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Carlotta's knuckles turned white around the handle of her gun. “Who are you?”
This time it was Caroline's turn to laugh. “Would you believe I am the woman who was mistaken for you? Amusing but true.”
“There is only one man who has ever seen me…”
“The Marquis of Riverdale,” Caroline supplied. Oliver had already said his and Blake's names, so there didn't seem much need for secrecy.
“If I might interrupt…” came Davenport's sarcastic voice.
BANG!
The force was so great, Caroline was sure she'd been shot. But then she realized two things: she felt no pain, and Davenport's grip had gone utterly slack.
She swallowed convulsively and turned around. Two bodies were now floating in the water. “Why did you do that?”
“He bothered me.”
Caroline's empty stomach churned and heaved.
“I never knew his name,” Carlotta said softly.
“Who?”
“The marquis.”
“Well, he certainly knows yours.”
“Why do you tell me this?”
“Self-preservation, pure and simple.”
“And how is this meant to save you?”
Caroline's lips curved into an enigmatic smile. “If I know this much, just think what else I could tell you.”
The Spanish woman's stare was hard and steely. “If you know too much,” she said with eerie softness, “then why shouldn't I kill you right now?”
Caroline fought for her composure. Her knees were trembling, and her hands were shaking, but she hoped Carlotta would just attribute that to the cold water swirling around her calves. She had no idea whether Blake was dead or alive, but either way, she had to remain strong. If he had—God forbid—been killed up on the hill, she was damned if she was going to let his life's work be completely destroyed by this tiny, dark-haired woman. She didn't care if she died in the process, but she wasn't going to let that list of War Office agents out of the country.
“I didn't say I know too much,” Caroline finally said. “But I might know exactly what you need.”
There was a terrifying moment of silence, and then Carlotta lifted her gun. “I'll take my chances.”
In that moment Caroline realized she'd been lying to herself. She did care if she died. She wasn't ready yet to leave this world. She didn't want to feel the pain of a gunshot wound, to know that a bullet had torn her skin and her lifeblood was seeping out into the cold waters of the English Channel.
And God help her, she couldn't die without learning of Blake's fate.
“You can't!” she yelled. “You can't kill me.”
Carlotta smiled. “Oh?”
“You're out of bullets.”
“I have another gun.”
“You'll never escape without me.”
“Is that so?”
