To Catch An Heiress (9 page)

Blake had finally lost his patience when Perriwick offered to move the piano into the room—or rather, offered to have Blake, who was quite a bit younger and stronger than he was—do it. That had been bad enough, but when Caroline asked if Perriwick was going to play for her, Perriwick had answered, “Goodness no, I don't know how to play, but I'm sure Mr. Ravenscroft would be happy to entertain you for the afternoon.”

At that point, Blake had thrown up his arms and stalked out of the room, muttering something about how his butler had never been so courteous and concerned about
him
.

And that was the last Caroline had seen of him. She had managed to keep herself quite happy for the afternoon, however, munching on pastries and thumbing through the most recent copies of the
London Times
. Really, she could get used to such a life. Even her ankle wasn't paining her so much any longer.

She was quite entranced by the society pages—not, mind you, that she had a clue who they were talking about, except, possibly, for the “Dashing and Dangerous Lord R—” who Caroline was beginning to suspect might be her new friend James, when the marquis himself walked into the room.

“You have been gone quite a while,” she said. “Would you like a pastry?”

James looked around the room with undisguised curiosity. “Have we arranged for another feast without my knowledge?”

“Perriwick merely wanted to make certain I was comfortable,” Caroline explained.

“Ah, yes. The servants do seem rather besotted with you.”

“It is driving Blake mad.”

“Good.” James picked up a pastry off a plate and said, “Guess what I found?”

“I couldn't possibly.”

He held up a sheet of paper. “You.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your guardian appears to be looking for you.”

“Well, I'm not surprised,” she commented, taking the notice and looking down at it. “I'm worth quite a bit of money to him. Oh, this is funny.”

“What?”

“This.” Caroline pointed to the drawing of her, which was situated underneath a headline reading:
MISSING GIRL
. “Percy drew this.”

“Percy?”

“Yes, I should have known Oliver would have Percy do it. He is far too tightfisted to spend money on a proper artist.”

James cocked his head and looked at the drawing a bit more carefully. “It's not a very good likeness.”

“No, it's not, but I expect Percy did that on purpose. He's actually quite handy with pen and paper. But remember, he doesn't want me to be found any more than I do.”

“Silly boy,” James murmured.

Caroline looked up in surprise, certain that she must have misheard. “I beg your pardon?”

“Percy. It's quite clear to me from what you've said that he isn't likely to do any better than you. If I were he, I would certainly not have complained about my father's choice of bride.”

“If you were Percy,” Caroline said wryly, “Percy would be a much finer man.”

James chuckled.

“Besides,” she continued. “Percy thinks I am highly unattractive, morbidly interested in books, and he never ceases to complain that I cannot sit still.”

“Well, you can't.”

“Sit still?”

“Yes. Just look at your ankle.”

“That has nothing to do with—”

“It has everything to do with—”

“My, my,” drawled a voice from the doorway. “Aren't we cozy?”

James looked up. “Oh, good day, Ravenscroft.”

“And where did you disappear to this morning?”

James held up the posted bill he'd brought back from town. “I went out to investigate our Miss Trent.”

“She isn't
our
Miss Tr—”

“Forgive me,” James said with a wicked smile. “Your Miss Trent.”

Caroline immediately took offense. “I'm not—”

“This is an exceedingly asinine conversation,” Blake cut in.

“My thoughts exactly,” Caroline muttered. Then she pointed to the notice about her and said, “Look what the marquis brought back.”

“I thought I told you to call me James,” James said.

“‘The marquis’ is just fine,” Blake grumbled. “And what the hell is this?”

James handed him the paper.

Blake dismissed it immediately. “This looks nothing like her.”

“You don't think so?” James asked, his expression positively angelic.

“No. Any fool could see that the artist put her eyes a bit too close together, and the mouth is all wrong. If the artist really wanted to capture her on paper, he should have shown her smiling.”

“Do you think so?” Caroline asked, delighted.

Blake scowled, clearly irritated with himself. “I wouldn't worry that anyone is going to find you based on
this
. And besides, no one knows you're here, and I'm not expecting any guests.”

“True,” James murmured.

“And,” Blake added, “why would anyone care? There is no mention of a reward.”

“No reward?” Caroline exclaimed. “Why that cheap little—”

James laughed out loud, and even Blake, grumpy as he was, had to crack a smile.

“Well, I don't care,” she announced. “I just don't care that he isn't offering a reward. In fact, I'm glad. I'm much happier here than I was with any of my guardians.”

“I would be, too,” Blake said wryly, “if Perriwick and Mrs. Mickle treated me this way.”

