Then she moved, and her arm accidentally brushed against his hip, and—

Blake absolutely refused to let that thought go any further. Abruptly he took her hand and stood. “Let's go.”

Caroline looked around in confusion. “Did we receive some sort of sign from the marquis?”

“No, but it's been long enough.”

“But I thought you said—”

“If you want to be a part of this operation,” he hissed, “you need to learn to take orders. Without question.”

She raised her brows. “I'm so glad you've decided to let me participate.”

If Blake could have torn out her tongue at that moment, he would have done it. Or at least tried. “Follow me,” he snapped.

Caroline saluted him and then did a little tiptoe march behind him to the door. Blake thought he deserved a medal for not picking her up by the collar and tossing her out the window. At the very least, he was going to demand some sort of hazard pay from the War Office. If they couldn't give him money, there had to be some small property somewhere that had been confiscated from a criminal.

Surely he deserved a little something extra for this mission. Caroline might be rather delightful to kiss, but on assignment she was bloody annoying.

He reached the open doorway and motioned for her to stay behind him. Hand on gun, he peered into the hall, ascertained that it was empty, and stepped out. Caroline followed without his verbal instruction, as he knew she would. That one certainly needed no prodding to step out into the face of danger.

She was too headstrong, too careless. It brought back memories.

Marabelle.

Blake squeezed his eyes shut for a split second, trying to drive his late fiancée from his mind. She might live in his heart, but she had no place here, this night, in Prewitt Hall. Not if Blake wanted to get the three of them out alive.

Marabelle's memory, however, was quickly put aside by Caroline's incessant poking at his upper arm. “What now?” he snapped.

“Shouldn't we at least get the paper and quills? Isn't that why we came here in the first place?”

Blake flexed his hands into tense starfishes and slowly said, “Yes. Yes, that would be a good idea.”

She scurried across the room and gathered her supplies while he swore at himself under his breath. He was getting soft, growing weak. It wasn't like him to forget something as simple as a quill and ink. More than anything he wanted out of the War Office, away from all the danger and intrigue. He wanted to live a life where he didn't have to worry about seeing his friends get killed, where he could do nothing but read and raise lazy, spoiled hounds and—

“I've everything we need,” Caroline said breathlessly, breaking into his thoughts.

He nodded, and they made their way into the hall. When they reached the door to the south drawing room, Blake tapped seven times on the wood, his fingers finding the familiar rhythm he and James had worked out years ago, when they were both schoolboys at Eton.