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Fearing that the shout had been from one of their attackers, Valentine moved them quickly. It would be impossible to retrace their steps from the night before, considering they were deep in the woodland of Fairmount Park and had floundered around in the dark before finding the folly that had sheltered them overnight. However, from the position of the sun in the sky, he could at least determine which way was east as well as the direction of the docks.
The page fromhisreport was burning a hole in his pocket.
Who the hell was she? And how had she become embroiled in this mess? What was she doing in Philadelphia, and most of all, could she identify the slippery Kestrel?
Valentine kept a close eye on her as she trudged along beside him. She knew better than to try to escape, especially in an unfamiliar place and with men at their heels. The maze of streets started to become wider as they walked into the city. No one was following them for the moment, but there were eyes everywhere, and Valentine didn’t want to take any chances that someone would be alerted to their presence.
He glanced down at Bronwyn, whose head was lowered, but he sensed she wasn’t missing a thing. Bitterness sluiced through him. How much of what had happened between them had been a lie…a sodding deception? If he hadn’t seen the blood on his handkerchief himself, he would never have known. She had played him like a goddamned fiddle and he had been completely oblivious. Thank God he’d found evidence of her treachery and she had not accepted the protection of his name.
Or then he would be branded a traitor, too!
Bloody hell, what was Ashvale going to do? The scandal would be interminable, unless there was a way he could contain the mess with the Home Office. If Bronwyn was willing to cooperate and give up the names of her cohorts—the identity of the Kestrel—maybe he could help keep it quiet for his friend’s sake and obtain some leniency.
But first…they had to get back to England.
He shook his head to clear it, recognizing the street of the Bell in Hand Ale House, the start of this foul adventure. The sound of a cocking gun made him shove Bronwyn to the ground, and he dodged the cracking shot right at the last moment. She scrambled to the other side of the street, watching him with frightened but clear eyes as he loaded his own pistol and took aim.
“Stay down,” he told her. “I don’t know how many there are.”
These men were relentless. What kind of information did Bronwyn have, and why did they want her so badly? Before he could think more about it, he was attacked on both sides by three men. None of the three were ones he fought before, but they were clothed in rags and dirty. Hired ruffians. But hired by whom?
He shot one in the leg and kicked out at another who tried to get an arm around his neck. With intense focus born of years of training, he dispatched the second man and then the third. It was daylight and someone would have reported the gunshots to the police. Considering he wasn’t officially employed by the Home Office, he didn’t have much leverage, and this wasn’t England. They could both be tossed into the stocks.
Valentine turned and ran back to where he’d left Bronwyn, but the bloody chit wasn’t there. Had she been attacked? Taken? A quick glance over the space showed that there was no sign of a scuffle, and rage spun through him. She’d run! Where would she go? She’d either get a hansom back to where she was staying or head for the ship.
Or… He glanced down the street to the tavern.
No, she wouldn’t do something so unreasonably reckless, would she? He exhaled. Of course she would. Valentine sprinted as fast as he could, stopping just before he barged in with the force of a bull in a shop full of china. If she was meeting the Kestrel, he had to know, and that required stealth not a commotion. He slipped in the side entryway that he’d exited the day before—which seemed like a lifetime ago—and crept along the quiet corridor. It was early yet, but the tavern was already open for business, given the low murmur of voices.
He spotted the slight figure still wrapped in his cloak, but he tamped down the urge to rush over and demand answers. That wouldn’t help anyone, and if her companion wasn’t the Kestrel, there would be no point. She was speaking with someone he couldn’t see from the back, though they appeared to be small in stature. Curious. He couldn’t get any closer without attracting attention so Valentine crept back down the corridor and put his ear to the thin wooden wall on the other side of where they sat until he could hear hushed snatches of the conversation.
“Thank you, sorry…yesterday,” the other voice was saying. “Couldn’t come.”
“Was an attack. A man tried to take…message by force.” That voice was Bronwyn’s, and it was trembling. Was it because of fear or worry that he’d catch her? Or that someone else would? “Glad…you were here. Lucky.”
“Waited for you,” the other voice said. “This information…is paramount.”
Valentine frowned, straining to hear more. What information? He wished he had gotten there sooner to learn whatever secret it was Bronwyn had shared. And paramount to what? Shit, this went much deeper than a stolen page from his report after Brent Sommers’s arrest.
“Paper with names was…lost. They…John Surratt…also Powell. They…league.”
Valentine blinked and reached for the page from his pocket. At the very bottom, it detailed names of Brent Sommers’s network, all men who were known spies and criminals. Both those names were on it. What the devil was Bronwyn up to? There was no way he was going to be able to help her, or her family, if she didn’t tell him the truth. And that had to start right now.
“That is helpful. Be safe…Kestrel…thank.…”
Satisfaction gusted through him. Valentine knew it! He knew that blasted man was involved somehow. There was the scrape of two chairs along the floor, which meant that they were leaving. Hurrying from the corridor, he rounded the room and nearly crashed into his quarry, her beautiful and treacherous blue eyes widening in recognition. The person she’d been whispering with had already gone.
“Thornbury.”
“Who was that?” he growled.
“My acquaintance,” she said softly. “The one who I needed to meet with. I was coming back to you, I swear. I took a chance that my contact might be here and I was lucky. I wasn’t running away, I promise you.”
“I don’t care about your promises.” His jaw clenched. “What was his fucking name?”
“Hername,” she whispered. “Mary Richards.”
