“I believe we might have this dance, sir,” she had murmured. When he’d looked confused, she had pressed a gloved hand to her lips, eyelashes dipping in fabricated mortification. “Oh, I do beg your pardon. I’m mistaken. I must have muddled the masks.” Embarrassed laughter had tumbled out of her. “And it appears I have mistaken the dance as well because this is the polka and it’s blank. I don’t suppose you wish to dance?”

His look of shock had been comical. “This is a bit untoward, Miss…er…”

Rather untoward since they had not been introduced, but it was a country masquerade and rules weren’t as stringent as they would have been in London. Her fingers had brushed the edges of the feathers on her mask. “Miss Bee.”

“Yes, well, I…” Looking decidedly uncomfortable, he’d tugged on his collar and his voice had trailed off. Clearly, Ashley wasn’t nearly the type of womanizer his much older employer was purported to be.

“Never fear, sir, I shall let you off the hook then, but I have a message for you.” Voice low, she’d brushed passed him so close that her feathers had skimmed his arm. “Do not get on the train to London tonight. I’m told to advise you that there will be a raid.”

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 the ton that 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.

This trip 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.

But you would be at risk, you ninny.