She choked on a sob. It was too awful even to contemplate.

And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement at the bottom of the path on which she'd just descended. She fought the urge to jerk her head and stare; if it was Blake or James come to rescue her, she didn't want to ruin the element of surprise.

But as the figure crept closer, Caroline realized that it was far too small to be Blake or James, or any man for that matter. In fact, it moved in a way that was decidedly female.

Her lips parted with shock. Carlotta De Leon. It had to be. The irony was astounding.

Carlotta moved closer, quietly clearing her throat once she was in earshot. Oliver and Davenport stopped arguing immediately and turned to her.

“Do you have it?” Davenport demanded.

Carlotta nodded and spoke, her voice tinged by a vague, lilting accent. “It was too dangerous to bring the list. But I have committed it to memory.”

Caroline stared at the woman who was, in a way, responsible for her marriage to Blake. Carlotta was petite, with alabaster skin and black hair. Her eyes had an aged look to them, as if they belonged to someone much older.

“Who is this woman?” Carlotta asked.

“Caroline Trent,” Oliver replied.

“Caroline Ravenscroft,” she snapped.

“Ah, yes, Ravenscroft. How silly of me to forget that you are now a wife.” Oliver pulled out his pocket watch and snapped it open. “Forgive me, now a widow.”

“I'll see you in hell,” she hissed.

“Of that I have no doubt, but I do believe that you will be seeing far more interesting sights with Mr. Davenport first.”

Caroline completely forgot that the aforementioned Mr. Davenport was holding her arm, and she lunged at Oliver. Davenport held firm, but she managed to land one good punch against Oliver's stomach. He doubled over in pain but unfortunately didn't lose his grasp on his gun.

“My compliments,” Davenport said in a low, mocking voice. “I've been wanting to do that for months.”

Caroline whirled around. “Whose side are you on?”

“My own. Always.” And then he lifted his arm, displaying for the first time a dark, gleaming pistol, and shot Oliver in the head.

Caroline screamed. Her body shook with recoil of the gun, and her ears buzzed and rang from the explosion. “Oh, my God,” she whimpered. “Oh, my God.” She had no great love for Oliver; she'd even agreed to furnish the government with information that might send him to the gallows, but this…this was too much. Blood on her dress and in the foamy surf, Oliver's body floating facedown in the water…

She wrenched herself away from Davenport and threw up. When she was able to stand again, she turned to her new captor and asked, simply, “Why?”

He shrugged. “He knew too much.”

Carlotta looked at Caroline and then slowly and purposefully shifted her gaze to Davenport. “So,” she said, in that delicately Spanish accent Caroline was coming to detest, “does she.”