“Was it because your fiancée died?”

He stared at her with such furious intensity that she had to look away. “Never mind,” she mumbled.

“Don't bring her up again.”

Caroline took an unintended step back at the harsh pain in his voice. “I'm sorry,” she murmured.

“For what?”

“I don't know,” she said, hesitant to mention his fiancée after the way he'd reacted the last time. “Whatever made you so unhappy.”

Blake stared at her with interest. She seemed sincere, which surprised him. He'd been something considerably less than polite to her during the past few days. But before he could think of a reply, they heard the marquis enter the hall.

“I vow, Ravenscroft,” James said, “can't you see your way to hiring a few more servants?”

Blake cracked a smile at the sight of the elegant Marquis of Riverdale balancing a tea service. If I could find another I trust, I'd hire him in a minute. At any rate, as soon as I'm done with my duties at the War Office, the discretion of my servants will no longer be quite as paramount.”

“Are you still determined to quit, then?”

“You have to ask?”

“I think he means yes,” James said to Caroline. “Although with Ravenscroft, one never knows. He has an appalling habit of answering questions with questions.”

“Yes, I'd noticed,” she murmured.

Blake pushed himself off the wall. “James?”

“Blake?”

“Shut up.”

James grinned. “Miss Trent, why don't we retire to the drawing room? The tea ought to restore your voice at least somewhat. Once we have you speaking without pain, we ought to be able to figure out what the devil to do with you.”

Blake closed his eyes for a moment as Caroline trailed after James, listening to her raspy voice as she said, “You should call me Caroline. I've already given Mr. Ravenscroft leave to do so.”

Blake waited for a minute or two before following, needing a moment of solitude to sort out his thoughts. Or at least to try. Nothing seemed clear where she was concerned. He'd felt such a rush of relief when he'd found out that Carlotta De Leon was not really Carlotta De Leon.

Caroline. Her name was Caroline. Caroline Trent. And he wasn't lusting after a traitor.

He shook his head in disgust. As if that were the only problem facing him just now. What the hell was he supposed to do with her? Caroline Trent was smart, very smart. That much was abundantly clear. And she hated Oliver Prewitt enough to help bring him to justice. It might take a little convincing to help her get past her distaste for espionage, but not much. Prewitt had, after all, ordered his son to rape her. Caroline wasn't likely to turn the other cheek after something like that.

The obvious solution was to keep her here at Seacrest Manor. She was surely full of information they could use against Prewitt. It was doubtful that she was privy to his illegal dealings, but with the proper questioning, he and James could unearth clues that she probably didn't even realize she knew. If nothing else, she'd be able to give them the layout of Prewitt Hall—invaluable information if he and James decided to break in.