A twinge of envy ran through her before Bronwyn squashed it. No use hoping for things that could never be. “That’s not the same here. In truth, we’ve both known from the start that getting involved would be a mistake. There’s no room for love in whatever this is.” She let out a breath, worried that she’d revealed too much. The last thing she needed was her overbearing brother forcing them to the chapel. “Besides, my mother has Lord Herbert at the end of her line. He’s suitable and checks all the boxes.”

“Except love.”

Bronwyn eyed her sister-in-law. “You just said beginnings can be fickle. Perhaps my story with Lord Herbert will have a wondrous ending like yours.”

“If that is what you want,” Ravenna said.

It wasn’t the least bit what she wanted. “Maybe that’s what I need.”

Stability. Constancy. Companionship.

Bronwyn’s eyes swept the guests, searching for the one face she knew would be there somewhere…and the opposite of all those things. Valentine was passion and heartbreak, lust and impermanence.

Her gaze veered left as a face—one she did not expect to see and that made her stomach drop—disappeared behind a column. Bronwyn balked. The ugly brute from Philadelphia?

No, it couldn’t be him!

But as she searched the crowd, her skin crawled as though a hundred spiders had been let loose upon her. Every instinct screamed for her to defend against a threat. If he was here in her mother’s ballroom, and even if she’d conjured him out of misplaced fear, she could not take the chance that she’d imagined it and let any harm come to her pregnant sister-in-law. “Ravenna,” she said in an urgent voice. “I need you to find Courtland or Rawley and get to somewhere safe. If you happen to see Thornbury, tell him I’m looking for him.”

“Why? What’s the matter?”

Bronwyn wasn’t sure how much the duchess knew, and she also did not want to cause her undue worry. “Find my brother, and tell him the Kestrel is in flight. Please, Ravenna.”

Her eyes widened, but she nodded and disappeared in a flash of blue skirts.

Keeping alert, Bronwyn made her way down the stairs. How her mother had managed to fit so many people into the ballroom was a mystery to her. A huge hand wound around her arm at the base of the staircase, and she nearly screamed when an equally large body crowded her into an alcove. “You scared the spit out of me!” she accused Valentine.

“I’ve been looking for you.” He frowned at her, eyes canvassing her face to view the panic she could not hide. “Why so jumpy?”

“Why were you looking for me?”

His frown deepened when she didn’t explain, but he answered. “The boy in France regained consciousness and is awake.”

“What did he say?” she demanded. “Anything about accomplices?”