Perriwick let out a loud snort that was definitely not in keeping with his usual dignified mien.

Blake shut the door behind them and leaned against the wall with a huge sigh of relief. “Good Christ,” he said to himself, “at this rate I'll be a doddering fool before my thirtieth birthday.”

“Hmmph,” came a voice from the washing room. “I'd say you're well on your way already.”

He looked up to see Caroline standing in the doorway, an annoyingly huge grin on her face. “What do you want?” he bit off.

“Oh, nothing,” she said innocently. “I just wanted to tell you that you were right.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“Let's just say I've discovered the humor in our situation.”

He growled at her and took a menacing step forward.

But she appeared unintimidated. “I can't really remember the last time I laughed so hard,” she said, grabbing the tray of food.

“Caroline, do you value your neck?”

“Yes, I'm rather fond of it. Why?”

“Because if you don't shut up, I'm going to wring it.”

She darted back into the washing room. “Point taken.” Then she shut the door, leaving him fuming in his bedroom.

And if that weren't bad enough, the next sound he heard was a loud click.

The damned woman had locked him out. She'd taken all the food and locked him out.

“You'll pay for this!” he yelled at the door.

“Do be quiet,” came the muffled reply. “I'm eating.”

Chapter 16

ti-ti-vate (verb). To make small alterations or additions to one's toilet.

Stranded as I am in a washing room, at least I have time for titivation—I vow my hair has never looked so smart!

—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent

It occurred to Blake as he was eating supper later that night that he would very much like to kill Miss Caroline Trent. It also occurred to him that this was not a new emotion. She hadn't just turned his life upside down; she'd flipped it sideways, pulled it inside out, and, at certain unmentionable times, lit a fire under it.

Still, he thought generously, perhaps kill might be slightly too strong a word. He wasn't so proud that he couldn't admit that she'd grown on him just a bit. But he definitely wanted to muzzle her.

Yes, a muzzle would be ideal. Then she couldn't talk.

Or eat.

“I say, Blake,” Penelope said with an apprehensive look on her face, “is this soup?”

He nodded.

She looked at the nearly transparent broth in her bowl. “Truly?”

“It tastes like salty water,” he drawled, “but Mrs. Mickle assures me it's soup.”

Penelope downed a hesitant spoonful, then took a rather long sip of red wine. “I don't suppose you have any of that ham left over from your snack?”

“I can assure you that it would be most impossible for us to partake of that ham.”

If his sister found his wording a trifle odd, she didn't say so. Instead, she put down her spoon and asked, “Did Perriwick bring anything else? A crust of bread, perhaps.”