Caroline turned to him with a wicked smile, the urge to tease him too strong to ignore. “Now, now, don't get snippy because your servants like me best.”

Blake started to say something, then just laughed. Caroline felt an instant happy satisfaction spreading within her, as if her heart recognized that she had done something very good in making this man laugh. She needed Blake, and the shelter of his home, but she sensed that maybe he needed her just a little bit, too.

His was a wounded soul, far more so even than her own. She smiled up into his eyes and murmured, “I wish you'd laugh more often.”

“Yes,” he said gruffly, “you've said as much.”

“I'm right about this.” On impulse, she patted his hand. “I'll allow that I'm wrong about a great deal, but I'm sure that I'm right about this. A body can't go as long without laughing as you have.”

“And how would you know?”

“That a body can't go without laughing, or that you haven't laughed in a long, long while?”

“Both.”

She thought about that for a moment, then said, “As for you, well, all I can say is that I can just tell. You always look a bit surprised when you laugh, as if you don't expect to be happy.”

Blake's eyes widened imperceptibly, and without thinking, he whispered, “I don't.”

“And as for your other question…” Caroline said, a sad, wistful smile crossing her face. There was a long silence, as she tried to think of the right words. “I know what it's like not to laugh. I know how it hurts.”

“Do you really?”

“And I know that you have to learn to find your laughter and your peace wherever you can. I find it in—” She blushed. “Never mind.”

“No,” he said urgently. “Tell me.”

Caroline looked around. “What happened to the marquis? He seems to have disappeared again.”

Blake ignored her question. James had a talent for disappearing when it was convenient. He would not put it past his friend to play matchmaker. “Tell me,” he repeated.

Caroline stared at a spot just to the right of his face, not understanding why she felt so compelled to bare her soul to this man. “I find my peace in the night sky. It's something my mother taught me. Nothing more than a little trick, but—” She shifted her gaze to meet his eyes. “You probably think that is very silly.”

“No,” Blake said, feeling something very warm and very odd in the vicinity of his heart. “I think that might be the least silly thing I've heard in years.”

C
aroline's ankle was much improved the following day, although she still required a cane to walk. Finishing her work in the library, however, was out of the question; she was clumsy enough without trying to move huge stacks of books while balancing on one foot. There was no telling what sort of mess she might make while still handicapped by a swollen ankle.

At supper the previous night, James had mentioned that she might draw a floor plan of Prewitt Hall. Blake, who had been most uncommunicative throughout the meal, had grunted in the affirmative when she had asked him if he thought that was a good idea. Eager to impress her hosts, she sat down at a desk in the blue room and began her sketch.

Mapping out the floor plan, however, proved to be more difficult than she had supposed, and soon the floor was littered with crumpled-up pieces of paper whose drawings she had deemed unacceptable. After thirty minutes of aborted attempts, she finally declared, out loud and to herself, “I have a new appreciation and respect for architects.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Caroline looked up in mortification at having been caught talking to herself. Blake was standing in the doorway, but she couldn't quite tell if his expression was amused or irritated.

“I was just talking to myself,” she stammered.

He smiled, and she decided with relief that he was amused. “Yes, that much is clear,” he said. “Something about architects, I believe?”

“I am trying to draw a plan of Prewitt Hall for you and the marquis,” she explained, “only I cannot get it right.”

He walked to the desk and leaned over her shoulder to study her current drawing. “What seems to be the problem?”

“I can't seem to get the sizes of the rooms right. I—I—” She gulped. He was awfully close, and the scent of him brought back powerful memories of their stolen kiss. He smelled of sandalwood and mint and something else she couldn't identify.

“Yes?” he prodded.

“I…ah…well, you see, it's terribly difficult to get the shapes and the sizes of the rooms right at the same time.” She pointed to her diagram. “I started by drawing all of the rooms on the west side of the main hall, and I had thought I'd gotten them right…”

He leaned in a little closer, which caused her to lose her train of thought. “Then what happened?” he murmured.

She swallowed. “Then I got to the last room before the south wall, and I realized I hadn't left enough space.” She jabbed her ungloved finger at the tiny room at the rear. “It looks like nothing more than a closet here, but in actuality it's bigger than
this
room.” She pointed at another square on her map.

“What is that room?”

“This one?” Caroline asked, her finger still occupying the larger square.

“No, the one you said should be larger.”

“Oh, that is the south drawing room. I don't know very much about it other than that it ought to be bigger than I've shown. I wasn't allowed to go in there.”

Blake's ears immediately perked up. “You don't say?”

