“I … ah … Not so long, really.”

“Really, Blake,” the second man said. “You might want to mind your language. There is a lady present.”

“Bugger that!” Blake exploded. “Do you know how much time I've wasted with this woman? The real Carlotta De Leon is probably halfway to China by now.”

Caroline swallowed nervously. So his name was Blake. It fit him somehow. Short and to the point. She wondered if it was his Christian name or his surname.

“And,” he continued in a blaze of fury, “since you're obviously not the woman you said you are, who the devil are you?”

“I never said I was Carlotta De Leon,” she insisted.

“The devil you didn't!”

“I just never said I wasn't.”

“Who are you?”

Caroline pondered this question and decided that her only recourse was absolute honesty. “My name is Caroline Trent,” she replied, her eyes meeting Blake's for the first time in their conversation. “Oliver Prewitt is my guardian.”

There was a beat of dead silence as both men stared at her in surprise. Finally Blake turned to his friend and roared, “Why the hell didn't we know that Prewitt had a ward?”

The other man swore under his breath, then swore again, much louder the second time. “I'm damned if I know. Someone is going to answer for this.”

Blake turned to Caroline and demanded, “If indeed you are Prewitt's ward, then where have you been the past fortnight? We've been surveying the house day and night, and you, my girl, were most definitely not in residence.”

“I was in Bath. Oliver sent me to care for his elderly aunt. Her name is Marigold.”

“I don't care what her name is.”

“I didn't think you did,” she mumbled. “I just thought I ought to say something.”

Blake grabbed her shoulder and stared her down. “There is quite a bit you're going to have to say, Miss Trent.”

“Let her go,” Blake's friend said in a low voice. “Don't lose your temper.”

“Don't lose my temper?!” Blake roared, sounding very much as if he'd already lost it. “Do you understand what—”

“Think,” the other man said intently. “This makes sense. Prewitt had a large shipment arrive last week. He'd want her out of the way. She's obviously smart enough to sniff out what he's doing.”

Caroline beamed at the compliment, but Blake didn't seem to care about her intellect one way or another. “That was the fourth time Oliver sent me off to visit his aunt,” she added helpfully.

“See?” Blake's friend said.

Caroline smiled tentatively at Blake, hoping he'd accept the olive branch she'd just offered, but all he did was plant his hands on his hips in a most irritated manner and say, “What the hell do we do now?”

The other man didn't have an answer, and Caroline took advantage of their momentary silence by asking, “Who are you? Both of you.”

The two men glanced at each other, as if trying to decide whether to reveal their identities, and then the one who had just recently arrived gave a nearly imperceptible nod before saying, “I am James Sidwell, Marquis of Riverdale, and this is Blake Ravenscroft, second son of Viscount Darnsby.”