today she seemed to be blurting out utter nonsense. Furthermore, she had completely lost her usually hearty appetite. Not to mention the fact that she kept catching herself grinning like the veriest fool.

And if that weren't enough proof, she caught herself whispering, “Caroline Ravenscroft. Caroline Ravenscroft, mother of Trent Ravenscroft. Caroline Ravenscroft, wife of—Oh, stop!”

Even she could lose patience with herself.

But if Blake returned any of her feelings, he gave no indication. He certainly wasn't prancing about the house like a lovesick fool, shouting out odes to her beauty, grace, and wit. And she rather doubted he was sitting behind his desk in his study, idly doodling the words, “Mr. and Mrs. Blake Ravenscroft.”

And if he were, there was really no reason to think that she might be the “Mrs. Blake Ravenscroft” in question. Heaven knew how many women back in London fancied themselves in love with him. And what if he fancied himself in love with one of
them
?

It was a sobering thought, that.

Of course, one couldn't entirely discount the kisses. He had definitely enjoyed their kisses. But men were different from women. Caroline had led a reasonably sheltered life, but that pertinent fact had made itself clear early on. A man might want to kiss a woman without an ounce of feeling behind it.

A woman, on the other hand—Well, Caroline wouldn't presume to speak for all women, but she knew that she couldn't possibly kiss a man the way she had kissed Blake that afternoon without a great deal of feeling behind it.

Which brought her back to her central hypothesis: that she was in love with Blake Ravenscroft.

While Caroline was busy delving into the rather circuitous depths of her heart, Blake was sitting on the edge of his desk, tossing darts at a dartboard in his office. The endeavor suited his mood perfectly.

“I won't”—
whoosh
—“kiss her again.”

“I didn't”—
thunk
—“enjoy it.”

“Well, all right, I did, but on a purely”—
whoosh
—“physical level.”

He stood, his face determined. “She is a perfectly nice girl, but she means nothing to me.”

He took aim, let fire, and watched with dismay as the dart sank a hole in his newly whitewashed wall.

“Damn damn damn,” he muttered, striding over to pry the dart loose. How could he have missed? He never missed. He tossed these darts nearly every day and he never missed. “Damn.”

“A little testy today, aren't we?”

Blake looked up and saw James standing in the doorway. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Furthering our investigation of Oliver Prewitt, which is more than I can say for you.”

“I have had my hands more than full with his ward.”

“Yes, I thought as much.”

Blake yanked the dart free, sending little pieces of plaster to the floor. “You know what I meant.”

“Absolutely,” James said with a slow smile, “but I'm not entirely certain
you
know what you meant.”

“Stop being so bloody annoying, Riverdale, and tell me what you found out.”

James sprawled in a leather chair and loosened his cravat. “I did a bit more surveillance on Prewitt Hall.”

“Why didn't you tell me you were going?”

“You would have wanted to come with me.”

“You're damned right. I—”

“Someone,” James interrupted, “had to remain here with our guest.”

“Our
guest
,” Blake replied sarcastically, “is a woman grown. She isn't going to expire from neglect if we leave her to her own devices for a few hours.”

“True, but you might return to find another one of your rooms in shambles.”

“Don't be an ass, Riverdale.”

James made great pretense of studying his fingernails. “You're lucky I don't take offense at such comments.”

“You're lucky I don't ram your bloody tongue down your throat.”

“It's touching to see you so defensive of a woman,” James said with a lazy smile.

“I'm not defensive. And stop trying to bait me.”

James shrugged. “At any rate, one can spy with far more stealth than two. I didn't want to appear conspicuous.”

“Riverdale, you live to be inconspicuous.”

“Yes, it is rather jolly to blend into the woodwork on occasion, isn't it? It's quite amazing what people will say when they don't know who you are. Or,” he added with a wicked smile, “when they don't even know you're there.”

“Did you discover anything?”

“Nothing of import, although Prewitt is definitely living beyond his means. Or at least what his means ought to be.”

Blake picked up another dart and took aim. “Step away.”

James did so, watching without much interest as the dart sailed from Blake's hand to the bull's-eye.

“That's more like it,” Blake murmured. He turned to James and said, “The problem is that we can't automatically assume his money is coming from treasonous activities. If he is indeed carrying messages for Carlotta De Leon, I'm certain he's been paid handsomely for it. However, we also know he smuggles brandy and silk; he's been making a living that way for years. And he certainly could be robbing Caroline's inheritance out from under her.”

“I'd be damned surprised if he weren't.”

“But as it happens,” Blake said with a slightly smug smile, “I did a bit of investigating myself.”

“Did you now?”

“It turns out Prewitt has an office he keeps locked at all times. Caroline wasn't allowed inside, and neither was his son.”

James's face spread into a wide smile. “Bull's-eye.”

“Exactly.” Blake tossed the dart but his aim was wide. “Well, not always exactly.”

“It might be time for a little clandestine visit to Prewitt Hall,” James suggested.

Blake nodded. He wanted nothing more than to wrap up this case, retire from the War Office, and embark upon his new, respectable, and boring life. “I couldn't agree more.”

They found Caroline in the library, sitting under a table.

“What the hell are you doing down there?” Blake demanded.

“What? Oh, good day.” She crawled out. “Do your servants dust down here? I've been sneezing up quite a storm.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

“I was merely going through some of these piles. I'm trying to collect all of your history books.”

“I thought you weren't going to proceed in here until your ankle was better,” Blake said, rather accusingly in her opinion.

