“Good, then let’s catch him before he does it again.”

Torn between hauling her back to Rawley and getting eyes on the criminal, Valentine gritted his teeth and growled his anger. She was going to get herself killed! Or shoot him in the back by accident. Squashing down his protective instincts, he nodded and lengthened his pace. If it had been Lisbeth, he would have been grateful for the help.

Think of her as another operative.

Every nerve in him bristled at that, but he couldn’t afford to call her the Kestrel only when he wanted her to be guilty. Reputations weren’t built on sand. The Home Office had been tracking her for months with nothing to show for it. That had to be based on some experience.

“Fine,” he gritted out. “Stay close and keep your eyes open. Shout if you see anything.”

“Is he still inside?”

Valentine nodded. “Yes.”

In any other situation, he would direct her to go around the other side of the building so they could cut the man off, but he was hindered by his own panic where she was concerned. He turned to tell her to stay put—extra eyes were always good—but the minx wasn’t there. All he saw were striped skirts disappearing through the front entrance.

Bloody hell, she was stubborn at the worst times! Dread pulsing through his veins, he raced down the side street to cut around to the back. There were people here, but not like those on the wide boulevard. A wide-eyed groom stood near a carriage.

“Anyone come out from here in the last five minutes?” the duke demanded.

“Non, monsieur,” the boy replied. “I heard two shots.”

Valentine nodded. “Yes, go hide somewhere safe.”

Inside the grand foyer with its enormous ceilings and thick walls for the business, people were murmuring, but smart enough to stay hidden from view. Valentine caught sight of Bronwyn heading up the staircase to the mezzanine above, which was mostly storage for the shop owners.

“Out of the bloody way!” A high-pitched male voice let out a stream of violent clipped English from somewhere overhead, and then came the sound of boxes toppling over and a crashing noise. That had to be him.

“Stop this instant, or I will shoot you!” Bronwyn’s clear voice called out, though she sounded uncertain. Nervous.

Valentine didn’t think. He leaped over the first few steps and sped upstairs, his legs burning from the effort and his heartbeat making an ungodly racket in his ears. Bronwyn stood at the top of the stairs to the second floor, her gun pointing at a clean-faced, smartly dressed young man of no more than seventeen or eighteen who stood near a window. He carried a rifle case, which made his innocent appearance all the more gut-wrenching. He’d shot at Bronwyn!