She nodded. “Oliver called it his House of Treasures, which I always thought was rather silly, seeing as how it wasn't a house at all but just a room.”

“What sort of treasures did he keep there?”

“That's the odd thing,” Caroline replied. “I don't know. Whenever he bought something new—which he frequently did and I tend to think he was using my money—” She blinked, having completely lost track of what she was saying.

“When he bought something new,” Blake prodded, with what he thought was remarkable patience.

“Oh, yes,” she answered. “Well, when he bought something new, he liked to crow about it and admire it for weeks. And he always made certain that Percy and I admired it as well. So if he bought a new candelabra, one could be assured that it would be on display in the dining room. And if he bought a priceless vase, then—well, I'm sure you understand my meaning. It would be completely unlike him to purchase something rare and expensive and then hide it away from view.”

Blake didn't say anything, so she added, “I've been rambling, haven't I?”

He stared at the map intently, then shifted his gaze to her eyes. “And you say he keeps this room locked?”

“All the time.”

“And Percy isn't allowed to enter, either?”

She shook her head. “I don't think Oliver has very much respect for Percy.”

Blake exhaled, feeling a familiar rush of excitement coursing through him. It was at times like these that he remembered why he had first gotten involved with the War Office, and why he had stayed with it for so many years, even though it had taken so much away from him.

He'd long ago realized that he liked to solve problems, to put little pieces of a puzzle together until the entire picture presented itself in his mind. And Caroline Trent had just told him where Oliver Prewitt was hiding his secrets.

“Caroline,” he said without thinking, “I could kiss you.”

She looked up sharply. “You could?”

But Blake's mind had already jumped ahead, and not only did he not hear Caroline, he hadn't even noticed that he'd told her he could kiss her. He was already thinking of that little corner room at Prewitt Hall, and how he'd seen it from the outside when he'd been spying on the house, and what was the best way to get inside, and—

“Mr. Ravenscroft!”

He blinked and looked up at Caroline. “I thought I told you to call me Blake,” he said absently.

“I did,” she replied. “Three times.”

“Oh. Terribly sorry.” Then he looked back down at her map and ignored her again.

Caroline wrinkled her lips into a grimace that was half-irritated and half-amused, picked up her cane, and headed for the door. Blake was so engrossed in his thoughts he probably wouldn't notice that she was gone. But just when her hand touched the doorknob, she heard his voice.

“How many windows in this room?”

She turned around, confused. “I beg your pardon?”

“This secret room of Prewitt's. How many windows does it contain?”

“I'm not sure, precisely. I hardly ever went inside, but I certainly know the grounds well, and…Let me think.” Caroline started pointing with her finger as she mentally counted the windows on the outside of Prewitt Hall. “Now then, that's three for the dining room,” she murmured, “and two for the—One!” she exclaimed.

“Just one window? In a corner room?”

“No, I meant to say that there is only one window on the west wall, but on the south—” Her finger started to bob in the air again. “On the south wall there is also just one.”

“Excellent,” he said, mostly to himself.

“But you will have a devil of a time getting in, if that is your intention.”

“Why?”

“Prewitt Hall wasn't built on level land,” she explained. “It slopes down to the south and west. And so at that corner there is a good bit of the foundation showing. Since I was in charge of the gardens I planted some flowering bushes there to hide it, of course, but—”

“Caroline.”

“Yes, of course,” she said sheepishly, ending her digression. “What I meant to say is that the windows are quite high above the ground. They'd be very difficult to climb through.”

He offered her a crooked smile. “Where there is a will, Miss Trent, there is a way.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“What kind of question is that?”

She blushed and looked away. “A rather intrusive one, I suppose. Please forget I asked.”

There was a long silence, during which he stared at her in a rather uncomfortable way, and then finally he asked, “How high above the ground?”

“What? Oh, the windows. About ten or twelve feet, I suppose.”

“Ten feet? Or twelve?”

“I'm not really sure.”

“Damn,” he muttered.

He sounded so disappointed Caroline felt as if she had just lost a war for Britain. “I don't like being the weak link,” she said to herself.

“What was that?”

She rapped her cane against the floor. “Come with me.”

He waved her away as he resumed his perusal of her floor plan.

Caroline found she didn't much enjoy being ignored by this man. WHAM! She slammed her cane against the floor.

He looked up in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“When I said, ‘Come with me,’ I meant now.”

Blake just stared at her for a moment, clearly perplexed by her newly autocratic attitude. Finally he crossed his arms, looked at her much as a parent might do to a child, and said, “Caroline, if you're going to be a part of this operation for the next week or so—”

“
Five
weeks,” she reminded him.