“I'm not putting the books back on the shelf yet,” she replied. “I'm just grouping them by subject. I'm not using my ankle at all, which, by the way, is nearly healed. I haven't used my cane even once today, and it hasn't hurt me at all.” She turned to James and beamed. “Oh, and it's lovely to see you again, my lord.”

The marquis smiled and bowed in her direction. “Always a pleasure, my dear Caroline.”

Blake scowled. “We are here for a purpose, Miss Trent.”

“It never occurred to me that you weren't.” She shifted her gaze back to James. “Have you noticed he likes to call me Miss Trent when he is irritated with me?”

“Caroline,” Blake said, his voice clearly laced with warning.

“Of course,” she added blithely, “when he is really angry he reverts to Caroline. He probably finds it too difficult to growl my full name.”

James had his hand over his mouth, presumably to staunch his laughter.

“Caroline,” Blake said in a louder voice, clearly ignoring her jests, “we need your assistance.”

“You do?”

“It has come time for us to gather solid evidence against Prewitt.”

“Good,” Caroline replied. “I should like to see him pay for his crimes.”

James chuckled and said, “Bloodthirsty wench.”

She turned on him with a hurt expression. “That is a terrible thing to say. I'm not in the least bit bloodthirsty. It's merely that if Oliver has been doing all the terrible things you say he has been doing—”

“Caroline, I was just teasing,” James said.

“Oh, well then I'm sorry for overreacting. I should have known you wouldn't be so mean—”

“If the two of you can move past your mutual admiration,” Blake said acidly, “we have important business to discuss.”

Caroline and James turned to him with equally irritated expressions.

“Riverdale and I are going to break into Prewitt Hall,” Blake told her. “We will need you to give us every detail about the schedules of the family and of the servants so that we may avoid detection.”

“You won't need every detail,” she said with a matter-of-fact shrug. “You should simply go tonight.”

Both gentlemen leaned forward and stared at her with questioning eyes.

“Oliver plays cards every Wednesday evening. He never misses a game. He always wins. I think he cheats.”

James and Blake shared a look, and Caroline could practically see their brains springing into action, planning their mission. “If you recall,” she continued, “it was a Wednesday night when I ran away. One week ago exactly. Oliver obviously chose his card night for Percy's attempted rape. No doubt he didn't want his ears bothered by my screams.”

“Will Percy be at home?” James asked.

Caroline shook her head. “He almost always goes out and gets drunk. Oliver can't abide over-indulgence of spirits. He says it makes a man weak. So Percy tipples on Wednesday nights when he can escape his father's watchful eye.”

“What about the servants? How many are there?” This time, Blake asked the questions.

Caroline considered this for a moment. “Five, in total. Most are likely to be in residence. Last week Oliver gave everyone the night off, but I am certain he only did that so that none would rush to my assistance when Percy attacked me. He's terribly tightfisted when it comes to anyone other than himself, so I doubt he'd give them time off again without a very good reason.”

“How nice to know that your rape qualified as a good reason,” Blake muttered.

Caroline looked up and was astonished and just a touch delighted to see how angry he looked on her behalf. “But if you are careful,” she added, “you should have no trouble avoiding them. It might be a bit confusing navigating your way around the hall, but since you'll be taking me along with—”

“We're not taking you,” Blake bit off.

“But—”

“I said, we are
not
taking you.”

“I'm sure if you just consid—”

“
You will NOT be going
,” he roared, and even James blinked in surprise at the volume of his reply.

“Very well,” Caroline said in an irritated voice. She was convinced that Blake was wrong, but it didn't seem either prudent or beneficial to her health to disagree any further.

“Don't forget that you have an injured ankle,” James said gently. “You would not be able to move with your usual speed.”

Caroline had a feeling that James agreed one hundred percent with Blake and was just trying to make her feel better—especially since she'd told them her ankle was quite healed—but she appreciated the effort nonetheless. “The housekeeper is quite deaf and retires early,” she told them. “You won't have to worry about her.”

“Excellent,” Blake said. “And the rest?”

“There are two maids, but they live in the village and go home each night to sleep. They'll be long gone by the time Oliver leaves to play cards. The groom sleeps in the stables, so you're not likely to disturb him as long as you approach the house from the opposite side.”

“A butler?” Blake prompted.

“Farnsworth will be the most difficult. He has very keen ears and he's dreadfully loyal to Oliver. His room is on the third floor.”

“That shouldn't be too much of a problem, then,” James said.

“Well, no, but…” Caroline's words trailed off, and she clamped her mouth into a grim line. Blake and James were talking intensely between themselves, and she might have been a piece of furniture for all the attention they were paying her.

And then, without so much as a farewell, they walked into Blake's study, and Caroline was left sitting among her books. “Of all the rude—”

“Oh, Caroline?”

She looked up hopefully. Blake had poked his head back into the library. Maybe he had decided that she could go with them to Prewitt Hall after all. “Yes?”

“Do you know, but I forgot to ask you about that odd little book you carry about.”

“Excuse me?”

“The one with all the odd words. Does it have anything to do with Prewitt?”

“Oh. No. Actually, I told you the truth when you asked me about it the first time. It's a little personal dictionary. I like to jot down new words. The only problem is that I often forget what they mean after I write them down.”

“You might try using them in context. It's the best way to remember the meaning.” Then he turned on his heel and disappeared.

Caroline had to allow that his idea was a good one, but all that left her with was a burning desire to use
insufferable, arrogant
, and
irritating
all in one sentence.