To Catch An Heiress (11 page)

Six hours later, Caroline was in an extremely grumpy mood. Blake and James had spent the entire afternoon closeted in Blake's study, planning their “attack” upon Prewitt Hall.

Without her.

And now they were gone, having ridden out under the cover of the moonless night. Even the stars had conveniently obscured themselves behind clouds.

Those blasted men. They thought they were invincible, but Caroline knew better. Anyone could bleed.

The worst part of it all was that they acted as if it was all so much bloody fun. They'd discussed their plans quite animatedly, arguing over times and transportation and the best approach. And to add insult to injury, they hadn't even bothered to shut the door to Blake's study. Caroline had heard every word from the library.

Right now they were probably nearing Prewitt Hall, preparing to break into the south drawing room…

Without her.

“Stupid, stupid men,” she grumbled. She flexed her ankle. Not even the teeniest bit of pain. “Clearly, I could have accompanied them. I wouldn't have slowed them down.”

Dressed entirely in black, they'd both looked heart-stoppingly handsome. As she'd watched them leave, Caroline had felt unbearably frumpy. She was wearing one of the new dresses Blake had purchased for her, but she still felt like a rather plain pigeon next to those two dashing ravens.

She sat down at a table in the library upon which she'd piled all the biographies. She had planned to spend the evening alphabetizing them by subject, a task which she was now completing with a bit more vigor than was probably necessary.

Plato before Socrates, Cromwell before Fawkes…Ravenscroft and Sidwell before Trent.

Caroline slammed Milton on top of Machiavelli. This wasn't right. They shouldn't have gone without her. She had diagrammed the floor plan of Prewitt Hall for them, but nothing could substitute for firsthand knowledge. Without her they were in danger of stepping into the wrong room, of waking a servant, of—she gulped with fear—getting themselves killed.

The thought of losing her newfound friends was like ice around her heart. She'd spent a lifetime on the fringes of families, and now that she'd finally found two people who needed her—even if it was purely on a level of national security—she didn't want to sit on her hands and watch them walk headfirst into danger.

The marquis himself had said that she was crucial to their investigation. And as for Blake—Well, Blake didn't much like to admit that she was in any way involved in their work for the War Office, but even he had said she'd done a good job briefing them about the Prewitt household and their habits.

She
knew
they would fare better with her on-scene assistance. Why, they didn't even know about—

Caroline clapped her hand to her mouth in horror. How could she have forgotten to tell them about Farnsworth's evening tea? It was a ritual for the butler. Every night, like clockwork, he took tea at ten. It was an odd custom, but one upon which Farnsworth insisted. Tea, steaming hot, with milk and sugar, butter shortbread and strawberry jam—he demanded his nightly snack, and woe to anyone who interrupted. Caroline had once borrowed the teapot and found herself without blankets for a week. In December.

Caroline's eyes flew to the grandfather clock. It was quarter past nine. Blake and James had left fifteen minutes ago. They would be arriving at Prewitt Hall at…

Oh dear Lord, they would be arriving right when Farnsworth was preparing his snack. The butler might be getting on in years, but he was certainly not frail, and he was rather handy with firearms. And he had to travel directly past the south drawing room on the way from his chambers to the kitchen.

Caroline stood, her eyes wide and her expression resolute. They needed her. Blake needed her. She could never live with herself if she didn't go to warn them.

Without a care to her ankle, she dashed from the room, heading directly toward the stables.

Caroline rode like the proverbial wind. She wasn't the finest rider; in all truth, most of her guardians hadn't given her much opportunity to practice, but she was competent and could hold her seat.

And she'd certainly never had such a good reason to carry on in full gallop.

By the time she reached the edge of Oliver's property, the pocket watch she'd snatched from Blake's desk gave the time as exactly ten o'clock. She tied the mare—which she'd also “borrowed” from Blake—to a tree and crept toward the house, keeping herself hidden behind the tall hedges that ran alongside the drive. When she reached Prewitt Hall, she dropped to her hands and knees. She doubted that anyone was still awake, save for Farnsworth in the kitchen, but it seemed prudent to keep her silhouette from passing by any windows.

“Blake had better appreciate this,” she whispered to herself. Not only did she look utterly foolish, crawling on all fours, but it had just occurred to her that she was back at Prewitt Hall, the one place she absolutely didn't want to be for the next five weeks. And she'd come of her own volition! What an idiot. If Oliver got his hands on her…

“Oliver is playing cards. Oliver is cheating at cards. Oliver won't be back for several hours.” It was easy to whisper such thoughts, but it didn't make her any less uneasy. In fact, her stomach felt as if she'd swallowed a brace of bloodhounds.

