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?"

"You get her some tea."

"I'm not leaving you alone with her. It wouldn't be proper."

"Oh, and I suppose it would be proper for you to remain with her?" Blake scoffed.

"Your reputation is blacker than the Death."

"Of course, but-"

"Out!" Caroline croaked. "Both of you."

They turned to face her, seemingly having for­gotten that the subject of their argument was still in the room.

"I beg your pardon," the marquis said.

I would like a few moments alone, she wrote down, shoving the paper in his face. Then she hastily scrawled, my lord.

"Call me James," he replied. "All of my friends do."

She shot him a wry look, clearly doubtful that their bizarre predicament qualified as friendship.

"And he is Blake," James added. "I gather the two of you are on a first name basis?"

I didn't even know his name until just now, she wrote.

"Shame on you, Blake," James said. "Such man­ners."

"I'm going to forget you said that," Blake growled, "because if I don't, I will have to kill you."

Caroline chuckled despite herself. Say what you will about the enigmatic man who'd abducted her, he did have a sense of humor to match her own. She glanced at him again, this time doubtfully. At least she hoped he was joking.

She shot him another worried glance. The glare he was sending the marquis would have felled Napoleon. Or at the very least delivered an extremely painful injury.

"Pay him no mind," James said cheerfully. "He has the devil's own temper. Always has."

"I beg your pardon," Blake replied, sounding very irritated.

"I've known him since we were twelve," James said. "We roomed together at Eton."

"Did you?" she said hoarsely, testing her voice out again. "How nice for you both."

James chuckled. "The unspoken portion of that sentence, of course, being that we deserve each other. Come along, Ravenscroft, let us leave the poor girl to her privacy. I'm sure she'll want to dress and wash and do all that stuff females like to do."

Blake took a step forward. "She's already dressed. And we'll need to ask her about-"

But James put up a hand. "We've all day to badger her into submission."

Caroline gulped. She didn't like the sound of that.

The two men left the room, and she jumped up, splashed some water on her face, and donned shoes. It felt heavenly to get up and stretch her muscles. She'd been stuck in bed for the past two days and was not used to such inactivity.

Caroline righted her appearance as best as she could, which wasn't saying much, as she'd been wearing the same clothes for four days. They were horribly wrinkled, but they looked clean enough, so she arranged her hair in a single thick braid, then tested the door. She was delighted to see that it was not locked. It wasn't difficult to find her way to the staircase, and she quickly ran down to the ground floor.

"Going somewhere?"

She looked up sharply. Blake was leaning inso­lently against the wall, his sleeves rolled up and his arms crossed. "Tea," she whispered. "You said I could have some."

"Did I?" he drawled.

"If you didn't, I'm sure you meant to."

His lips curved into an unwilling smile. "You do have a way with words."

She offered him a too-sweet grin. "I'm practicing. After all, I haven't used any for days."

"Don't push me, Miss Trent. My temper is hang­ing by a very slender thread."

"I rather thought it had already snapped," she retorted. "And beside that, if I'm to call you Blake, you might as well call me Caroline."

"Caroline. It suits you much better than Carlotta ever did."

"Amen to that. I haven't a drop of Spanish blood in me. A touch of French," she added, aware that she was babbling but too nervous in his presence to stop, "but no Spanish."

"You've quite compromised our mission, you re­alize."

"I can assure you it was not my intention."

"I'm sure it wasn't, but the fact remains that you're going to have to make amends."

"If my making amends will result in Oliver spending the rest of his life in prison, you can be assured of my complete cooperation."

"Prison would be unlikely. The gallows are a much more distinct probability."

Caroline swallowed and looked away, suddenly realizing that her involvement with these two men might send Oliver to his death. She\detested the man, to be sure, but she couldn't like being the cause of anyone's demise.

"You'll need to discard your sentimentality," Blake said.

She looked up in shock. Was her face that easy to read? "How did you know what I was thinking?"

He shrugged. "Anyone with a conscience faces that dilemma when they first start in this business."

"Did you?"

"Of course. But I outgrew that quickly."

"What happened?"

He cocked a brow. "You ask a lot of questions."

"Not half as many as you did," she returned.

"I had a government-sanctioned reason to be ask­ing so many questions."

"Was it because your fiancee died?"

He stared at her with such furious intensity that she had to look away. "Never mind," she mumbled.

"Don't bring her up again."

Caroline took an unintended step back at the harsh pain in his voice. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

"For what?"

"I don't know," she said, hesitant to mention his fiancee after the way he'd reacted the last time. "Whatever made you so unhappy."

Blake stared at her with interest. She seemed sin­cere, which surprised him. He'd been something considerably less than polite to her during the past few days. But before he could think of a reply, they heard the marquis enter the hall.

"I vow, Ravenscroft," James said, "can't you see your way to hiring a few more servants?"