Sadness shadowed her aunt’s face. “When your papa died.” Bronwyn blinked. That had been over a decade ago. “She made it very clear that I wasn’t the right kind of influence to have around you and Florence, and that I wasn’t welcome. I don’t enjoy going where I’m not wanted so I found myself an agreeable husband in the Comte de Valois and left for Paris.”

In truth, Bronwyn wouldn’t have known her mother had had a twin sister if she hadn’t discovered the portraits tucked away in a drawer of them when they’d been children, whereupon she had nagged her mother to death until she’d confessed the truth of her sister. She had forbidden her sister’s name from being mentioned, however, stating that Esther had run off with a scandalous French comte with no morals whatsoever and lived an undisciplined, vulgar life somewhere in Paris.

Of course, a much younger and much-too-sheltered Bronwyn had been fascinated. Thanks to Wentworth, whose network of informants ran all over Europe, she’d found her aunt’s address in her first stint as the Kestrel and corresponded in secret for the better part of the past year. They had met during a shopping trip to Paris as well as a delivery for Wentworth and discovered an instant camaraderie between them.

Her mother, however, would not be pleased.

Then again, the marchioness would not be happy about a lot of things.

When the coach arrived in Mayfair, along with their largest entourage known to man, Bronwyn was a froth of nerves. Between dealing with her unresolved feelings where Thornbury was concerned and now handling the certain consequences of her mother and aunt’s reunion, she would have preferred being chased by faceless enemies.

The Marquis de Tremblay was ushered into her brother’s residence, where she and Aunt Esther made sure he was settled and then walked to the house on the other side of the street. For reasons known only to him, Courtland had purchased the home opposite years ago and had kept it, despite being the true Duke of Ashvale and owning both properties.

“Are you certain I cannot stay with Jacques?” Aunt Esther asked, wrinkling her nose. “I am a widow, and it’s not as though we haven’t shared a bed before.”

Bronwyn bit back a giggle. “Hush, Aunt. No, you cannot stay with an unmarried gentleman, no matter how intimately you know each other.” She peered over at her, curiosity riding her. “Are you two courting?”

“Neither of us wants to be mired in wedlock at the moment,” her aunt replied and then waved a dismissive arm. “Men are too much maintenance. We have an…indelicate understanding. Call it that.”

Bronwyn laughed. Good gracious, she loved the lady. “One day, Aunt Esther, I wish to be just like you.”