Valentine wavered on his feet. It was unlike him to be so undecisive, but he felt frozen with fear. At an urgent look from Rawley, he lifted a palm to his throat, inhaling great gulping breaths of air as he ran down the steps, his eyes checking all the carriages lined up for any sign of rose-colored skirts. She’d looked so beautiful tonight, too. Beautiful and lethal. He recalled the impudent look when she had tapped at her thighs, indicating her hidden weapons.

At least she was armed. That was one comfort.

Bronwyn was smart. If she was being taken somewhere, she would have left crumbs, knowing he wouldn’t be too far behind. With several harsh breaths to cleanse his foggy head, he surveyed the top part of Upper Brook Street, watching each coach and each person, and then turned to the bottom. There! What looked like part of one of the pink fronds from her coiffure lay on the ground in a patch of mud.

Clever girl.

Valentine raced past it until he saw another on the corner of the road, turning onto Park Street. Bronwyn wasn’t that far ahead of him, a few minutes at the most, but feathers could fly if there was a bit of wind, and then he would be in dire straits. Cursing, he ran faster, catching sight of yet another ripped frond. She wouldn’t have much left at this rate. He ran down the street past the mews toward South Street and blinked at the crossroads. Hell. There were no more sodding feathers in sight, or if there had been, they’d blown away.

Which way, damn it!

Retracing his steps, he stared at the ground, searching for something, anything. Come on, Bee, you know I’m right on your heels. She’d be tickled pink to know that he was calling her by Rawley’s nickname. Hell, he’d call her whatever she wanted when she was safe. That strange feeling rose from deep in his chest into his throat again, as if he was choking. He had to find her. Every second that went by—every sodding heartbeat—meant the odds of that were dwindling. Valentine had never felt so helpless in his life as he glanced one way and then the other.

Right or left?

Either decision could be wrong. The choice could mean life or death.

Toward Hyde Park or back to Mayfair. If the man was going to kill her, Hyde Park would be the logical choice. Ice bled into Valentine’s veins. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he nearly roared his frustration. Make a decision. He turned right to go to the park and then saw the glint of something that caught the light from the gas lamp on the ground to his left.

A lady’s hairpin. It could be anyone’s hairpin.