“Remind me not to mind being left out again,” she said to herself. It had been rather irritating when Blake and James had gone off without her, but now that she was here, in the thick of the action, all she wanted was to be back at Seacrest Manor, with perhaps a cup of warm tea and maybe a thick piece of toast…

When it came right down to it, Caroline decided, she wasn't cut out for a life of espionage.

She reached the northwest corner of the house and peered around, her gaze sweeping down the length of the west wall. She didn't see Blake or James, which probably meant that they were accessing the room from the south window.

If they hadn't gotten in already.

Caroline bit her lip. If they were inside the south drawing room, Farnsworth was sure to hear them. And Oliver kept a loaded gun in one of the hall cabinets. If Farnsworth suspected intruders, he'd surely get the gun before investigating, and Caroline rather doubted the butler would ask questions before pulling the trigger.

Fresh panic rising within her, she scooted along the grass, moving faster than she'd ever thought one could do at a crawl.

And then she rounded the corner.

“Did you hear something?”

James looked down from his work on the window latch and shook his head. He was standing on Blake's shoulders so that he could reach the window.

As James continued with his ministrations, Blake looked right and left. And then he heard it again—a kind of scurrying noise. He tapped James on the foot and put his forefinger to his lips. James nodded and temporarily ceased his work, which had been causing the occasional clink and clank as he jabbed at the latch with his file. He hopped noiselessly to the ground as Blake crouched, instantly assuming a vigilant posture.

Blake pulled out his pistol as he inched his way to the corner, his back pressed flat against the wall. A slight shadow was approaching. It wouldn't have been discernible except that someone had left a candle burning in one of the windows on the west wall.

And that shadow was growing closer.

Blake's finger tightened on the trigger.

A hand appeared from around the corner.

Blake pounced.

O
ne moment Caroline was crawling on all fours, and the next she was as flat as a crepe, with a large, heavy, and oddly warm weight on her back. That, however, wasn't nearly so disconcerting as the cold gun pressed up against her ribs.

“Don't move,” a voice growled in her ear. A familiar voice.

“Blake?” she croaked.

“Caroline?” Then he uttered a word so foul she'd never heard of it before, and she thought she had heard them all from her various guardians.

“The very one,” she replied with a gulp, “and I really couldn't move, anyway. You're rather heavy.”

He rolled off her and pierced her with a stare that was one part disbelief and thirty-one parts unadulterated fury. Caroline found herself wishing it were the other way around. Blake Ravenscroft was definitely not a man to cross.

“I am going to kill you,” he hissed.

She gulped. “Don't you want to lecture me first?”

He stared at her with a heavy dose of stupefaction. “I take that back,” he said with precisely clipped words. “First I am going to strangle you, and then I am going to kill you.”

“Here?” she asked doubtfully, looking around. “Won't my dead body look suspicious in the morning?”

“What the hell are you doing here? You had explicit instructions to stay—”

“I know,” she whispered urgently, pressing her finger to her lips, “but I remembered something, and—”

“I don't care if you remembered the entire second book of the Bible. You were told—”

James put a hand on Blake's shoulder and said, “Hear her out, Ravenscroft.”

“It's the butler,” Caroline put in quickly, before Blake changed his mind and decided to strangle her after all. “Farnsworth. I forgot about his tea. He has a strange habit, you see. He takes tea at ten every night. And he walks right by…” Her voice trailed off as she saw a beam of light moving in the dining room. It had to be Farnsworth, holding a lantern as he walked through the hall. The dining room doors were usually left open, so if his lantern was rather bright, they would be able to see its glow through the window.

Unless he'd heard something and had actually gone into the dining room to investigate…

All three of them hit the ground with alacrity.

“He has very keen ears,” Caroline whispered.

“Then shut up,” Blake hissed back.

She did.

The traveling light disappeared for a moment, then reappeared in the south drawing room.

“I thought you said Prewitt keeps this room locked,” Blake whispered.

“Farnsworth has a key,” Caroline whispered back.

Blake motioned to her with his hands to move away from the south drawing room window, and so she slithered on her belly until she was next to the dining room. Blake was right behind her. She looked around for James, but he must have gone around the corner in the opposite direction.

Blake pointed to the building and mouthed, “Closer to the wall.” Caroline followed his instructions until she was pressed up against the cool exterior stone of Prewitt Hall. Within seconds, however, her other side was pressed up against the warm body of Blake Ravenscroft.

