To Catch an Heiress by Julia Quinn
And then she rounded the corner.
“Did you hear something?”
James looked down from his work on the window latch and shook his head. He was standing on Blake's shoulders so that he could reach the window.
As James continued with his ministrations, Blake looked right and left. And then he heard it again—a kind of scurrying noise. He tapped James on the foot and put his forefinger to his lips. James nodded and temporarily ceased his work, which had been causing the occasional clink and clank as he jabbed at the latch with his file. He hopped noiselessly to the ground as Blake crouched, instantly assuming a vigilant posture.
Blake pulled out his pistol as he inched his way to the corner, his back pressed flat against the wall. A slight shadow was approaching. It wouldn't have been discernible except that someone had left a candle burning in one of the windows on the west wall.
And that shadow was growing closer.
Blake's finger tightened on the trigger.
A hand appeared from around the corner.
Blake pounced.
Chapter 11
pleth-o-ra (noun). Over-fullness in any respect, superabundance.
Blake insists that there is a veritable plethora of reasons not to put anything important in writing, but I cannot think of anything in my little dictionary one could find incriminating.
—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent
One moment Caroline was crawling on all fours, and the next she was as flat as a crepe, with a large, heavy, and oddly warm weight on her back. That, however, wasn't nearly so disconcerting as the cold gun pressed up against her ribs.
“Don't move,” a voice growled in her ear. A familiar voice.
“Blake?” she croaked.
“Caroline?” Then he uttered a word so foul she'd never heard of it before, and she thought she had heard them all from her various guardians.
“The very one,” she replied with a gulp, “and I really couldn't move, anyway. You're rather heavy.”
He rolled off her and pierced her with a stare that was one part disbelief and thirty-one parts unadulterated fury. Caroline found herself wishing it were the other way around. Blake Ravenscroft was definitely not a man to cross.
“I am going to kill you,” he hissed.
She gulped. “Don't you want to lecture me first?”
He stared at her with a heavy dose of stupefaction. “I take that back,” he said with precisely clipped words. “First I am going to strangle you, and then I am going to kill you.”
“Here?” she asked doubtfully, looking around. “Won't my dead body look suspicious in the morning?”
“What the hell are you doing here? You had explicit instructions to stay—”
“I know,” she whispered urgently, pressing her finger to her lips, “but I remembered something, and—”
“I don't care if you remembered the entire second book of the Bible. You were told—”
James put a hand on Blake's shoulder and said, “Hear her out, Ravenscroft.”
“It's the butler,” Caroline put in quickly, before Blake changed his mind and decided to strangle her after all. “Farnsworth. I forgot about his tea. He has a strange habit, you see. He takes tea at ten every night. And he walks right by…” Her voice trailed off as she saw a beam of light moving in the dining room. It had to be Farnsworth, holding a lantern as he walked through the hall. The dining room doors were usually left open, so if his lantern was rather bright, they would be able to see its glow through the window.
Unless he'd heard something and had actually gone into the dining room to investigate…
All three of them hit the ground with alacrity.
“He has very keen ears,” Caroline whispered.
“Then shut up,” Blake hissed back.
She did.
The traveling light disappeared for a moment, then reappeared in the south drawing room.
“I thought you said Prewitt keeps this room locked,” Blake whispered.
“Farnsworth has a key,” Caroline whispered back.
Blake motioned to her with his hands to move away from the south drawing room window, and so she slithered on her belly until she was next to the dining room. Blake was right behind her. She looked around for James, but he must have gone around the corner in the opposite direction.
Blake pointed to the building and mouthed, “Closer to the wall.” Caroline followed his instructions until she was pressed up against the cool exterior stone of Prewitt Hall. Within seconds, however, her other side was pressed up against the warm body of Blake Ravenscroft.
Caroline gasped. The man was lying on top of her! She would have blistered his ears, except that she knew she had to keep her voice down. Not to mention the fact that she was lying facedown on the ground and had no desire to get a mouthful of grass.
“How old is the butler?”
She nearly gasped. His breath was warm against her cheek, and she could swear she felt the touch of his lips against her ear. “At—at least fifty,” she whispered, “but he's a crack shot.”
“The butler?”
“He served in the army,” she explained. “In the Colonies. I believe he was awarded a medal for valor.”
“Just my luck,” Blake muttered. “I don't suppose he's handy with a bow and arrow.”
“Why, no, but I did see him once hit a tree with a knife from twenty paces.”
“What?” Blake swore under his breath—another one of those splendidly creative curses that so impressed her.
“I'm joking,” she said quickly.
His entire body tensed with fury. “This is not the time or the place for—”
“Yes, I realize that now,” she mumbled.
James appeared from around the corner, crawling on his hands and knees. He eyed them with interest. “I had no idea you were having such fun over here.”
“We are not having fun,” Blake and Caroline hissed in unison.
