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“Well, don't be surprised if the poor creature kicks you in the head when you're not looking.”
“Don't tell me how to treat my horse,” he roared, and then brought the crop down again on the animal's back. They resumed their movement down the road, and once Caroline was assured that Oliver was driving at a slower pace, she said, “You were telling me about your work.”
“No,” he said. “I wasn't. And shut up.”
She clamped her mouth closed. Oliver wasn't going to tell her anything, and she might as well use the time to devise a plan. They were moving parallel to the coast, edging ever closer to Prewitt Hall and the cove Oliver had written about in his smuggling reports. The very cove where Blake and James were waiting.
Dear God, they were going to be ambushed.
Something was wrong. Blake felt it in his bones.
“Where is he?” he hissed.
James shook his head and pulled out his pocket watch. “I don't know. The boat arrived an hour ago. Prewitt should have been here to meet them.”
Blake cursed under his breath. “Caroline told me that Prewitt is always punctual.”
“Could he know that the War Office is on to him?”
“Impossible.” Blake lifted his telescope to his eye and focused on the beach. A small boat had dropped anchor about twenty yards out to sea. There wasn't much of a crew—so far they had spied only two men up on the deck. One of them held a pocket watch and was checking it at frequent intervals.
James nudged him and Blake passed him the scope. “Something must have happened today,” Blake said. “There is no way he could have known he'd been detected.”
James just nodded as he scanned the horizon. “Unless he's dead, he'll be here. He has too much money riding on this.”
“And where the hell are his other men? There are supposed to be four.”
James shrugged, scope still to his eye. “Maybe they're waiting for a signal from Prewitt. He might have—Wait!”
“What?”
“Someone's coming along the road.”
“Who?” Blake tried to grab the scope, but James refused to relinquish it. “It's Prewitt,” he said, “coming in a gig. And he's got a female with him.”
“Carlotta De Leon,” Blake predicted.
James slowly lowered the scope. His face had gone utterly white. “No,” he whispered, “it's Caroline.”
