The Duke of Thornbury and the Countess of Waterstone had received the queen’s own commendation for their part in bringing the villains to justice. When a malicious Wentworth had tried to pin the identity of the infamous operative, the Kestrel, on Lady Bronwyn, he’d been derided by the gossip rags.

As if the daughter of a marquess, the sister to a duke, and a future duchess could ever be a spy! Bronwyn and Valentine had laughed, mocking the terribly small minds of the aristocracy, but he had appreciated not having to apprehend or testify against his own wife. Lisbeth had confirmed that the Kestrel, who was purportedly working under secret orders from her, had been killed in action in Philadelphia while attempting to thwart the treasonous acts against the American president.

Not long after the arrests, Rawley and Cora had tied the knot in Antigua, where they’d decided to live, and the celebration of their union had been one of joy and love. It had been one of the most beautiful ceremonies Bronwyn had ever seen.

When Bronwyn and Valentine announced their own engagement to her mother after they returned from Antigua, however, as well as their intention to have an engagement of only a few months, the Marchioness of Borne had been horrified.

“I won’t allow it,” she’d said in a half shriek as if on the cusp of a fit of the vapors. Aunt Esther had rolled her eyes and reached for the smelling salts, making her sister give her a withering glare. “I’ve promised you to Lord Herbert, Bronwyn.”

Aunt Esther had scoffed. “She’s not a goat to be traded, Evelyn.”

“Stay out of this, Esther, or so help me…”

“Yes. You clearly need help.” Her aunt had let out a snort worthy of a thespian. “Or a good round of blanket hornpipe to work out all that tension.”

The marchioness had reared back, face going puce. “Good Lord, must you be so vulgar? Don’t think I don’t know what you and that sordid Frenchman are up to in this very house!”

“Must you be so straitlaced?”

They’d stared at each other in strained silence, mirrors of each other in appearance and yet so firmly opposite in nature. Bronwyn had shaken her head. Her mother could stand to let loose, and Aunt Esther, well, she could do with some boundaries, but they were both rather set in their ways.

“He’s a duke, Mama, and he outranks Lord Herbert,” Bronwyn had interjected before the twins started shedding blood. “Shouldn’t you be happy? I shall be a duchess.”

“A Scottish duke,” her mother had muttered as if the very thing was blasphemy.

Bronwyn had almost laughed at her aghast expression. “Don’t worry, you still have Stinson and Florence. Perhaps they will find the blue blood you so desire, and you can balance out us scoundrels in the family.”