James shook his head with such solemnity that it was clear he was mocking them. “No, obviously you are not.” He then focused his eyes on Blake, who was still lying on top of Caroline. “Let's get back to work. The butler's gone up to his room.”
“Are you certain?”
“I saw the light leave the drawing room, then go upstairs.”
“There's a window in the side stairwell,” Caroline explained. “You can see it from the south.”
“Good,” Blake said, rolling off of her and moving into a crouch. “Let's get back to work opening those windows.”
“Bad idea,” Caroline said.
Both men turned to face her, and in the dark she couldn't be certain whether their expressions were interested or disdainful.
“Farnsworth will hear you from his room,” she said. “It's only two stories up, and since it's warm out, he's most likely opened the windows. If he happens to look out, he will most certainly see you.”
“You might have told us this before we attempted break in,” Blake snapped.
“I can still get you in,” she shot back.
“How?”
“‘Thank you, Caroline,’” she said sarcastically. “‘That is very thoughtful of you.’‘Why, you're welcome, Blake, it's no trouble at all to assist you.’”
He didn't look amused. “We don't have time for jokes, Caroline. Tell us what to do.”
“Can you pick a lock?”
He looked affronted that she'd even asked. “Of course. Riverdale is faster, though.”
“Fine. Follow me.”
His hand landed heavily on her right shoulder. “You are not coming in.”
“Am I supposed to remain out here by myself? Where anyone who passes by would recognize me and return me to Oliver? Not to mention thieves, brigands—”
“Begging your pardon, Caroline,” James cut in, “but we are the thieves and brigands in this little tableau.”
Caroline choked back laughter.
Blake fumed.
James looked back and forth betwee
Blake was cursing a streak so blue it might as well have been black, but he trudged behind James and Caroline without an otherwise negative comment.
She took them to a side door that was partially concealed by a tall English maple. Then she crouched down and put her finger to her lips, indicating that they should remain still. The two men looked at her with puzzlement and interest as she heaved upward, slamming her shoulder into the door. They heard a latch come undone, and Caroline swung the door open.
“Won't the butler have heard that?” James asked.
She shook her head. “His room is too far away. The only person who lives on this side of the Hall is the housekeeper, and she's quite deaf. I've sneaked in and out this way many times. No one has ever caught on.”
“You might have told us this before,” Blake said.
“You'd never have gotten it right. You have to hit the door just so. It took me weeks to learn.”
“And what were you doing sneaking out at night?” he demanded.
“I fail to see how that is your business.”
“You became my business when you took up residence in my house.”
“Well, I wouldn't have moved in if you hadn't kidnapped me!”
“I wouldn't have kidnapped you if you hadn't been wandering about the countryside with no thought to your own safety.”
“I was certainly safer in the countryside than I was at Prewitt Hall, and you well know it.”
“You wouldn't be safe in a convent,” he muttered.
Caroline rolled her eyes. “If that isn't the most ridiculous—Oh, never mind. If you're so upset that I didn't let you open the door, here, I'll close it again and you can have a go at it.”
He took a menacing step forward. “Do you know, if I strangled you here and now there's not a jury in this country that wouldn't acquit—”
“If you two lovebirds can stop snapping at each other,” James cut in, “I'd like to search the study before Prewitt returns home.”
Blake glared at Caroline as if this entire delay were her fault, causing her to hiss, “Don't forget that if it weren't for me—”
“If it weren't for you,” he shot back, “I would be a very happy man indeed.”
“We are wasting time,” James reminded them. “The both of you may remain here, if you cannot cease your squabbling, but I am going in to search the south drawing room.”
“I'll go first,” Caroline announced, “since I know the way.”
“You'll go behind me,” Blake contradicted, “and give me directions as we go along.”
“Oh, for the love of Saint Peter,” James finally burst out, exasperation showing in every line of his body. “I'll go first, if only to shut the two of you up. Caroline, you follow and give me directions. Blake, you guard her from the rear.”
The trio made their way into the house, amazingly without another word except for Caroline's whispered instructions. Soon they found themselves in front of the door to the south drawing room. James pulled out an odd flat tool and inserted it in the lock.
“Will that thing really work?” Caroline whispered to Blake.
He nodded curtly. “Riverdale's the best. He can pick a lock faster than anyone. Here, watch. Three more seconds. One, two…”
Click. The door swung open.
“Three,” James said with a slightly self-satisfied smile.
“Well done,” Caroline said.
He smiled back at her. “I've never met a woman or a lock that didn't love me.”
Blake muttered something under his breath and strode past them. “You,” he said, turning around and pointing to Caroline, “don't touch anything.”
“Would you like me to tell you what Oliver also did not want me to touch?” she asked, her smile patently false.
“I don't have time for games, Miss Trent.”
“Oh, I wouldn't dream of wasting your time.”
Blake turned to James. “I'm going to kill her.”
“And I'm going to kill you,” James returned. “Both of you.” He stepped past them and made a beeline for the desk. “Blake, you inspect the shelves. Caroline, you—well, I don't know what you should do, but try not to yell at Blake.”
