He was inordinately grateful that she was not in the ship’s first-class dining saloon at present. Perhaps she was ill and would bless him while disappointing all her fawning toadies with the lack of her imperiously vapid presence this evening. Oh, to be so fortunate! A whisper of shame swamped him at how uncharitable he was being. It was a good thing his thoughts were private and he was not in the habit of sharing them. In truth, he pitied the poor gentleman who would eventually be caught in the young lady’s witless snare.

“Are you well, Val?” Lisbeth asked in a low voice so their other dinner companions would not overhear. There were only two of them, an older couple, with two chairs remaining empty. “Thinking of the Kestrel?”

He set down his spoon from the first course and reached for his whisky that a servant had thankfully refilled. “Yes. The Kestrel.”

“Do you think he’s here?”

Valentine shook his head, eyes scanning the crowded room. No, he was not keeping an eye out for a shining mop of chestnut and ash-brown curls wondering what could have befallen his comely nemesis. Irritation returning, he scowled at himself. A flash of a face caught the edge of his vision and his head whipped back. Tall, thin, black top hat. He could have sworn he’d seen the man from the portrait. Bloody hell!

“What is it?” Lisbeth asked.

Valentine hissed through his teeth. “I think he might be here, but I’m not certain.”

“Did you see him?”

“I think so. It was fast.” Furious at himself for being distracted, he pointed to the left side of the saloon. “Over there somewhere.”

“Are you sure?” Lisbeth asked.

Valentine’s teeth ground together. “No, God damn it.”

Eyebrow arched in faint surprise, she stared at him. He was not a man known for an inability to remember detail or be uncertain about anything, especially a mark. “Let me take a stroll to the retiring room and have a look. I’ll be right back.”

When she rose gracefully and picked her way through the tables, Valentine released the hold on his strained jaw. His attention was all over the place. It was her fault. Ever since he’d run into her a few days ago, Lady Bronwyn had taken up more space in his head than she was due. He wasn’t a man run by his passions, but that hadn’t stopped him from being fascinated by whorls of glossy brown hair and rosy, soft skin. His fantasy version of her and the reality were two different things, however. The reality required cotton to be stuffed into his ears.

“Here you are, my lady,” the footman said, interrupting his thoughts.