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Valentine wavered on his feet. It was unlike him to be so undecisive, but he felt frozen with fear. At an urgent look from Rawley, he lifted a palm to his throat, inhaling great gulping breaths of air as he ran down the steps, his eyes checking all the carriages lined up for any sign of rose-colored skirts. She’d looked so beautiful tonight, too. Beautiful andlethal. He recalled the impudent look when she had tapped at her thighs, indicating her hidden weapons.
At least she was armed. That was one comfort.
Bronwyn was smart. If she was being taken somewhere, she would have left crumbs, knowing he wouldn’t be too far behind. With several harsh breaths to cleanse his foggy head, he surveyed the top part of Upper Brook Street, watching each coach and each person, and then turned to the bottom.There!What looked like part of one of the pink fronds from her coiffure lay on the ground in a patch of mud.
Clever girl.
Valentine raced past it until he saw another on the corner of the road, turning onto Park Street. Bronwyn wasn’t that far ahead of him, a few minutes at the most, but feathers could fly if there was a bit of wind, and then he would be in dire straits. Cursing, he ran faster, catching sight of yet another ripped frond. She wouldn’t have much left at this rate. He ran down the street past the mews toward South Street and blinked at the crossroads.Hell. There were no more sodding feathers in sight, or if there had been, they’d blown away.
Which way, damn it!
Retracing his steps, he stared at the ground, searching for something, anything.Come on, Bee, you know I’m right on your heels.She’d be tickled pink to know that he was calling her by Rawley’s nickname. Hell, he’d call her whatever she wanted when she was safe. That strange feeling rose from deep in his chest into his throat again, as if he was choking. Hehadto find her. Every second that went by—every sodding heartbeat—meant the odds of that were dwindling. Valentine had never felt so helpless in his life as he glanced one way and then the other.
Right or left?
Either decision could be wrong. The choice could mean life or death.
Toward Hyde Park or back to Mayfair. If the man was going to kill her, Hyde Park would be the logical choice. Ice bled into Valentine’s veins. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he nearly roared his frustration.Make a decision. He turned right to go to the park and then saw the glint of something that caught the light from the gas lamp on the ground to his left.
A lady’s hairpin. It could be anyone’s hairpin.
His breath rushed out at the sight of the gilded lily. A second hairpin lay a few feet away—this one with a jeweled butterfly at the curve. Yes, these were Bronwyn’s. He recognized them from the folly.
Valentine praised her dauntless, clever, brilliant self. He picked up his pace, running as fast as he’d ever run in all his life.
Twenty-three
Bronwyn tugged another hairpin loose while the man dragged her along like a rag doll. He was huge and strong, and she struggled to keep up, not because she was actively trying to slow them down—well, shewas—but she couldn’t with the brutal hold he had on her arm. With her luck, he’d wrench it off. His strong grip was more than likely going to leave bruises. The street had been too clogged with carriages for him to get them into a hansom, so they walked. Correction,he’dwalked. She had been forced to run to keep pace.
Oh, she hoped Valentine had found her bread crumbs.
Her coiffure was practically mangled, while she was attempting to surreptitiously pluck the feathers and then when she’d realized how foolish that was because feathers were apt tofloat, she had resorted to her favorite hairpins. Not much better considering it was late evening and the things were barely visible in good light, but Valentine was shrewd and missed little. He wasn’t known as the greatest spymaster in England for nothing.
“Move,” the man at her side growled.
“Where are you taking me?”To my death?
Something worse?
But he only grunted and nearly yanked her arm out of the socket. Bronwyn reached up for the last of the hairpins, the linchpin that was holding her mass of curls in place, when they made an abrupt left onto the Balfour Mews. She dropped it, and her hair, along with the rest of the ridiculous headpiece her mother had insisted she wear, fell down her back.
“What the hell happened?” the man growled, stopping to snatch up the jeweled decoration. He didn’t care that it would be a clue for anyone following.… The piece had real gems clustered to its base and would be worth a few bob.
She stared innocently up at him. “What do you expect when you’ve been jostling me like a rag doll for the last quarter of an hour? This hairstyle is meant for light dancing, not vigorous activity.”
“I wish he’d let me get rid of you.”
Bronwyn perked up. So she wasn’t going to die…yet. And who washe? Obviously, this man was not in charge and there was someone here in London, or from France or the United States, who was calling the shots. Who was the knave working for?
“Why haven’t you?” she asked. “Seemed like that was the intent in Paris and Philadelphia.”
He hissed as if she’d pressed on a raw wound, his mouth flattening into a hard white line as his fingers closed around her arm and made her wince. Cursing, he sent her a vexed look and then yanked her into the empty stables. The soft nicker of horses reached her ears, but no one of the human variety was around.
Bronwyn let out a breath and revised her statement when a shadowy form carrying a lantern loomed into view. Her heart kicked in her chest, hoping that it was the duke, but then a different feeling, one of relief filled her when the new arrival was made clear. He held a gun in his hand and looked quite fierce. Bronwyn wanted to whoop and stomp on her captor’s instep, but she stayed still, waiting for his signal.
“Lady Bronwyn, my most unexpected success and the biggest fucking pain in my arse. Where’s my goddamned list?”
She blinked at Wentworth. “Sir?”
