To Catch an Heiress

“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.

“He'll probably be apprehended himself,” Blake replied. “We'll have to call in men from London.”

James nodded. “Moreton is going to want some evidence before deploying his men on such a grand scale. We're going to need to take these files.”

“I shouldn't take them all, were I you,” Caroline interjected. “Oliver comes into this room nearly every day. I'm sure he'll notice if his files have gone missing.”

“You're getting quite good at this,” James replied with a chuckle. “Are you certain you don't want to sign up?”

“She is not working for the War Office,” Blake growled. Caroline had the feeling he would have roared the statement had they not been prowling in Oliver's study.

“We'll just take a couple,” James replied, ignoring Blake's interjection. “But we can't take this one.” He held up the file on the upcoming mission. “He'll be wanting to go over this sometime soon.”

“Get Caroline a piece of paper,” Blake drawled. “I'm sure she'll be happy to copy the information down. After all, she has exquisite penmanship.”

“I don't know where Oliver keeps blank paper,” she replied, ignoring his sarcasm. “He almost never allowed me into this room. I do, however, know where we can get some just down the hall. And a quill and ink, as well.”

“Good idea,” James said. “The less we ransack in here, the less chance there is Prewitt will notice someone's been through his things. Caroline, go get the paper and quill.”

“Right.” She gave him a jaunty salute and scurried out the door.

But Blake was fast on her heels. “You're not going alone,” he hissed. “Slow down.”

Caroline didn't slow her pace at all, having no doubt that he would follow her down the hall and into the east drawing room. It was the chamber she had used to entertain neighborhood ladies. Not that many had come to call, but still, Caroline had kept paper, quills, and ink there, in case anyone needed to jot down a note or correspondence.

But just as she was about to dart into the room, she heard a noise coming from the front door. A noise that sounded suspiciously like a key turning in a lock. She turned to Blake and hissed, “It's Oliver!”

He didn't even waste time on words. Before Caroline had any idea what was about, she'd been shoved into the east drawing room and was crouched behind a sofa. Her heart was beating so loudly she was surprised it didn't wake up the entire household. “What about James?” she whispered.

Blake put his finger to her lips. “He'll know what to do. Now hush, he's coming in.”

Caroline clenched her teeth to keep herself from squeaking with fear as she listened to the sound of Oliver's shoes clicking down the hall. What if James hadn't heard him enter? What if James had heard him but wasn't able to hide in time? What if he was able to hide in time but forgot to close the door?

Her head ached with the myriad possibilities for disaster.

But Oliver's heels weren't clicking toward the south drawing room. They were clicking right toward her! Caroline stifled a gasp and nudged Blake in the ribs. He made no response save for the tightening of his already stiff posture.

Caroline glanced over to a side table, her eyes falling on a decanter of brandy. Oliver liked to take a glass up with him to bed. If he didn't turn around while pouring he wouldn't see them, but if he did…

Thoroughly panicked, she yanked on Blake's arm. Hard.

He didn't budge.

With frantic motions she poked at his chest and then pointed at the brandy decanter.

“What?” Blake mouthed.

“The brandy,” she mouthed back, furiously jabbing her finger at the decanter.

Blake's eyes widened, and he looked quickly around the room, searching for another hiding place. The light was dim, though, and it was hard to see.

Caroline had the advantage, however, of knowing the room like the back of her hand. She jerked her head to the side, motioning for Blake to follow, and crawled behind another sofa, thanking her maker all the while that Oliver had chosen to lay down a carpet. A bare floor would have echoed her every movement, and then they would have been lost for sure.

At that moment Oliver entered the room and poured himself a brandy. A few seconds later she heard his glass thunk down on the table, followed by the sound of more brandy being poured. Caroline bit her lip in confusion. It was very unlike Oliver to drink more than one glass before bed.

But Oliver must have had a rough evening, for he sighed, “God, what a disaster.”

And then, horror of horrors, he flopped his body directly onto the sofa behind which they were hiding and plopped his legs down on the table.

Caroline froze. Or she would have, she thought wildly, if she wasn't already paralyzed with fear. There could be no doubt about it.

They were trapped.

Chapter 12

pal-li-a-tive (noun). That which gives superficial or temporary relief.

A kiss, I am learning, is a weak palliative when one's heart is breaking.

—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent