“Will it?” Valentine asked softly. “He also gave up letters you wrote him with confidential information. Coded ones, with a cipher that belongs to a certain protégé of yours.” He glanced at Bronwyn, taking in the suddenly sharp stare and mulish set of her mouth. “Which I’m sure she will be more than happy to share with the Home Office.”

“I shall,” she said immediately.

A high-pitched ugly mewling noise was all the warning Wentworth gave before diving toward Bronwyn. In the same moment, the silent Larry swung, his meaty body blocking any shot Valentine could have gotten off and knocking the pistol from his grip. The blast of a discharged weapon and the smell of spent gunpowder filled the air, and out of his peripheral vision, Valentine could see two bodies crashing into the wall. He had no idea whose shot it was, or whether anyone had been hit. He had his hands full with Goliath who was attempting to crush his windpipe with his bare hands.

Fighting loose by dropping like a deadweight and dislodging from the man’s grasp, Valentine kicked out at his legs. The minute the brute was down, Valentine was on top of him, his fists flying at top speed. How dare he lay his filthy fingers on Bronwyn? He’d seen the purple marks of his manhandling on her arm.

“Valentine, stop.” The sweet voice came to him as if from a distance, and then her beautiful face was in front of his, eyes wide and concerned. The bloodlust faded and he looked down at the mess of Larry’s face. He was still breathing, if the thick wheezing, wet sounds were any signal, but Valentine didn’t care.

“Where’s Wentworth?”

Her mouth firmed as she hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “I threw my gun at him and it knocked him right out.” She grinned. “You did advise me to throw anything handy.”

Valentine couldn’t help it; he let out a dark chuckle. “Well done.”

Bronwyn stared at him, all heated, needy eyes and chest heaving with exertion and energy. Lips parting on a ragged pant he felt in his own lungs, her fingers curled into her skirts. Valentine could barely form a coherent thought but the one pounding a tempo to his heartbeat. She had done it. She had saved them both.

“What now?” she asked.

His voice was a hoarse, deep rasp. “What now what?”

He was aware he sounded like an echoing imbecile.

“Valentine.” The name on her lips was a whisper, a plea.