Valentine palmed his nape and sighed. The journey back to England via Calais had been uneventful, thank God. A rather quiet and docile Bronwyn had stewed in her quarters for the entire trip, which had surprised everyone, especially him. The clever little harpy was only biddable when she had some other maggot of an idea in her brain, and he wouldn’t put it past her to try something. He’d watched her like a hawk, but she had done nothing to warrant suspicion.

The presence of her aunt seemed to mollify her as well. It had been a surprise when the older lady had insisted on accompanying them, saying it was about time she made peace with her birth country…and her sister, she supposed.

As the boatswains secured the lines, Valentine checked the London Docks while the swift clipper was tethered to the wharf and directed some of the crew to do the same before lowering the gangplank. Though the risk was low, anyone could be an enemy, and the docks were crowded with workers, sailors, fishermen, and people spilling out of the main taverns lining the edges. Thankfully, Ashvale had arranged for transportation, and several unmarked coaches were waiting for them to disembark.

“Scotland Yard has been apprised,” the duke said. “We’ll have an armed escort.”

Valentine raised his brows at the overabundance of caution but said nothing. He would have done the same. Should have done the same. Then again, he didn’t know who he could trust. Best to just focus on keeping Bronwyn safe and out of trouble. Because he could sense it was brewing. She was too quiet. Too submissive.

She was a gale. A cyclone. Hurricane Bronwyn.

His instincts prickled with heat. He knew more than anyone that she didn’t have a submissive bone in her body.

Unless they were alone and tearing each other’s clothes off.

He squelched that thought with ruthless force.

Another smart-looking ship had docked to the left of them, also from France, if memory served. He remembered the flashy sails of the clipper and had kept an eye on it. He frowned as a gentleman dressed in a peacock-blue frock coat and fawn trousers strolled off the footbridge and spoke to the coachman of an equally gaudy coach drawn by four snow-white horses.

Beggars and children crowded up to the conveyance, while the tigers in fancy livery fought to keep them at bay. Valentine shook his head. Some people had too much money to spend and not enough sense to go with it. What idiot flaunted his wealth in one of the busiest and seediest parts of London? The fop was begging to be fleeced.

“Oh, we’re here,” a soft voice said as the lady of the hour joined them.