Caroline gasped. The man was lying on top of her! She would have blistered his ears, except that she knew she had to keep her voice down. Not to mention the fact that she was lying facedown on the ground and had no desire to get a mouthful of grass.

“How old is the butler?”

She nearly gasped. His breath was warm against her cheek, and she could swear she felt the touch of his lips against her ear. “At—at least fifty,” she whispered, “but he's a crack shot.”

“The butler?”

“He served in the army,” she explained. “In the Colonies. I believe he was awarded a medal for valor.”

“Just my luck,” Blake muttered. “I don't suppose he's handy with a bow and arrow.”

“Why, no, but I did see him once hit a tree with a knife from twenty paces.”

“What?” Blake swore under his breath—another one of those splendidly creative curses that so impressed her.

“I'm joking,” she said quickly.

His entire body tensed with fury. “This is
not
the time or the place for—”

“Yes, I realize that now,” she mumbled.

James appeared from around the corner, crawling on his hands and knees. He eyed them with interest. “I had no idea you were having such fun over here.”

“We are not having fun,” Blake and Caroline hissed in unison.

James shook his head with such solemnity that it was clear he was mocking them. “No, obviously you are not.” He then focused his eyes on Blake, who was still lying on top of Caroline. “Let's get back to work. The butler's gone up to his room.”

“Are you certain?”

“I saw the light leave the drawing room, then go upstairs.”

“There's a window in the side stairwell,” Caroline explained. “You can see it from the south.”

“Good,” Blake said, rolling off of her and moving into a crouch. “Let's get back to work opening those windows.”

“Bad idea,” Caroline said.

Both men turned to face her, and in the dark she couldn't be certain whether their expressions were interested or disdainful.

“Farnsworth will hear you from his room,” she said. “It's only two stories up, and since it's warm out, he's most likely opened the windows. If he happens to look out, he will most certainly see you.”

“You might have told us this before we attempted break in,” Blake snapped.

“I can still get you in,” she shot back.

“How?”

“‘Thank you, Caroline,’” she said sarcastically. “‘That is very thoughtful of you.’‘Why, you're welcome, Blake, it's no trouble at all to assist you.’”

He didn't look amused. “We don't have time for jokes, Caroline. Tell us what to do.”

“Can you pick a lock?”

He looked affronted that she'd even asked. “Of course. Riverdale is faster, though.”

“Fine. Follow me.”

His hand landed heavily on her right shoulder. “
You
are not coming in.”

“Am I supposed to remain out here by myself? Where anyone who passes by would recognize me and return me to Oliver? Not to mention thieves, brigands—”

“Begging your pardon, Caroline,” James cut in, “but we are the thieves and brigands in this little tableau.”

Caroline choked back laughter.

Blake fumed.

James looked back and forth between them with unconcealed interest. Finally he said, “She's right, Ravenscroft. We can't leave her alone out here. Lead on, Caroline.”

Blake was cursing a streak so blue it might as well have been black, but he trudged behind James and Caroline without an otherwise negative comment.

She took them to a side door that was partially concealed by a tall English maple. Then she crouched down and put her finger to her lips, indicating that they should remain still. The two men looked at her with puzzlement and interest as she heaved upward, slamming her shoulder into the door. They heard a latch come undone, and Caroline swung the door open.

“Won't the butler have heard that?” James asked.

She shook her head. “His room is too far away. The only person who lives on this side of the Hall is the housekeeper, and she's quite deaf. I've sneaked in and out this way many times. No one has ever caught on.”

“You might have told us this before,” Blake said.

“You'd never have gotten it right. You have to hit the door just so. It took me weeks to learn.”

“And what were you doing sneaking out at night?” he demanded.

“I fail to see how that is your business.”

“You became my business when you took up residence in my house.”

“Well, I wouldn't have moved in if you hadn't
kidnapped
me!”

“I wouldn't have kidnapped you if you hadn't been wandering about the countryside with no thought to your own safety.”

“I was certainly safer in the countryside than I was at Prewitt Hall, and you well know it.”

“You wouldn't be safe in a convent,” he muttered.

Caroline rolled her eyes. “If that isn't the most ridiculous—Oh, never mind. If you're so upset that I didn't let you open the door, here, I'll close it again and you can have a go at it.”

He took a menacing step forward. “Do you know, if I strangled you here and now there's not a jury in this country that wouldn't acquit—”

“If you two lovebirds can stop snapping at each other,” James cut in, “I'd like to search the study before Prewitt returns home.”

