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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?”