“Yes, yes, of course, but you're going to have to learn that your desires can't always come first.”

Caroline thought that was rather condescending, and she would have liked to have told him so, but instead, the following words erupted from her mouth: “Mr. Ravenscroft, you do not know the slightest thing about my desires.”

He straightened to his full height, and a devilish gleam she'd never seen before appeared in his eye. “Well now,” he said slowly, “that's not entirely true.”

Her cheeks virtually erupted in flames. “Stupid, stupid mouth,” she muttered, “always saying—”

“Are you speaking to me?” he inquired, not even bothering to hide his supercilious smile.

There was nothing to do but brazen it out. “I'm extremely embarrassed, Mr. Ravenscroft.”

“Really? I hadn't noticed.”

“And if you were any sort of a gentleman,” she ground out, “you would—”

“But I'm not always a gentleman,” he interrupted. “Only when it pleases me.”

Clearly, it didn't please him now. She grumbled a few nonsense words under her breath and then said, “I thought we might go outside so that I could compare the height of these windows to those at Prewitt Hall.”

He stood quite abruptly. “That is an excellent idea, Caroline.” He held out his arm toward her. “Do you require assistance?”

After her shameful reaction to his kiss a few days earlier, Caroline was of the opinion that touching him was
always
a bad idea, but that seemed a rather embarrassing observation to make out loud, so she just shook her head and said, “No, I'm quite nimble with this cane.”

“Ah, yes, the cane. It looks like the antique my uncle George brought back from the Orient. Where did you get it?”

“Perriwick gave it to me.”

Blake shook his head as he held open the door for her. “I should have surmised as much. Perriwick would give you the deed to this house if he knew where to find it.”

She tossed a mischievous smile over her shoulder as she limped into the hall. “And where did you say it was?”

“Sneaky wench. I've had it under lock and key since the day you arrived.”

Caroline's mouth fell open in shock and laughter. “You trust me so little?”

“You, I trust. As for Perriwick…”

By the time they exited the rear door to the garden, Caroline was giggling so hard she had to sit down on the stone steps. “You must admit,” she said with a magnanimous wave of her hand, “that the gardens look quite splendid.”

“I suppose I must.” His voice was part grumble and part laugh, and so Caroline knew he was not truly angry with her.

“I know that it has only been two days,” she said, squinting at the plants, “but I am convinced that the flowers are healthier in their new locations.” When she looked up at Blake, his face held an oddly tender expression. Her heart warmed, and she felt suddenly shy. “Let's examine the windows,” she said hastily, standing back up. She hobbled onto the grass and stopped in front of the window to the study.

Blake watched her as she cocked her head to assess the window's height. Her face glowed healthy and pink in the morning air, and her hair was almost blond in the summer sun. She looked so damned earnest and innocent that it made his heart ache.

She'd told him he needed to laugh more. She was right, he realized. It had felt wonderful to laugh with her this morning. But that was nothing compared to the joy he'd felt when he'd made her laugh. It had been so long since he'd brought happiness into anyone else's life, he'd forgotten how nice it was.

There was a certain freedom in allowing oneself to be just plain silly every now and then. Blake resolved not to lose sight of that once he finally severed his ties with the War Office. Maybe it was time to stop being so damned serious all the time. Maybe it was time to allow himself a little joy. Maybe…

Maybe he was just being fanciful. Caroline might be rather entertaining, and she might be here at Seacrest Manor for the next five weeks, but she'd soon be gone. And she wasn't the sort of woman with whom one dallied; she was the sort one married.

Blake wasn't going to marry. Ever. So he was going to have to leave her alone. Still, he thought with typical male reasoning, there wasn't any harm in looking…

He stared shamelessly at her profile as she studied the window, her right arm moving up and down as she mentally measured its height. Turning quite suddenly to face him, she nearly lost her balance on the soft grass. She opened her mouth, then blinked, then closed it, then opened it again to say, “What were you looking at?”

“You.”

“Me?” she squeaked. “Why?”

He shrugged. “There isn't much else to look at just now. We've already established that it's better for my temper not to pay too much attention to the garden.”

“Blake!”

“Furthermore, I rather enjoy watching you work.”

“I beg your—But I wasn't working. I was mentally measuring this window.”

“That's work. Did you know you have a very expressive face?”

“No, I—What has that to do with anything?”

Blake smiled. She was rather fun to fluster. “Nothing,” he replied. “Merely that I could practically follow the processes of your mind as you examined the window.”