Blake was already off and running.
“Wait!” Chartwell hissed. “This one is steep. It will be impossible at night.”
Blake crouched at the head of the path and peered down, the moonlight affording him precious little illumination. Unlike the other path, this one was shielded from view by trees and shrubs. “This is our only hope of getting down undetected.”
“It's suicide!” Chartwell exclaimed.
Blake whirled around. “My wife is about to be murdered.” And then, without waiting to see if either of his colleagues cared to follow him, he started the slow and treacherous journey to the beach. It was agony not to be able to race headlong down the hillside. Every second was critical if he wanted to return home to Seacrest Manor with Caroline safely in his arms. But the terrain wouldn't allow anything other than the tiniest of baby steps. As it was, he had to make most of the journey sideways to keep from losing his balance.
He heard a small pebble rolling down the path and then felt it hit his ankle. The disturbance could only mean—thank God!—that James was following him. As for Chartwell, Blake didn't know the man well enough to predict what he would do, but he had enough confidence in the War Office to know that at least he would do nothing to jeopardize Caroline's rescue.
As he descended, the wind shifted and began carrying sounds from the beach. The man and the woman holding Caroline hostage were arguing. Prewitt's voice was conspicuously absent, and Blake could only assume that his was the body floating in the surf.
Then he heard a sharp cry from Caroline. Blake forced himself to calm down. She sounded more surprised than in pain, and he needed to retain a cool head if he was to make it to the bottom of the path in one piece.
He reached a small ledge and stopped to catch his breath and reassess the situation. A few seconds later, James was at his side.
“What's happening?” James asked.
“I'm not sure. She looks unharmed, but I still have no idea how we're meant to get out there and save her. Especially when they're all standing in the water.”
“Can she swim?”
“Bloody hell. I have no idea.”
“Well, she grew up near the coast, so we can hope. And—Good Lord!”
“What?”
James's head slowly swiveled to face him. “That's Carlotta De Leon.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
Blake sensed that his friend had more to say. “And…?”
“And it means we're in worse trouble than we'd feared.” James swallowed. “Miss De Leon's as ruthless as they come, and a fanatic to the cause. She'd shoot Caroline in the heart with one hand and use the other to flip pages in a Bible.”
* * *
Caroline knew she was running out of time. Davenport had no pressing reasons to keep her alive. He clearly only intended to have what he considered a little sport with her. He probably thought it would be exciting to have his way with the wife of an agent of the crown.
Carlotta, on the other hand, was motivated by more political reasons, most of which involved the collapse of the British Empire. And it was obvious that the woman believed passionately in her cause.
Her two captors were bickering over Caroline's fate, and she had no doubt that the argument was going to escalate into a full-scale shouting match before long. She also had no doubt that Carlotta would emerge the victor. It was a simple enough outcome to predict; Davenport could always find another woman to pester. Carlotta wasn't likely to find another country she wanted to destroy.
And that meant that Caroline would end up very dead if she didn't do something soon.
She was still held firmly in Davenport's grasp, but she twisted until she was facing Carlotta, and blurted out, “They're after you already.”
Carlotta froze, then turned slowly to Caroline. “What, precisely, do you mean?”
“They know you're in the country. They want to see you hang.”
Carlotta laughed. “They don't even know who I am.”
“Oh, yes, they do,” Caroline replied, “Miss De Leon.”