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Wentworth’s eyes fastened on them, but he didn’t do anything but watch as Bronwyn let herself slump in a slow graceless slide down to the floor. Valentine didn’t dare look down. He kept his gaze firmly on the man with the guns.
“One down,” Wentworth said. “Guess she doesn’t really have the stomach for this business after all. Or did you tup the strength right out of her?” Valentine knew the vile rotter was trying to get a rise out of him. He might have a few screws loose, but he was still the same man who was drunk on his own power. “There, you wanted me to let her go, and she has handled the matter nicely for both of us. Where’s the list?”
“At my residence,” Valentine said.
“Then that is where we shall go,” Wentworth said, his tone becoming firmer as he nodded to himself. He pointed a gun at Bronwyn’s prone form. “Pick her up, and don’t trying anything clever. I have no problems shooting you both and letting the chips fall where they may. Jealous lovers, cutpurses, any story will do. Now, move.”
Valentine nodded, turned, and crouched down slowly. Bronwyn was pale and listless, her chest rising with barely any motion. He frowned. Was she pretending or had the faint been real? But as he gathered her limp form into his arms, he realized with some relief that it was the former when he felt her fingertips ease into his boot and then quickly tuck against her stomach. Carefully, he half rose with her in his arms bridal style when she pretended to awaken, eyelids fluttering, her lower half sliding down the front of his. The pistol was concealed between them.
“Are you well?” he asked.
His beautiful, clever future duchess smiled, her blue eyes clear and bright. “Never better, my love.”
Then she stepped to the side and fired.
Epilogue
The Duchess of Thornbury stared at her husband, who was in the process of fixing a broken window in their bedroom that had fallen off its hinges after his herculean attempt to pry it open. Did she mention that he was shirtless? He was, mouthwateringly so. She let her eyes drift over his wonderful musculature and felt her breath quicken. Even though she was well and truly sated. Moving any muscle of her own required intense concentration. Except for her eye muscles… Those could move quite well apparently.
Heavens, he had such clever hands. Fixing a broken hinge…stroking her body to indecent heights. Her lower half warmed.
“Enjoying the show?” her husband asked, watching her over his shoulder as he reattached the hinge.
“I like watching you do menial things,” she said from her indolent position on their marriage bed, her bottom half covered only by a loose silk sheet. Her duke tired her out thoroughly, and they’d steamed up the bedchamber so deliciously that they had to open a window to let in some cool evening air. Until it practically fell off one hinge, that was. She peered at him from a hooded gaze, knowing the picture she presented.
“Besides, I cannot move, remember?” She jangled both arms still loosely attached to the headboard. “Do you plan on letting me out of these anytime soon, Your Grace?”
“You were the one who asked for the handcuffs,” he shot back, turning to give her a breath-snatching view of the front of him. She loved looking at him, almost as much as she loved putting that honed body to use.
“You did promise I’d be in them at the end of all this.”
The corner of one lip curled into a sultry smirk. “That is true.”
They had only been married a few weeks and were still in Scotland. Their wedding in the Highlands had been intimate and tasteful with mostly family in attendance, but even the Willingtons had made the journey. Courtland and Ravenna, along with their latest addition, Isla, had come as well, though to no one’s surprise, the Marchioness of Borne had been conveniently ill. Aunt Esther had more than made up for her absence, however.
Since their vows, Bronwyn and Valentine had been insatiable. Occasionally, they ended up in bed, but her husband had a penchant for finding her in the most incongruous of places—from the gardens to the attic, and practically every usable nook or cranny in the residence. He’d even pulled her into a bedding closet once, and they’d scandalized the daylights out of the housekeeper. But they were enjoying their honeymoon so they were supposed to make mischief…and love. Constantly, it seemed.
Thank goodness, there were no more clandestine adventures.
The Duke of Thornbury was a respected peer, and she was now a duchess with a role to play. Bronwyn hadn’t given up all her plans, though she was accomplishing them in a less subversive way via charitable endeavors that raised funds for families displaced by the American Civil War, especially those of people of color forging new lives in England, the West Indies, and America. And when she saw opportunities to better conditions for immigrant workers in Britain, particularly those who weren’t white, she was sure to raise discuss the issue with her brother in the Lords. Courtland had meant every word he’d said about valuing her voice.
The scandal had taken the newssheets by storm:Corruption Tarnishes the Home Office.
When all was said and done, Wentworth, who had survived Bronwyn’s shot to the abdomen, and his accomplice, Larry, had been arrested and charged with numerous counts of criminal activity, including coercion, fraud, and attempted murder of a peer. Thanks to Bronwyn’s rather thoughtful and excellent husband, Sesily was no longer tied to their lying, manipulative former handler. Their marriage was annulled and she had decided to remain in San Francisco to help in her mother’s tireless efforts toward civil rights and equality. She and Bronwyn wrote to each other often.
The Duke of Thornbury and the Countess of Waterstone had received the queen’s own commendation for their part in bringing the villains to justice. When a malicious Wentworth had tried to pin the identity of the infamous operative, the Kestrel, on Lady Bronwyn, he’d been derided by the gossip rags.
As if the daughter of a marquess, the sister to a duke, and a future duchess could ever be a spy! Bronwyn and Valentine had laughed, mocking the terribly small minds of the aristocracy, but he had appreciated not having to apprehend or testify against his own wife. Lisbeth had confirmed that the Kestrel, who was purportedly working under secret orders from her, had been killed in action in Philadelphia while attempting to thwart the treasonous acts against the American president.
Not long after the arrests, Rawley and Cora had tied the knot in Antigua, where they’d decided to live, and the celebration of their union had been one of joy and love. It had been one of the most beautiful ceremonies Bronwyn had ever seen.
When Bronwyn and Valentine announced their own engagement to her mother after they returned from Antigua, however, as well as their intention to have an engagement of only a few months, the Marchioness of Borne had been horrified.
“I won’t allow it,” she’d said in a half shriek as if on the cusp of a fit of the vapors. Aunt Esther had rolled her eyes and reached for the smelling salts, making her sister give her a withering glare. “I’ve promised you to Lord Herbert, Bronwyn.”
Aunt Esther had scoffed. “She’s not a goat to be traded, Evelyn.”
“Stay out of this, Esther, or so help me…”