Blake smirked.
“He yelled at me first,” Caroline muttered, well aware that she was acting juvenile.
James shook his head and went to work on the locked desk drawers. He carefully picked each lock, then examined the contents of each drawer, rearranging them afterward so that Oliver wouldn't notice they'd been tampered with.
After about a minute, however, Caroline took pity on him and said, “You might want to concentrate on the bottom left.”
He looked back up at her with interest.
She shrugged, her head tilting to the side with the movement. “It's the one Oliver was always the most insane about. He once nearly took Farnsworth's head off just for polishing the lock.”
“Couldn't you have told him this before he went through all of the other drawers?” Blake asked angrily.
“I tried,” she retorted, “and you threatened to kill me.”
James ignored their sniping and jimmied the lower left lock. The drawer slid open, revealing stacks of files, all of which were labeled with dates.
“What is it?” Blake asked.
James let out a low whistle. “Prewitt's ticket to the gallows.”
Blake and Caroline crowded around, both eager for a look. There were perhaps three dozen files, each neatly labeled with a date. James had one of them open on the desk and was scanning the contents with great interest.
“What does it say?” Caroline asked.
“It documents Prewitt's illegal activities,” Blake answered. “Damned stupid of him to have put it in writing.”
“Oliver is terribly organized,” she said. “Whenever he devises any sort of a plan he always puts it down on paper and then follows it without exception.”
James pointed to a sentence beginning with the initials CDL. “That must be Carlotta,” he whispered. “But who is this?”
Caroline's eyes followed his finger to MCD. “Miles Dudley,” she said.
The two men turned to face her. “Who?” they both asked.
“Miles Dudley, I should think. I don't know his middle initial, but he is the only MD of whom I can think. He is one of Oliver's closest cronies. They've known each other for years.”
Blake and James shared a glance.
“I find him detestable,” Caroline continued. “He is always slobbering all over the housemaids. And me. I contrive to be absent when he comes to call.”
Blake turned to the marquis. “Is there enough in that file to arrest Dudley?”
“There would be,” James answered, “if we could be sure MCD truly is Miles Dudley. One can't go about imprisoning people on the basis of their initials.”
“If you arrested Oliver,” Caroline said, “I'm sure he would incriminate Mr. Dudley. They are rather good friends, but I doubt Oliver's loyalty would hold fast under such circumstances. When it comes right down to it, Oliver holds no true loyalty to anyone except himself.”
“It's not a risk I'm prepared to take,” Blake said grimly. “I will not rest until I see both of these traitors imprisoned or hanged. We need to catch both of them in action.”
“Is there any way you can determine when Oliver plans his next smuggling run?” Caroline asked.
“Not,” James replied, thumbing through the stack of file, “unless he's been really stupid.”
Caroline leaned forward. “What about this one?” she asked, holding up a nearly empty file marked 31-7-14.
Blake grabbed it from her, leafed through the contents. “What an idiot!”
“I certainly shan't argue with you on the subject of Oliver's idiocy,” Caroline put in, “but I must say I'm sure he wasn't expecting his office to be searched.”
“One sh
“Why, Ravenscroft,” James said with a mischievous arch of his eyebrows, “with a thought process like that, you should make an excellent criminal.”
Blake was so engrossed in the file he didn't even bother to glare at his friend. “Prewitt is planning something big. From the looks of it, bigger than anything he's done before. He mentions CDL and MCD and ‘the rest.’ He also names a rather large sum of money.”
Caroline peered over his arm at the number written in the file. “Oh my good Lord,” she breathed. “With money like that, what did he want with my inheritance?”
“There are some who feel they can never get enough,” Blake replied caustically.
James cleared his throat. “I think we should wait, then, until the last of the month, and strike when we can nab them all. Eliminate the entire ring in one clean sweep.”
“It sounds like a good plan,” Caroline agreed. “Even if we do have to wait three weeks.”
Blake turned on her with a furious expression. “You are not participating.”
“The devil you say,” she retorted, hands on her hips. “If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even know that he is planning something for that Wednesday.” She blinked in thought. “I say, do you suppose he hasn't been spending all of those Wednesdays playing cards? I wonder if he's been smuggling on a regular basis. Every Wednesday and such.”
She flipped through the files, checking the dates and mentally adding and subtracting sevens to each of them. “Look! All are for the same day of the week.”
“I doubt he smuggles every Wednesday,” James mused, “but it's an excellent cover for the times he does engage in illegal activities. With whom does he play cards?”
“Miles Dudley, for one.”
Blake shook his head. “The entire damned game is probably involved. Who else?”
“Bernard Leeson. He's our local surgeon.”
“It figures,” Blake muttered. “I hate leeches.”
“And Francis Badeley,” she finished, “the magistrate.”
“I suppose we shouldn't look to him, then, for assistance in our apprehension,” James said.