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The two men glanced at each other, as if trying to decide whether to reveal their identities, and then the one who had just recently arrived gave a nearly imperceptible nod before saying, “I am James Sidwell, Marquis of Riverdale, and this is Blake Ravenscroft, second son of Viscount Darnsby.”
Caroline smiled wryly at such a barrage of titles. “How nice for you. My father was in trade.”
The marquis let loose a loud hoot of laughter before turning to Blake and saying, “Why didn't you tell me she was so entertaining?”
Blake scowled and said, “How would I know? She hasn't spoken two words since the night I captured her.”
“Now that isn't entirely true,” Caroline protested.
“You mean to say you've been making speeches and I've gone deaf?” Blake returned.
“No, of course not. I merely meant that I have been quite entertaining.”
The marquis clapped his hand over his mouth, presumably to stifle a laugh.
Caroline groaned. Another in a long list of sentences that came out absolutely wrong. Dear God, Mr. Ravenscroft must think she was referring to the kiss! “What I meant to say was … well, I have no idea what I meant to say, but you must admit you liked my little paper bird. At least until it crashed into the rosebush.”
“Paper bird?” the marquis queried, looking confused.
“It—Oh, never you mind. Never both of you mind,” Caroline said with a sigh and slow shake of her head. “I apologize for any frustration I might have caused.”
Blake looked like he might cheerfully toss her out the window.
“It's just that—”
“It's just that what?” he snapped.
“Rein in your temper, Ravenscroft,” the marquis said. “She might still be of use to us.”
Caroline gulped. That sounded rather ominous. And the marquis, even though he was proving to be far more affable and friendly than Mr. Ravenscroft, looked as if he could be quite ruthless when the occasion warranted.
“What do you suggest, Riverdale?” Blake asked in a low voice.
The marquis shrugged. “We could ransom her. And then when Prewitt comes to collect—”
“No!” Caroline cried out, one hand moving to her throat at the burst of pain the shout caused. “I won't go back. I don't care what's at stake. I don't care if it means Napoleon takes over England. I don't care if it means both of you lose your jobs, or whatever it is you do for the government. I will never go back.” And then, just in case they were hugely obtuse, she repeated, “Never.”
Blake sat down at the foot of her bed, his expression hard. “Then I suggest you start talking, Miss Trent. Fast.”
Caroline told them everything. She told them of her father's death and her five subsequent guardians. She told them of Oliver's plans to gain permanent control of her fortune, Percy's ill-fated attempt to rape her, and how she needed to spend the next six weeks in hiding. She told them so much that her voice gave out again and she had to write down the last third of her tale.
Blake noted grimly that when she used her left hand to write, her penmanship was exquisite.
“I thought you said she couldn't write,” James said.
Blake stared at him with pure menace. “I don't want to talk about it. And you,” he added, pointing at Caroline. “Stop smiling.”
She glanced up at him, raising her eyebrows into a guileless expression.
“Surely you can allow the chit her pride at having outsmarted you,” James said.
This time Caroline didn't even try to hide her smile.
“Get on with your story,” Blake growled at her. She acquiesced, and he read each line of her history with grim anger, disgusted by the way Oliver Prewitt had treated her. She may have frustrated the hell out of him during the past few days, both intellectually and physically, but he couldn't deny a grudging measure of respect for this girl who had managed to thwart him at every turn. That the man who was supposed to be her guardian would treat her so abominably—it made him shake with fury.
“What do you suggest we do with you?” he asked when she finally stopped scribbling her life story.
“For the love of God, Ravenscroft,” the marquis said. “Get the girl some tea. Can't you see she can't speak?”
