Poor Sesily. Valentine had been right—that note had been sent out of despair. To be that trapped and desperate, Bronwyn couldn’t imagine. But that was the thing with a patriarchal society—a wife became her husband’s property.

At least she was safe with her mother if Wentworth was telling the truth, but that would explain why she would not have received or responded to Bronwyn’s correspondence from France. Which meant Wentworth had sent the note about meeting him at the masquerade.

“If you despised her so much, why marry her?” Bronwyn froze as the answer came much too readily. She exhaled. “You wanted her fortune.”

“My very own American dollar princess. You see? This is why I love her,” Wentworth said to the silent man still holding her in an iron grip, a proud look in his eyes that made Bronwyn want to spit on him. The lily-livered liar! He’d played both her and Sesily like a fiddle and they had fallen for it. “She’s fast on her feet and intelligent to boot.”

“She walked like her legs were made of lead,” the man muttered. “Stumbling every two seconds. Crashed into a vase in her own home, lost her headpiece.”

Bronwyn stiffened right as Wentworth stilled, his sharp eyes settling on her messy hair. Unlike the one with his paws on her, her former handler wasn’t a fool. She saw the moment he realized that her hair would not have gotten into such a state without help or by her own design.

“Damn it!” he thundered. “Did you see anyone following you?”

“No.”

Wentworth let out a coarse oath, his face going red with rage. “Go keep a lookout. Shoot if you see anyone.”

When the man did as he was bid, Bronwyn forced herself not to move too quickly as blood rushed into her numb arm, prickles burning hot beneath the skin. Any big movements would be noticed, and she needed to be slow…excruciatingly slow to avoid notice. With an eye on Wentworth, she eased her hands to her sides where the false pockets had been sewn. Slowly, she urged herself, despite the need to rush. There. She was in. As if he could sense the uplift in her state, Wentworth frowned, eyes darting to her once more.

“Wait, Larry, did you check her for weapons?”

Halfway to the entrance to the mews, the man glanced over his shoulder. “Why would I? She was at a ball and she’s wearing a ball gown.”

“You’re a bloody—”

But he didn’t even finish his sentence as Bronwyn slid her pistols from their holsters in a well-practiced movement, cocking both barrels with the thumbs of each hand, and pointed one at each of them. “Never underestimate a lady in a dress.”

Wentworth’s mouth went tight, a vein pulsing in his forehead. “Give me what I want and no one will get hurt.”