Blake glared at Caroline as if this entire delay were her fault, causing her to hiss, “Don't forget that if it weren't for me—”

“If it weren't for you,” he shot back, “I would be a very happy man indeed.”

“We are wasting time,” James reminded them. “The both of you may remain here, if you cannot cease your squabbling, but I am going in to search the south drawing room.”

“I'll go first,” Caroline announced, “since I know the way.”

“You'll go behind me,” Blake contradicted, “and give me directions as we go along.”

“Oh, for the love of Saint Peter,” James finally burst out, exasperation showing in every line of his body. “
I'll
go first, if only to shut the two of you up. Caroline, you follow and give me directions. Blake, you guard her from the rear.”

The trio made their way into the house, amazingly without another word except for Caroline's whispered instructions. Soon they found themselves in front of the door to the south drawing room. James pulled out an odd flat tool and inserted it in the lock.

“Will that thing really work?” Caroline whispered to Blake.

He nodded curtly. “Riverdale's the best. He can pick a lock faster than anyone. Here, watch. Three more seconds. One, two…”

Click. The door swung open.

“Three,” James said with a slightly self-satisfied smile.

“Well done,” Caroline said.

He smiled back at her. “I've never met a woman or a lock that didn't love me.”

Blake muttered something under his breath and strode past them. “You,” he said, turning around and pointing to Caroline, “don't touch anything.”

“Would you like me to tell you what Oliver also did not want me to touch?” she asked, her smile patently false.

“I don't have time for games, Miss Trent.”

“Oh, I wouldn't dream of wasting your time.”

Blake turned to James. “I'm going to kill her.”

“And I'm going to kill
you
,” James returned. “Both of you.” He stepped past them and made a beeline for the desk. “Blake, you inspect the shelves. Caroline, you—well, I don't know what you should do, but try not to yell at Blake.”

Blake smirked.

“He yelled at me first,” Caroline muttered, well aware that she was acting juvenile.

James shook his head and went to work on the locked desk drawers. He carefully picked each lock, then examined the contents of each drawer, rearranging them afterward so that Oliver wouldn't notice they'd been tampered with.

After about a minute, however, Caroline took pity on him and said, “You might want to concentrate on the bottom left.”

He looked back up at her with interest.

She shrugged, her head tilting to the side with the movement. “It's the one Oliver was always the most insane about. He once nearly took Farnsworth's head off just for polishing the lock.”

“Couldn't you have told him this before he went through all of the other drawers?” Blake asked angrily.

“I tried,” she retorted, “and you threatened to kill me.”

James ignored their sniping and jimmied the lower left lock. The drawer slid open, revealing stacks of files, all of which were labeled with dates.

“What is it?” Blake asked.

James let out a low whistle. “Prewitt's ticket to the gallows.”

Blake and Caroline crowded around, both eager for a look. There were perhaps three dozen files, each neatly labeled with a date. James had one of them open on the desk and was scanning the contents with great interest.

“What does it say?” Caroline asked.

“It documents Prewitt's illegal activities,” Blake answered. “Damned stupid of him to have put it in writing.”

“Oliver is terribly organized,” she said. “Whenever he devises any sort of a plan he always puts it down on paper and then follows it without exception.”

James pointed to a sentence beginning with the initials CDL. “That must be Carlotta,” he whispered. “But who is this?”

Caroline's eyes followed his finger to MCD. “Miles Dudley,” she said.

The two men turned to face her. “Who?” they both asked.

“Miles Dudley, I should think. I don't know his middle initial, but he is the only MD of whom I can think. He is one of Oliver's closest cronies. They've known each other for years.”

Blake and James shared a glance.

“I find him detestable,” Caroline continued. “He is always slobbering all over the housemaids. And me. I contrive to be absent when he comes to call.”

Blake turned to the marquis. “Is there enough in that file to arrest Dudley?”

“There would be,” James answered, “if we could be sure MCD truly is Miles Dudley. One can't go about imprisoning people on the basis of their initials.”

“If you arrested Oliver,” Caroline said, “I'm sure he would incriminate Mr. Dudley. They are rather good friends, but I doubt Oliver's loyalty would hold fast under such circumstances. When it comes right down to it, Oliver holds no true loyalty to anyone except himself.”

“It's not a risk I'm prepared to take,” Blake said grimly. “I will not rest until I see both of these traitors imprisoned or hanged. We need to catch both of them in action.”

“Is there any way you can determine when Oliver plans his next smuggling run?” Caroline asked.

“Not,” James replied, thumbing through the stack of file, “unless he's been really stupid.”