“Since she stayed up half the night coughing herself hoarse.”
James chuckled. “I never said she wasn't resourceful.”
“And she bloody well can't write.”
“I find that difficult to believe. Her mother was the daughter of a baron. And her father is quite well-connected in Spain.”
“Allow me to rephrase. She can write, but I defy you to decipher the marks she puts down on paper. Furthermore, she has a book full of the oddest words, and I vow I can't make any sense of them.”
“Why don't you take me to see her? I may be able to convince her to locate her voice.”
Blake shook his head and rolled his eyes. “She's all yours. In fact, you can take over the entire damned mission if you like. If I never laid eyes on the woman—”
“Now, now, Blake.”
“I told them I wanted out of this,” Blake muttered as he tromped up the stairs. “But did they listen? No. And what do I get? Not excitement. Not fame, not fortune. No, I get her.”
James looked at him thoughtfully. “If I didn't know you better I'd think you were in love.”
Blake snorted, turning away so that James couldn't see the light blush that stained his cheeks. “And if I didn't enjoy your company so well, I would call you out for that statement.”
James laughed out loud and watched Blake as he stopped in front of a door and turned the keys in the locks.
Blake swung the door open and marched in, his hands on his hips as he turned to Miss De Leon with a belligerent expression. She was lounging on the bed, reading a book as if she hadn't a care in the world. “Riverdale's here,” he barked, “so you'll see that your little game is over.”
Blake turned to James, gleefully ready to watch him make mincemeat out of her. But James's expression, usually so controlled and urbane, was one of total and utter shock.
“I don't know what to tell you,” James said, “except that this most definitely is not Carlotta De Leon.”