She didn't wait for his reply, however, just turned on her heel and limped away—rather quickly, in fact, for one using a cane.

Blake watched her as she disappeared into the house, his cheeks unable to quit the smile that had graced his face for almost their entire interchange. It had been some time since he'd given thought to the family naming custom. Marabelle's surname had been George, and they had always joked that they should marry for this reason alone.

George Ravenscroft. He had almost been a real person in Blake's mind, with his raven curls and Marabelle's pale blue eyes.

But there would be no George Ravenscroft. “I'm sorry, Marabelle,” he whispered. He had failed her in so many ways. He hadn't been able to protect her, and though he had tried to be faithful to her memory, he hadn't always managed that, either.

And today—today his indiscretion had moved beyond the mere needs of his body. He had enjoyed himself with Caroline, truly reveled in the sheer pleasure of her company. Guilt pierced his heart.

“I'm sorry, Marabelle,” he whispered again.

But as he strolled back to the house, he heard himself say, “Trent Ravenscroft.”

He shook his head, but the thought wouldn't go away.

Chapter 10

um-laut (noun). 1. A change in the sound of a vowel produced by partial assimilation to an adjacent sound. 2. The diacritical sign (ex. ü) placed over a vowel to indicate such a change has taken place, esp. in German.

Knowing what I now know about Mr. Ravenscroft, I really must thank my maker that I was not born German, with an umlaut in my name.

—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent

By mid-afternoon Caroline had come to two realizations. One, James had once again disappeared, presumably off somewhere to investigate Oliver and his treasonous activities. And two, she was in love with Blake Ravenscroft.

Well, that wasn't exactly true. To be more precise, she thought she might be in love with Blake Ravenscroft. She had a little trouble believing it herself, but there didn't seem to be any other explanation for the recent changes in her personality and demeanor.

Caroline was well used to her flaw of often speaking without first thinking about her words, but today she seemed to be blurting out utter nonsense. Furthermore, she had completely lost her usually hearty appetite. Not to mention the fact that she kept catching herself grinning like the veriest fool.

And if that weren't enough proof, she caught herself whispering, “Caroline Ravenscroft. Caroline Ravenscroft, mother of Trent Ravenscroft. Caroline Ravenscroft, wife of—Oh, stop!”

Even she could lose patience with herself.

But if Blake returned any of her feelings, he gave no indication. He certainly wasn't prancing about the house like a lovesick fool, shouting out odes to her beauty, grace, and wit. And she rather doubted he was sitting behind his desk in his study, idly doodling the words, “Mr. and Mrs. Blake Ravenscroft.”

And if he were, there was really no reason to think that she might be the “Mrs. Blake Ravenscroft” in question. Heaven knew how many women back in London fancied themselves in love with him. And what if he fancied himself in love with one of them?

It was a sobering thought, that.

Of course, one couldn't entirely discount the kisses. He had definitely enjoyed their kisses. But men were different from women. Caroline had led a reasonably sheltered life, but that pertinent fact had made itself clear early on. A man might want to kiss a woman without an ounce of feeling behind it.

A woman, on the other hand—Well, Caroline wouldn't presume to speak for all women, but she knew that she couldn't possibly kiss a man the way she had kissed Blake that afternoon without a great deal of feeling behind it.

Which brought her back to her central hypothesis: that she was in love with Blake Ravenscroft.

While Caroline was busy delving into the rather circuitous depths of her heart, Blake was sitting on the edge of his desk, tossing darts at a dartboard in his office. The endeavor suited his mood perfectly.

“I won't”—whoosh—“kiss her again.”

“I didn't”—thunk—“enjoy it.”

“Well, all right, I did, but on a purely”—whoosh—“physical level.”

He stood, his face determined. “She is a perfectly nice girl, but she means nothing to me.”

He took aim, let fire, and watched with dismay as the dart sank a hole in his newly whitewashed wall.

“Damn damn damn,” he muttered, striding over to pry the dart loose. How could he have missed? He never missed. He tossed these darts nearly every day and he never missed. “Damn.”

“A little testy today, aren't we?”

Blake looked up and saw James standing in the doorway. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Furthering our investigation of Oliver Prewitt, which is more than I can say for you.”

“I have had my hands more than full with his ward.”

“Yes, I thought as much.”

Blake yanked the dart free, sending little pieces of plaster to the floor. “You know what I meant.”

“Absolutely,” James said with a slow smile, “but I'm not entirely certain you know what you meant.”

“Stop being so bloody annoying, Riverdale, and tell me what you found out.”

James sprawled in a leather chair and loosened his cravat. “I did a bit more surveillance on Prewitt Hall.”

“Why didn't you tell me you were going?”

“You would have wanted to come with me.”

“You're damned right. I—”

“Someone,” James interrupted, “had to remain here with our guest.”