Julia Quinn: To Catch an Heiress

"Quiet!"

She shut her mouth.

Blake studied her for several moments. Some­thing about her wasn't right. Carlotta De Leon was Spanish... well, half-Spanish at least, and this girl looked English through and through. Her hair couldn't be called blond, but it was definitely a light shade of brown, and even in the dark night he could see that her eyes were a clear bluish-green.

Not to mention her voice, which was tinged with the pommy accents of the British elite.

But he'd seen her sneaking out of Oliver Prewitt's house. In the dead of night. With all the servants dismissed. She had to be Carlotta De Leon. There was no other explanation.

Blake-and the War Office, which didn't pre­cisely employ him but did give him orders and the occasional bank draft-had been after Oliver Prewitt for nearly six months now. The local authorities had known for some time that Prewitt was smug­gling goods to and from France, but it was only recently that they had begun to suspect mat he was allowing Napoleonic spies to use his small boat to carry secret diplomatic messages along with his usual cargo of brandy and silk. Since Prewitt's boat sailed from a little cove on the southern coast be­tween Portsmouth and Bournemouth, the War Of­fice hadn't originally paid much attention to him. Most spies made their crossings from Kent, which was much closer to France. Prewitt's seemingly in­convenient location had made for an excellent ruse, and the War Office feared that Napoleon's forces had been using him for their most delicate mes­sages. One month ago they had discovered that Prewitt's contact was one Carlotta De Leon-half-Spanish, half-English, and one hundred percent deadly.

Blake had been on the alert all evening, as soon as he'd learned that all of the Prewitt servants had been given the night off-an uncommon gesture for a man as notoriously stingy as Oliver Prewitt. Clearly something was afoot, and Blake's suspicions were confirmed when he saw the girl slip out of the house under the cover of darkness. So she was a trifle younger than he'd supposed-he wasn't going to let her guise of innocence deter him. She proba­bly cultivated that look of blooming youth. Who would suspect such a lovely young lady of high treason?

Her long hair was pulled back into a girlish braid, her cheeks had that pink, well-scrubbed look, and...

And her delicately boned hand was slowly reach­ing down toward her pocket.

Blake's finely tuned instincts took over. His left arm shot out with startling speed, knocking her hand off course as he lunged forward. He hit her with all his weight, and they tumbled to the ground.

She felt soft beneath him, except, of course, for the hard metal gun in her cloak pocket. If he'd had any doubts of her identity before, they were now gone. He grabbed the pistol, shoved it in his waistband, and stood back up, leaving her sprawled on the ground.

"Very amateur, my dear." She blinked, then muttered, "Well, yes. That's to be expected as I'm hardly a professional at this sort of thing, although I do have some experience with..."

Her words trailed off into an unintelligible mum­ble, and he wasn't at all sure if she was speaking to him or herself. "I've been after you for nearly a year," he said sharply. That got her attention.

"You have?"

"Not that I knew who you were until last month. But now that I've got you, I'm not letting you go."

"You're not?"

Blake stared at her in irritated confusion. What was her game? "Do you think I'm an idiot?" he spat out.

"No," she said. "I've just escaped from a den of idiots, so I'm well familiar with the breed, and you're something else entirely. I am, however, hop­ing you're not a terribly good shot." "I never miss."

She sighed. "Yes, I feared as much. You look the sort. I say, do you mind if I get back up?"

He moved the gun a fraction of an inch, just enough to remind her that he was aiming at her heart. "Actually, I find I prefer your position on the ground."

"I had a feeling you would," she muttered. "I don't suppose you're going to let me go on my way."

His answer was a bark of laughter. "I'm afraid not, my dear. Your spying days are over."

"My spying-my what?"

"The British government knows all about you and your treasonous plots, Miss Carlotta De Leon. I think you'll find we do not look kindly upon Spanish spies."

Her face was a perfect picture of disbelief. God, this woman was good. "The government knows about me?" she asked. "Wait a moment, about who?"

"Don't play dumb, Miss De Leon. Your intelli­gence is well-known bom here and on the conti­nent."

"That's a very nice compliment, to be sure, but I'm afraid there has been a mistake."

"No mistake. I saw you leaving Prewitt Hall."

"Yes, of course, but-"

"In the dark," he continued, "with all the ser­vants dismissed. You didn't realize we'd been watching the hall, did you?"

"No, no, of course I didn't," Caroline replied, blinking furiously. Someone had been watching the house? How had she not noticed? "For how long?"

"Two weeks."

That explained it. She'd been in Bath for the past fortnight, attending to Oliver's sickly maiden aunt. She'd only returned this afternoon.

"But that was long enough," he continued, "to confirm our suspicions."

"Your suspicions?" she echoed. What the devil was this man talking about? If he was insane, she was in big trouble, because he was still pointing a gun at her midsection.

"We have enough to indict Prewitt. Your testi­mony will ensure that he hangs. And you, my dear, will learn to love Australia."

Caroline gasped, her eyes lighting up with delight. Oliver was involved in something illegal? Oh, this was wonderful! Perfect! She should have guessed he was nothing more man a lowly crook. Her mind raced. Despite what the man in black had said, she doubted Oliver had done anything bad enough to hang for it. But perhaps he'd be sent to jail. Or forced into indentured servitude. Or-

"Miss De Leon?" me man said sharply.

Caroline's voice was excited and breathy as she asked, "What has Oliver been doing?"

"For the love of God, woman, I've had enough of your playacting. You're coming with me." He stepped forward with a menacing growl and grabbed her by the wrists. "Now."

"But-"

"Not another word unless it's a confession."

"But-"

"That's it!" He stuffed a rag into her mouth. "You'll have plenty of time to talk later, Miss De Leon."

Caroline coughed and grunted furiously as he bound her wrists with a coarse piece of rope. Then, to her amazement, he put two fingers into his mouth, and let out a low whistle. A glorious black gelding pranced out of the trees, its steps high and graceful.

While she was gaping at the horse-who must have been the quietest and best-trained animal in the history of creation-the man hefted her up onto the saddle.

"Jiiii shrr..." she croaked, quite unable to speak with the grimy gag in her mouth.

"What?" He looked over at her and took in the way her skirts were cutting into her legs. "Oh, your skirts. I can cut them or you can dispense with pro­priety."

She glared at him.

"Propriety goes, then," he said, and hiked her skirts up so that she could straddle the horse with more comfort. "Sorry I didn't think to bring a side­saddle, Miss De Leon, but trust me when I tell you that you've far greater worries just now than my seeing your bare legs."

She kicked him in the chest.

His hand closed painfully around her ankle. "Never," he spat out, "kick a man who is pointing a gun at you."

Caroline stuck her nose in the air and looked away. This farce had gone on quite long enough. As soon as she got rid of this blasted gag she'd tell this brute she'd never even heard of his Miss Carlotta De Leon. She would bring the force of the law down on his head so fast he'd be begging for the hang­man's noose.