Blake blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Who were you talking to?”

James stepped out from behind a dressing screen. “Me.”

Penelope's lips parted in surprise. “What are you doing here? I didn't realize you were back.”

He leaned against the wall as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to be in Blake's bathroom. “I returned about ten minutes ago.”

“We had a few matters to discuss,” Blake added.

“In the washing room?”

“Brings back memories of Eton and all that,” James said with a devastating smile.

“Really?” Penelope did not sound convinced.

“No one had any privacy there, you know,” Blake said. “It was really quite barbaric.”

Penelope pointed to the pile of blankets on the floor. “What are those doing here?”

“What?” Blake asked, stalling for time.

“The blankets.”

He blinked. “Those? I have no idea.”

“You have a pile of blankets and pillows on the floor of your washing room and you don't know why?”

“I suppose Perriwick might have left them there. Maybe he meant to have them cleaned.”

Penelope scowled. “Blake, you're an abominable liar.”

“Actually, I'm a rather good liar. I'm just a touch out of practice.”

“Then you do admit you're lying to me?”

“I don't think I admitted any such thing.” He turned to James with a guileless expression. “Did I, Riverdale?”

“I don't think so. What do you think, Penelope?”

“I think,” Penelope growled, “that neither of you is leaving this room until you tell me what is going on.”

Caroline listened to the conversation through the door, holding her breath as Penelope grilled the two gentlemen with the skill of an executioner.

Caroline let out a silent sigh and sat down. The way things sounded in the bathroom, she might be stuck in the stairwell for hours. Penelope certainly exhibited no signs of giving up her interrogation.

Time to look on the bright side, she decided, dismissing the fact that it was dark as pitch in the stairwell. She might be trapped in the most bizarre of situations, but it was still heads and tails above being stuck with the Prewitts. Good heavens, if she hadn't run off, she'd probably be a Prewitt herself by now.

What a hideous thought.

But not nearly as hideous as what happened next. Maybe she'd stirred up some dust when she sat down, maybe the gods were simply aligned against her, but her nose began to tickle.

Then it began to itch.

She jammed the side of her index finger up against her nostrils, but it was to no avail.

Tickle, itch, tickle, itch.

Ah…Ah…Ah…

AH-CHOO!

“What was that?” Penelope demanded.

“What was what?” Blake replied at the very same moment James began to sneeze uncontrollably.

“Stop that ridiculous act,” Penelope snapped at James. “I heard a female sneeze, and I heard it distinctly.”

James started sneezing at a higher pitch.

“Cease!” Penelope ordered, striding toward the door to the stairs.

Blake and James made a mad dash toward her, but they were too late. Penelope had already wrenched the door open.

And there, on the landing, sat Caroline, hunched over, her entire body wracked by sneezes.

Chapter 19

lat-i-tu-di-nar-i-an (adjective). Allowing, favoring, or characterized by latitude in opinion or action; not insisting on strict adherence to conformity with an established code.

In Bournemouth—as opposed to London—one can act in a more latitudinarian manner, but still, even when in the country, there are certain rules of conduct to which one must subscribe.

—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent

“You!” Penelope accused. “What are you doing here?”

But her voice was drowned out by that of Blake, who was yelling at Caroline, “Why the hell didn't you run down the stairs when you heard us coming?”

His only answer was a sneeze.

James, who was rarely ruffled by anything, raised a brow and said, “It appears she's a bit incapacitated.”

Caroline sneezed again.

Penelope turned to James, her expression furious. “I suppose you're in some way connected to this subterfuge as well.”

He shrugged. “In some way.”

Caroline sneezed.

“For heaven's sake,” Penelope said testily, “get her out of the stairwell. Clearly there is something putrid amid the dust that is sending her into convulsions.”

“She isn't having a bloody convulsive fit,” Blake said. “She's sneezing.”

Caroline sneezed.

“Well, whatever the case, move her into your bedroom. No! Not your bedroom. Move her into my bedroom.” Penelope planted her hands on her hips and glared at everyone in turn. “And what the devil is going on here? I want to be apprised of the situation this very minute. If someone doesn't—”

“If I might be so bold,” James interrupted.

“Shut up, Riverdale,” Blake snapped as he picked up Caroline. “You sound like my damned butler.”

“I'm sure Perriwick would be most flattered by the comparison,” James said. “However, I was merely going to point out to Penelope that there is very little untoward about Caroline being in your bedroom, seeing as how she and I are also in attendance.”

“Very well,” Penelope conceded. “Set her down in your bedroom, Blake. Then I want to know what is going on. And no more nonsense about honey and pet birds.”