To Catch an Heiress

Blake clamped his hand over Caroline's mouth. He knew how to be quiet; he'd had years of experience in the art of keeping oneself utterly silent. But God knew what Caroline would do. The crazy woman might sneeze at any moment. Or hiccough. Or fidget.

She glared at him over his hand. Yes, Blake thought, she would be a fidgeter. He moved his other hand to her upper arm and held firm, determined to keep her still. He didn't care if she had bruises for a week; there was no telling what Prewitt would do if he found his wayward ward hiding behind a sofa in the drawing room. After all, when Caroline had run away, she'd effectively taken her fortune with her.

Prewitt yawned and stood up, and for a moment Blake's heart raced with hope. But the blasted man just crossed to the side table and poured himself another brandy.

Blake looked at Caroline. Hadn't she once said Prewitt never overindulged in spirits? She shrugged, clearly at a loss as to what her guardian was doing.

Prewitt sat back down on the sofa with a loud grunt, then muttered, “Goddamn that girl.”

Caroline's eyes widened.

Blake pointed to her and mouthed, You?

She lifted her shoulders and blinked.

Blake closed his eyes for a moment and tried to figure out who Prewitt meant. There was no way to be certain. It could be Caroline; it could be Carlotta De Leon.

“Where the hell could she be?” Prewitt said, followed by a swallowing sound that had to be more brandy.

Caroline pointed to herself and Blake felt her mouth form the word, Me? under his hand. He didn't respond, though. He was too busy focusing on Prewitt. If the traitorous bastard discovered them now the mission would be ruined. Well, not entirely. Blake was certain that he and James could easily apprehend Prewitt that night if the need arose, but that would mean that his co-conspirators might go free. Better to be patient and wait out the next three weeks. Then the espionage ring would be closed down for good.

Then, just when Blake felt his feet start to fall asleep under him, Prewitt plunked his glass down on a table and strode from the room. Blake counted to ten, then removed his hand from Caroline's mouth and heaved a sigh of relief.

She sighed, too, but it was a quick one, followed by the question, “Do you think he was talking about me?”

“I have no idea,” Blake said honestly. “But I wouldn't be surprised if he was.”

“Do you think he discovered James?”

He shook his head. “If he had, we would have heard some sort of commotion. That doesn't mean we're safe yet, though. For all we know, Prewitt is taking a leisurely stroll down the hall before entering the south drawing room.”

“What do we do now?”

“We wait.”

“For what?”

He turned sharply to face her. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“It's the only way to learn anything useful.”

“We wait,” Blake said with an impatient exhale, “until we get a sign from Riverdale.”

“What if he is waiting for a sign from us?”

“He's not.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Riverdale and I have worked together for seven years. I know his methods.”

“I really don't see how you could have prepared for this particular scenario.”

He shot her a look of such irritation that she clamped her mouth shut. But not before rolling her eyes at him.

Blake ignored her for several minutes, which wasn't easy. The mere sound of her breathing excited him. His reaction was completely inappropriate under the circumstances, and one with which he had no experience, even with Marabelle. Unfortunately, there seemed to be nothing he could do about it, which pushed his temper even further into the vile.

Then she moved, and her arm accidentally brushed against his hip, and—

Blake absolutely refused to let that thought go any further. Abruptly he took her hand and stood. “Let's go.”

Caroline looked around in confusion. “Did we receive some sort of sign from the marquis?”

“No, but it's been long enough.”

“But I thought you said—”

“If you want to be a part of this operation,” he hissed, “you need to learn to take orders. Without question.”

She raised her brows. “I'm so glad you've decided to let me participate.”

If Blake could have torn out her tongue at that moment, he would have done it. Or at least tried. “Follow me,” he snapped.

Caroline saluted him and then did a little tiptoe march behind him to the door. Blake thought he deserved a medal for not picking her up by the collar and tossing her out the window. At the very least, he was going to demand some sort of hazard pay from the War Office. If they couldn't give him money, there had to be some small property somewhere that had been confiscated from a criminal.

Surely he deserved a little something extra for this mission. Caroline might be rather delightful to kiss, but on assignment she was bloody annoying.

He reached the open doorway and motioned for her to stay behind him. Hand on gun, he peered into the hall, ascertained that it was empty, and stepped out. Caroline followed without his verbal instruction, as he knew she would. That one certainly needed no prodding to step out into the face of danger.

She was too headstrong, too careless. It brought back memories.

Marabelle.

Blake squeezed his eyes shut for a split second, trying to drive his late fiancée from his mind. She might live in his heart, but she had no place here, this night, in Prewitt Hall. Not if Blake wanted to get the three of them out alive.

Marabelle's memory, however, was quickly put aside by Caroline's incessant poking at his upper arm. “What now?” he snapped.