Thirty minutes later a very suspicious Blake Ravenscroft dismounted in front of Seacrest Manor, near Bournemouth, Dorset. Carlotta De Leon, who had done everything short of hurl fire at his toenails when he'd cornered her in the meadow, hadn't put up even the tiniest resistance the entire ride to the coast. She hadn't struggled and she hadn't tried to escape. She'd been so quiet, in fact, that the gentlemanly side of him—which reared its polite head all too often for Blake's liking—was tempted to remove her gag.

But he resisted the impulse to be nice. The Marquis of Riverdale, his closest friend and frequent partner in crime prevention, had had previous dealings with Miss De Leon, and he had told Blake that she was deceptive and deadly. Her gag and bindings would not be removed until she was safely locked away.

He pulled her down off of the horse, holding her elbow firmly as he led her into his home. Blake employed only three houseservants—all of them discreet beyond compare—and they were used to strange visitors in the middle of the night. “Up the stairs,” he grunted, pulling her through the hall.

She nodded cheerfully—cheerfully?!?—and picked up the pace. Blake led her up to the top floor and pushed her into a small but comfortably furnished bedchamber. “Just so you don't get any ideas about escaping,” he said roughly, holding up two keys, “the door has two locks.”

She looked over at the doorknob but other than that had no obvious reaction to his words.

“And,” he added, “it's fifty feet down to the ground. So I wouldn't recommend trying the window.”

She shrugged, as if she'd never for a moment considered the window a viable escape option.

Blake scowled at her, irritated by her nonchalance, and looped her wristcuffs over the bedpost. “I don't want you attempting anything while I'm busy.”

She smiled at him—which was really quite a feat with the filthy gag in her mouth. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. He was utterly confused by her, and he didn't like the feeling one bit. He checked to make certain that her bindings were secure and then began to inspect the room, making sure he'd left no objects lying about that she might turn into weapons. He'd heard Carlotta De Leon was resourceful, and he had no plans to be remembered as the fool who'd underestimated her.

He pocketed a quill and a paperweight before shoving a chair out into the hall. He didn't think she looked strong enough to break the chair, but if she somehow managed to snap off a leg, the splintered wood would be a dangerous weapon indeed.

She blinked with interest when he returned.

“If you want to sit down,” he said curtly, “you can do it on the bed.”

She cocked her head in an annoyingly friendly manner and sat on the bed. Not that she had much choice—he'd bound her hands to the bedpost, after all.

“Don't try to charm me by being cooperative,” he warned. “I know all about you.”