That was also true. Being able to plead ignorance was always important in her line of work. With a huff, she tucked both sheets into her corset and rose. She’d be late for dinner if she didn’t get a move on. It was the farewell celebration before the SS Valor docked on the morrow in America. Perhaps the heat from her bosom would make the decision for her and the missive would miraculously open.

Breasts…not just for decoration.

She bit back a laugh. While her mother had made sure she was always dressed in the best of fashions, Bronwyn had never taken much pleasure in it herself. Tonight, however, the Marchioness of Borne would have approved of her garments. The silver-threaded indigo gown was one of her newer ones, the scalloped bodice daring in itself, and one that the scatterbrained Cora had packed even though Bronwyn had specified plain clothing only. Clearly, the maid did not understand what that meant since she had included the extravagant gown. Though Bronwyn was grateful for it now.

Thornbury won’t know what hit him.

She blinked at the odd thought. The dress wasn’t for him. It was the last night on the ship and she had to look her best. The sister of the Duke of Ashvale had to embody the right appearance. As though Courtland cared one whit about appearances. She bit her lip, her excuses so thin even she could see through them, and tossed her head.

It wasn’t for Thornbury and that was that.

***

Valentine was irritated.

That was nothing new, of course, but the fact that the blasted Kestrel continued to avoid detection was making him more provoked than usual. The window of opportunity would narrow once they disembarked the next day in Philadelphia and whomever he was would have a greater chance of escape. Valentine had hoped to have the man in custody by now and the missing pages from his report back in hand, but he had nothing to show for his efforts. Even Lisbeth was frustrated, and it took quite a lot to ruffle her equanimity.

On top of that, a certain young lady whose blood had to be a nauseating blend of coyness and coquetry, had burrowed under his skin like a frayed splinter. He’d had to endure watching her flirt and simper with nearly every gentleman onboard, their collective infatuation almost impossible to bear. Yes, she was an heiress. Yes, she was beautiful. But by God, she had nothing but dust motes in her brain. Could they not see that?