“I know of him,” he replied. “And by tomorrow, so will all of France.”
“Dear God,” she whispered. Oliver must be smuggling out a list of agents. Agents who would then be targets for assassination. Agents like Blake and James.
She thought of ten different plans all at once and dismissed them all. A scream seemed useless; if Blake was watching the beach, he'd surely already have seen her and would not need to be alerted to her presence. And attacking either Oliver or the French agent would only get her killed. The only possibility was to somehow stall for time until Blake and James arrived.
But then what would happen? They would have no element of surprise. Oliver knew they were there.
She caught her breath. Oliver seemed rather unconcerned with the War Office's presence. Without thinking, she jerked her gaze up to the clifftop, but saw nothing.
“Your husband isn't going to save you,” Oliver said with cruel satisfaction. “My men are taking care of him even as we speak.”
“Then why did you bring me here?” she whispered, her heart shattering within her chest. “You didn't need me.”
He shrugged. “Whimsy. I wanted him to know I had you. I wanted him to see me give you to Davenport.”
The man he called Davenport chuckled and pulled her closer. “She may prove entertaining.”
Oliver scowled. “Before I let you make off with her—”
“I can go nowhere until the shipment arrives,” Davenport bit off. “Where the hell is she?”
She? Caroline blinked and tried not to show a reaction.
“She's coming,” Oliver snapped. “And how long have you known about Ravenscroft?”
“A few days. Perhaps a week. You are not my only means of transport.”
“You should have told me,” Oliver growled.
“You have given me no reason to trust you with anything other than the providing of a boat.”
Caroline took advantage of the two men's absorption in their argument to scan the beach and cliff for any signs of action. Blake was up there fighting for his life and there wasn't a damned thing she could do about it. She had never felt so utterly hopeless in all her life. Even with her parade of horrible guardians, she'd always held on to hope that eventually her life would turn aright. But if Blake were to be killed…
She choked on a sob. It was too awful even to contemplate.
And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement at the bottom of the path on which she'd just descended. She fought the urge to jerk her head and stare; if it was Blake or James come to rescue her, she didn't want to ruin the element of surprise.
But as the figure crept closer, Caroline realized that it was far too small to be Blake or James, or any man for that matter. In fact, it moved in a way that was decidedly female.
Her lips parted with shock. Carlotta De Leon. It had to be. The irony was astounding.
Carlotta moved closer, quietly clearing her throat once she was in earshot. Oliver and Davenport stopped arguing immediately and turned to her.
“Do you have it?” Davenport demanded.
Carlotta nodded and spoke, her voice tinged by a vague, lilting accent. “It was too dangerous to bring the list. But I have committed it to memory.”
Caroline stared at the woman who was, in a way, responsible for her marriage to Blake. Carlotta was petite, with alabaster skin and black hair. Her eyes had an aged look to them, as if they belonged to someone much older.
“Who is this woman?” Carlotta asked.
“Caroline Trent,” Oliver replied.
“Caroline Ravenscroft,” she snapped.
“Ah, yes, Ravenscroft. How silly of me to forget that you are now a wife.” Oliver pulled out his pocket watch and snapped it open. “Forgive me, now a widow.”
“I'll see you in hell,” she hissed.