Bronwyn hadn’t recognized the mysterious Wentworth who was masked, but he had been agitated, his palm slamming into the wainscoting. “This is our only window before Ashley leaves for London. Find a way to get the message to him, Sesily. He cannot be on that train.” Bronwyn had been thoroughly intrigued by the hushed urgency in the man’s tone, but what had interested her even more was the mutinous look on Sesily’s face. She was most distraught. “I do not care what you have to do,” Wentworth had commanded in a brutal whisper before striding away. “Get it done!”

Bronwyn had approached quietly and handed her friend a handkerchief when she pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes with a groan. “Can I help?”

“Oh,” Sesily had said, startled and looking up, tight ebony spirals springing into her brow. “No, you couldn’t. It’s… Never mind.”

“Tell me what to tell him and I will.”

“Tell who?”

Bronwyn had canted her head. “Ashley.”

Panic had ensued, Sesily’s dark-brown eyes going wide, her breathing rapid as though she was going to swoon at any second. “Oh, no. You cannot!”

“Tell me the message and I will take care of it, Sesily,” Bronwyn had whispered, determined to help. “I’m masked. No one will recognize me, I promise. Now tell me what to do.”

Clearly torn, Sesily had wrung her hands, but then her spine had straightened and she’d swallowed, her pretty face drawn. “See the man over there in the gray mask? That’s him. There’s a raid planned to attack his train to London tonight. Tell him not to get on.”

“A raid?” Bronwyn had blinked her confusion. Whatever she’d expected, it hadn’t been that. She’d thought Sesily’s distress had had to do with courting or some such. Silly her. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Sesily?”

“No, nothing like that. I help deliver messages from time to time.” Her face had gone more pinched if that was possible. “But I made a mistake. I thought Wentworth could get me an introduction to Lord Cupid, er, Pam.”

“Pam?” The word had emerged on a gasp. Lord Cupid was a moniker printed by the Times about the prime minister, and Pam was yet another of his nicknames. What on earth were Sesily and this mysterious Wentworth into? Surely she did not mean…

“If Ashley gets on that train, he will die.” A hand had gripped her elbow as her brain whirled to connect the obvious dots. Dear God, Ashley was Palmerston’s private secretary. This intrigue was beyond anything Bronwyn had ever imagined. The excitement in her blood had spiked to dangerous levels.

“I’ll do it.”

And she had, and never looked back.

She’d pretended to approach the Honorable Anthony Evelyn Melbourne Ashley, with her dance card in hand and looking suitably shy.