The marquis clapped his hand over his mouth, presumably to stifle a laugh.

Caroline groaned. Another in a long list of sentences that came out absolutely wrong. Dear God, Mr. Ravenscroft must think she was referring to the kiss! “What I meant to say was … well, I have no idea what I meant to say, but you must admit you liked my little paper bird. At least until it crashed into the rosebush.”

“Paper bird?” the marquis queried, looking confused.

“It—Oh, never you mind. Never both of you mind,” Caroline said with a sigh and slow shake of her head. “I apologize for any frustration I might have caused.”

Blake looked like he might cheerfully toss her out the window.

“It's just that—”

“It's just that what?” he snapped.

“Rein in your temper, Ravenscroft,” the marquis said. “She might still be of use to us.”

Caroline gulped. That sounded rather ominous. And the marquis, even though he was proving to be far more affable and friendly than Mr. Ravenscroft, looked as if he could be quite ruthless when the occasion warranted.

“What do you suggest, Riverdale?” Blake asked in a low voice.

The marquis shrugged. “We could ransom her. And then when Prewitt comes to collect—”

“No!” Caroline cried out, one hand moving to her throat at the burst of pain the shout caused. “I won't go back. I don't care what's at stake. I don't care if it means Napoleon takes over England. I don't care if it means both of you lose your jobs, or whatever it is you do for the government. I will never go back.” And then, just in case they were hugely obtuse, she repeated, “Never.”

Blake sat down at the foot of her bed, his expression hard. “Then I suggest you start talking, Miss Trent. Fast.”

Caroline told them everything. She told them of her father's death and her five subsequent guardians. She told them of Oliver's plans to gain permanent control of her fortune, Percy's ill-fated attempt to rape her, and how she needed to spend the next six weeks in hiding. She told them so much that her voice gave out again and she had to write down the last third of her tale.

Blake noted grimly that when she used her left hand to write, her penmanship was exquisite.

“I thought you said she couldn't write,” James said.

Blake stared at him with pure menace. “I don't want to talk about it. And you,” he added, pointing at Caroline. “Stop smiling.”

She glanced up at him, raising her eyebrows into a guileless expression.

“Surely you can allow the chit her pride at having outsmarted you,” James said.

This time Caroline didn't even try to hide her smile.

“Get on with your story,” Blake growled at her. She acquiesced, and he read each line of her history with grim anger, disgusted by the way Oliver Prewitt had treated her. She may have frustrated the hell out of him during the past few days, both intellectually and physically, but he couldn't deny a grudging measure of respect for this girl who had managed to thwart him at every turn. That the man who was supposed to be her guardian would treat her so abominably—it made him shake with fury.

“What do you suggest we do with you?” he asked when she finally stopped scribbling her life story.

“For the love of God, Ravenscroft,” the marquis said. “Get the girl some tea. Can't you see she can't speak?”

“You get her some tea.”

“I'm not leaving you alone with her. It wouldn't be proper.”

“Oh, and I suppose it would be proper for you to remain with her?” Blake scoffed. “Your reputation is blacker than the Death.”

“Of course, but—”

“Out!” Caroline croaked. “Both of you.”

They turned to face her, seemingly having forgotten that the subject of their argument was still in the room.

“I beg your pardon,” the marquis said.

I would like a few moments alone, she wrote down, shoving the paper in his face. Then she hastily scrawled, my lord.

“Call me James,” he replied. “All of my friends do.”

She shot him a wry look, clearly doubtful that their bizarre predicament qualified as friendship.

“And he is Blake,” James added. “I gather the two of you are on a first name basis?”

I didn't even know his name until just now, she wrote.

“Shame on you, Blake,” James said. “Such manners.”

“I'm going to forget you said that,” Blake growled, “because if I don't, I will have to kill you.”

Caroline chuckled despite herself. Say what you will about the enigmatic man who'd abducted her, he did have a sense of humor to match her own. She glanced at him again, this time doubtfully. At least she hoped he was joking.

She shot him another worried glance. The glare he was sending the marquis would have felled Napoleon. Or at the very least delivered an extremely painful injury.

“Pay him no mind,” James said cheerfully. “He has the devil's own temper. Always has.”

“I beg your pardon,” Blake replied, sounding very irritated.

“I've known him since we were twelve,” James said. “We roomed together at Eton.”

“Did you?” she said hoarsely, testing her voice out again. “How nice for you both.”

James chuckled. “The unspoken portion of that sentence, of course, being that we deserve each other. Come along, Ravenscroft, let us leave the poor girl to her privacy. I'm sure she'll want to dress and wash and do all that stuff females like to do.”

Blake took a step forward. “She's already dressed. And we'll need to ask her about—”

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