His breath rushed out at the sight of the gilded lily. A second hairpin lay a few feet away—this one with a jeweled butterfly at the curve. Yes, these were Bronwyn’s. He recognized them from the folly.

Valentine praised her dauntless, clever, brilliant self. He picked up his pace, running as fast as he’d ever run in all his life.

Twenty-three

Bronwyn tugged another hairpin loose while the man dragged her along like a rag doll. He was huge and strong, and she struggled to keep up, not because she was actively trying to slow them down—well, she was—but she couldn’t with the brutal hold he had on her arm. With her luck, he’d wrench it off. His strong grip was more than likely going to leave bruises. The street had been too clogged with carriages for him to get them into a hansom, so they walked. Correction, he’d walked. She had been forced to run to keep pace.

Oh, she hoped Valentine had found her bread crumbs.

Her coiffure was practically mangled, while she was attempting to surreptitiously pluck the feathers and then when she’d realized how foolish that was because feathers were apt to float, she had resorted to her favorite hairpins. Not much better considering it was late evening and the things were barely visible in good light, but Valentine was shrewd and missed little. He wasn’t known as the greatest spymaster in England for nothing.

“Move,” the man at her side growled.

“Where are you taking me?” To my death?

Something worse?

But he only grunted and nearly yanked her arm out of the socket. Bronwyn reached up for the last of the hairpins, the linchpin that was holding her mass of curls in place, when they made an abrupt left onto the Balfour Mews. She dropped it, and her hair, along with the rest of the ridiculous headpiece her mother had insisted she wear, fell down her back.

“What the hell happened?” the man growled, stopping to snatch up the jeweled decoration. He didn’t care that it would be a clue for anyone following.… The piece had real gems clustered to its base and would be worth a few bob.

She stared innocently up at him. “What do you expect when you’ve been jostling me like a rag doll for the last quarter of an hour? This hairstyle is meant for light dancing, not vigorous activity.”

“I wish he’d let me get rid of you.”

Bronwyn perked up. So she wasn’t going to die…yet. And who was he? Obviously, this man was not in charge and there was someone here in London, or from France or the United States, who was calling the shots. Who was the knave working for?

“Why haven’t you?” she asked. “Seemed like that was the intent in Paris and Philadelphia.”