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“This is important.”
“I know, Wentworth.”
He’d scowled. “Sesily might be a better option. She’s American. This is America’s war, isn’t it?”
Bronwyn had blinked, frowning at the blunt, harsh reply. “It’severyone’swar, Wentworth. We all have to live in this world. I want to go.”
He had scrubbed at his face. “I don’t need to explain to you what will happen if you’re caught with this.”
“Iknow.”
A shiver rumbled through her. She could be arrested. Detained. Thrown into prison. Worse. It would be a public scandal that no one, least of all her or her family, would recover from. She might be protected by a powerful name, but that would not stop her from being ousted from British society. None of her friends would be allowed to be seen with her for fear of damaging their own reputations by association. She would be completely and utterly shunned.
But some risks were worth it. Sometimes, putting oneself on the line for the sake of others who needed one’s help was worth it. That was the definition of a true ally. She could take the easy way out and walk away—she would not be harmed regardless and that choice was hers to make—but what would that make her? Complicit. Weak.
A coward.
You asked for this. People are depending on you.
Once the porters had cleared the stateroom on the heels of her lady’s maid, Bronwyn was alone. She retrieved the folded parchment, which had come open thanks to the heat of her own body the night before. She could read it, reseal it, and no one would be the wiser.
Sod it. Better to know what she was getting into than not.
Bronwyn opened the correspondence and sagged against the paneling as she read. Oh, dear God above. It wasn’tnothing. It was everything. Damn, damn,damn! She couldn’t walk away from this. Rereading the missive, she committed the details to memory. A man named John Wilkes Booth, an acquaintance of the deported Brent Sommers who had been arrested by the Duke of Thornbury, was planning to abduct President Abraham Lincoln on March 17 from a place called Campbell General Hospital in Washington, DC.
Bronwyn’s stomach curled in upon itself. It was already the tenth of March.
She couldn’t fail.
Good gracious, what if shedidfail?
Courage, Bronwyn!
Her contact in Philadelphia was Mary Richards, a free Black woman who worked with the notorious Elizabeth Van Lew, an abolitionist and head of the espionage network out of Richmond, Virginia. Mary had been north several times at the behest of her employer. Wentworth had told her that both Mary and Elizabeth were indispensable to the Union cause, sending coded invisible correspondence north that could only be seen when milk was applied. Unfortunately, that was not the case with Bronwyn’s message, which was written in clear, black ink and visible to all. Should it be discovered in her possession by the wrong forces, the repercussions would be horrific.
Taking in a calming breath, Bronwyn smoothed her skirts and made sure her bonnet was properly affixed. Moving to the small grate, she struck the flint to the tinder and held one end of the parchment to the fire until it burned away to nothing. The date, name, and place were in her head.Shewould be the message. She tucked the remaining sheet from Thornbury’s report into her corset—she couldn’t memorize all the names and that would be safe enough there for the moment—and left the room.
The wharves lining the Delaware riverfront, which was thankfully not frozen, were crowded. Philadelphia was a less popular port than Boston or New York, given the river that tended to freeze often so it took much longer to navigate around Cape May, but luckily the SSValorwas a private ship and did not depend on set timetables or routes. There was no sign of Rawley or Thornbury, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t both lurking somewhere. At the end of the ramp, Cora was waiting near a carriage, and Bronwyn pulled her cloak around her to ward off the chill in the air.
“Where’s your paramour?” she asked the maid.
Cora’s cheeks brightened. “He has some business to attend to.”
“Does he know where we are going?”
“Yes, my lady.”
The news didn’t bother her. In fact, she was glad that Rawley knew. Despite her desire to do her job and finish the mission, Bronwyn had no intention of courting danger and putting herselforCora in harm’s way. A little extra brawn never hurt. The rooms Wentworth had secured on her behalf were at a nondescript but clean hotel, near her ailing “Aunt Tillie’s” house just north of South Street. As she checked in, the clerk handed her a folded message that only listed an address of a tavern. The Bell in Hand Ale House.
She would have to find a way to get there unseen by Rawley.
Or a certain meddlesome duke…
***
Valentine’s posterior was sore from sitting in a carriage outside Lady Bronwyn’s hotel for the better part of six hours. His stomach let out an obnoxious growl as well, but he couldn’t risk letting her slip through his fingers. Heknewshe was up to something. Lisbeth had remained onboard, visually checking each of the hundred and three passengers leaving the ship against the portrait they had of the Kestrel, while he was here in a cramped carriage snooping on a woman.
Valentine was 90 percent sure there was no sick relative, but what was she up to? Philadelphia wasn’t exactly a popular hub, and America was embroiled in the middle of a civil war. Was she meeting a gentleman? A lover? A future husband? The thought irritated him more than it should. Why should he care if she wanted to tie herself to a wealthy American? Perhaps she hoped it would get her away from the unpleasant Marchioness of Borne.
