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She blew out a breath. It wouldn’t hurt; it was already done, and perhaps it might go a little way to dispel the thinking that she was a vile criminal. “I helped foil a plot to blow up a train that Palmerston’s private secretary was supposed to be on.”
His head whipped to hers. “Ashley?”
“One and the same.” Her shoulder lifted in a shrug. “That was the first time, and it was addictive.”
“I remember hearing about the report on that incident. It was the Fenians, they said,” he murmured. “There was no mention of you, however.”
“Why would there be? I did it as a favor to a friend.”
“A friend.”
She huffed a laugh, though she could sense his brain mulling over all the details, trying to narrow down the event and the timing. Perhaps she’d erred in confessing anything at all, but a part of her didn’t want him to equate her with some treasonous creature. What she was doing was for Crown and country. Her efforts had not been for naught. “I think we’ve shared quite enough for the evening, Your Grace. I wouldn’t want you to be late for dinner.”
Thirteen
Deuce it! She was going to climb the bloody walls of her stateroom!
It was her own fault. After the incident on the stern, Bronwyn had been dead set on avoiding her warden at all costs. Not for any other reason than she was tangibly weak for him. Her body was already at his mercy and she feared that her brain would follow. She would not betray Wentworth, or believe the worst of him just yet, but the Duke of Thornbury was too clever by half.
Bronwyn flopped back onto her bed and stared at the painted mural on the ceiling that she’d long since memorized: one of a woman on a swing surrounded by peacocks. The symbolism was not lost to her. In theton, husbands and fathers controlled every aspect of a woman’s life—when she was to smile, to speak, to act. Her purpose was to look pretty and fetching. The joy of the swing was a trap because once one was on, one could never escape. The peacocks with their beautiful tail feathers and sharp beaks kept her in place.
Or perhaps she was over-reading into it. Perhaps it was just a lady on a swing.
She’d taken her meals in her room, and only went out for brief walks to stretch her legs when Thornbury was at dinner or Cora was sure of his whereabouts. Bronwyn had managed to avoid Lady Lisbeth as well, but she knew the other woman was watching for her. The former countess and the duke used to be a team; they would be in cahoots naturally, burning both ends of the candle. Bronwyn had to be vigilant…and come up with a plan.
A knock on the door made her fly up.
“Cora, where have you been? I’ve…Oh.”
Because the person at the door wasn’t Cora. It was the man she wanted to see least in the world, even less than the duke, in fact. Rawley. Bronwyn gulped as he entered with her maid on his heels and closed the door behind the two of them. She stiffened, expecting a beratement of some sort, and opened her mouth, but before she could speak, he held a hand up. “We need to get you off this ship.”
Her jaw gaped and shut. “What?”
“Preferably without Thornbury knowing before you can get to safety.”
Eyes rounding in shock, she blinked like an owl. “I beg your pardon?”
“The minute we get to England, you will most likely be arrested by British operatives or snatched by very bad people, likely on our heels in another ship as we speak.”
Bronwyn frowned. Someone was following them? “What do you mean? No one beyond Thornbury and Lady Lisbeth know anything.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Little Bee. I sent a telegram to your brother before we left. When the duke brought you back on the ship, there were eyes and ears on you. You’ve put yourself in an inordinate amount of danger by running off as you did. Meeting with Richards was a risk.”
“You followed me?” she demanded.
He scowled. “And lost you for an entire night until you returned. I tracked you until the river and then lost the trail. When you turned up at the tavern, I was just about to involve the local police and cable your brother that you were missing.”
Bronwyn gulped. “I wasn’t in danger.”
“Weren’t you?” Thick black brows drew together into a thoughtful frown. “You know who Richards is, don’t you?” When she stayed quiet, he went on. “Mary Bowser—also known by many other names…Henley and Jones, to name two—is a wanted woman.”
“Yes, I know. She’s also a hero and only wanted because she’s fighting for basic human rights.”
Face unreadable, Rawley eyed her. “Is that what you think you are as well? A hero swooping in to save the day?”
“No,” Bronwyn replied aghast. “I’m not. I’m only trying to do my part to right the wrongs of the past. Is it wrong to want the world to be better? I might be limited in my own power, but I still have a voice and the agency to act. The value of being an ally is ceding the space to the oppressed. You taught me that.” She sucked in a breath. “Isn’t that what you’re doing, too? Providing funds and information to the Union cause?”
His nod was short and he regarded her seriously.
