Caroline smiled wryly at such a barrage of titles. “How nice for you. My father was in trade.”

The marquis let loose a loud hoot of laughter before turning to Blake and saying, “Why didn't you tell me she was so entertaining?”

Blake scowled and said, “How would I know? She hasn't spoken two words since the night I captured her.”

“Now that isn't entirely true,” Caroline protested.

“You mean to say you've been making speeches and I've gone deaf?” Blake returned.

“No, of course not. I merely meant that I have been quite entertaining.”

The marquis clapped his hand over his mouth, presumably to stifle a laugh.

Caroline groaned. Another in a long list of sentences that came out absolutely wrong. Dear God, Mr. Ravenscroft must think she was referring to the kiss! “What I meant to say was … well, I have no idea what I meant to say, but you must admit you liked my little paper bird. At least until it crashed into the rosebush.”

“Paper bird?” the marquis queried, looking confused.

“It—Oh, never you mind. Never both of you mind,” Caroline said with a sigh and slow shake of her head. “I apologize for any frustration I might have caused.”

Blake looked like he might cheerfully toss her out the window.

“It's just that—”

“It's just that what?” he snapped.

“Rein in your temper, Ravenscroft,” the marquis said. “She might still be of use to us.”

Caroline gulped. That sounded rather ominous. And the marquis, even though he was proving to be far more affable and friendly than Mr. Ravenscroft, looked as if he could be quite ruthless when the occasion warranted.

“What do you suggest, Riverdale?” Blake asked in a low voice.

The marquis shrugged. “We could ransom her. And then when Prewitt comes to collect—”

“No!” Caroline cried out, one hand moving to her throat at the burst of pain the shout caused. “I won't go back. I don't care what's at stake. I don't care if it means Napoleon takes over England. I don't care if it means both of you lose your jobs, or whatever it is you do for the government. I will never go back.” And then, just in case they were hugely obtuse, she repeated, “Never.”

Blake sat down at the foot of her bed, his expression hard. “Then I suggest you start talking, Miss Trent. Fast.”

Caroline told them everything. She told them of her father's death and her five subsequent guardians. She told them of Oliver's plans to gain permanent control of her fortune, Percy's ill-fated attempt to rape her, and how she needed to spend the next six weeks in hiding. She told them so much that her voice gave out again and she had to write down the last third of her tale.

Blake noted grimly that when she used her left hand to write, her penmanship was exquisite.

“I thought you said she couldn't write,” James said.

Blake stared at him with pure menace. “I don't want to talk about it. And you,” he added, pointing at Caroline. “Stop smiling.”