He was a hardened spy, and Rawley, Ashvale’s man of business and cousin, had eluded his notice all along? What the devil was he doing here? And why was he dancing with Bronwyn? Ignoring the blast of possessiveness that heated his blood, Valentine narrowed his eyes. Ashvale trusted his cousin implicitly, which meant he had to know his marauding sister was onboard this ship. Why Rawley wouldn’t have made his presence known nagged at him, however.

His eyes met Rawley’s and the man showed no surprise to see him there. So he had also known that Thornbury was onboard. That realization bothered him even more, but as much as Rawley stood out because of his size, he could be undetectable when he chose to be. Valentine had his suspicions that the man was a covert operative himself, working for the Antiguan government as well as the Americans in the North fighting to abolish slavery.

Noel Rawley’s name had come up in the British War Office with ties to Alexander Augusta, a field surgeon and one of Lincoln’s highest-ranking Black Union officers in the Civil War, as well as Frederick Douglass, a fiercely outspoken activist in the abolitionist cause. The sudden thought of whether Rawley could be the Kestrel hit Valentine, but he dismissed it just as quickly. Rawley didn’t fit the description. The Kestrel was a white English peer.

When the grinning man picked Bronwyn up by her waist and spun her, making her howl with laughter—not the nauseating tinkling sound from earlier but a full, throaty belly-laugh that had Valentine’s jaw gaping loose—he almost started forward, but stuttered to a stop. What was he doing? Why was he reacting like a territorial creature? He had no claim on her, and Rawley cherished her like a sister.

It’s your duty.

His duty to what? Protect her? Rawley was closer to her by a blood connection through the Duke of Ashvale than he was. The man was honorable and trusted by the duke. Rawley was family. It was his duty to look after the chit, not Valentine’s. He should leave. Go back to the ballroom downstairs. Return to his job of finding the Kestrel.

Bronwyn was safe. Rawley would take care of her.

She was in good hands.

But the longer he stood there, the more he was inured to reason or logic; a man never ruled by passions of the flesh was fast becoming an alacritous disciple. Valentine was transfixed. She moved like blue flame, the dance so joyous that she gleamed. There were no masks, no pretense.

Just her.

And he wanted nothing more than to stay right where he was.