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She’d left him gaping and melted into the crowd.
The Honorable Anthony Evelyn Melbourne Ashley had not boarded the train that evening and lived to see another day.
For Bronwyn, the rush had been indescribable.
From then on, Wentworth had named her the Kestrel on account of the spotted-brown-feathered mask she had worn that night. And as the sister to a duke, her connections offered them access in places among thetonthat they didn’t have before. It had started in much the same vein as it had with Sesily…a message here, a coded letter there, and soon, the Kestrel quickly became a notorious informant. Thankfully, it had been Sesily’s brilliant idea to leak a male description of the Kestrel to Scotland Yard, which had given Bronwyn some breathing space.
Thistrip to Philadelphia, however, was the biggest and most nerve-racking assignment she had ever done. Bronwyn fingered the waxed correspondence. The seal was almost lifting off the parchment but remained unbroken. With a little effort, it could detach. She let out a breath. Wouldn’t it be better if she knew what was inside? Then at least the information would be protected.
Butyouwould be at risk, you ninny.
That was also true. Being able to plead ignorance was always important in her line of work. With a huff, she tucked both sheets into her corset and rose. She’d be late for dinner if she didn’t get a move on. It was the farewell celebration before the SSValordocked on the morrow in America. Perhaps the heat from her bosom would make the decision for her and the missive would miraculously open.
Breasts…not just for decoration.
She bit back a laugh. While her mother had made sure she was always dressed in the best of fashions, Bronwyn had never taken much pleasure in it herself. Tonight, however, the Marchioness of Borne would have approved of her garments. The silver-threaded indigo gown was one of her newer ones, the scalloped bodice daring in itself, and one that the scatterbrained Cora had packed even though Bronwyn had specified plain clothing only. Clearly, the maid did not understand what that meant since she had included the extravagant gown. Though Bronwyn was grateful for it now.
Thornbury won’t know what hit him.
She blinked at the odd thought. The dresswasn’tfor him. It was the last night on the ship and she had to look her best. The sister of the Duke of Ashvale had to embody the right appearance. As though Courtland cared one whit about appearances. She bit her lip, her excuses so thin even she could see through them, and tossed her head.
It wasn’t for Thornbury and that was that.
***
Valentine was irritated.
That was nothing new, of course, but the fact that the blasted Kestrel continued to avoid detection was making him more provoked than usual. The window of opportunity would narrow once they disembarked the next day in Philadelphia and whomever he was would have a greater chance of escape. Valentine had hoped to have the man in custody by now and the missing pages from his report back in hand, but he had nothing to show for his efforts. Even Lisbeth was frustrated, and it took quite a lot to ruffle her equanimity.
On top of that, a certain young lady whose blood had to be a nauseating blend of coyness and coquetry, had burrowed under his skin like a frayed splinter. He’d had to endure watching her flirt and simper with nearly every gentleman onboard, their collective infatuation almost impossible to bear. Yes, she was an heiress. Yes, she was beautiful. But by God, she had nothing but dust motes in her brain. Could they notseethat?
He was inordinately grateful that she was not in the ship’s first-class dining saloon at present. Perhaps she was ill and would bless him while disappointing all her fawning toadies with the lack of her imperiously vapid presence this evening. Oh, to be so fortunate! A whisper of shame swamped him at how uncharitable he was being. It was a good thing his thoughts were private and he was not in the habit of sharing them. In truth, he pitied the poor gentleman who would eventually be caught in the young lady’s witless snare.
“Are you well, Val?” Lisbeth asked in a low voice so their other dinner companions would not overhear. There were only two of them, an older couple, with two chairs remaining empty. “Thinking of the Kestrel?”
He set down his spoon from the first course and reached for his whisky that a servant had thankfully refilled. “Yes. The Kestrel.”
“Do you think he’s here?”
Valentine shook his head, eyes scanning the crowded room. No, he was not keeping an eye out for a shining mop of chestnut and ash-brown curls wondering what could have befallen his comely nemesis. Irritation returning, he scowled at himself. A flash of a face caught the edge of his vision and his head whipped back. Tall, thin, black top hat. He could have sworn he’d seen the man from the portrait. Bloody hell!
“What is it?” Lisbeth asked.
Valentine hissed through his teeth. “I think he might be here, but I’m not certain.”
“Did you see him?”
“I think so. It was fast.” Furious at himself for being distracted, he pointed to the left side of the saloon. “Over there somewhere.”
“Are you sure?” Lisbeth asked.
Valentine’s teeth ground together. “No, God damn it.”
Eyebrow arched in faint surprise, she stared at him. He was not a man known for an inability to remember detail or be uncertain about anything, especially a mark. “Let me take a stroll to the retiring room and have a look. I’ll be right back.”
When she rose gracefully and picked her way through the tables, Valentine released the hold on his strained jaw. His attention was all over the place. It washerfault. Ever since he’d run into her a few days ago, Lady Bronwyn had taken up more space in his head than she was due. He wasn’t a man run by his passions, but that hadn’t stopped him from being fascinated by whorls of glossy brown hair and rosy, soft skin. His fantasy version of her and the reality were two different things, however. The reality required cotton to be stuffed into his ears.
“Here you are, my lady,” the footman said, interrupting his thoughts.
