Taking in a calming breath, Bronwyn smoothed her skirts and made sure her bonnet was properly affixed. Moving to the small grate, she struck the flint to the tinder and held one end of the parchment to the fire until it burned away to nothing. The date, name, and place were in her head. She would be the message. She tucked the remaining sheet from Thornbury’s report into her corset—she couldn’t memorize all the names and that would be safe enough there for the moment—and left the room.

The wharves lining the Delaware riverfront, which was thankfully not frozen, were crowded. Philadelphia was a less popular port than Boston or New York, given the river that tended to freeze often so it took much longer to navigate around Cape May, but luckily the SS Valor was a private ship and did not depend on set timetables or routes. There was no sign of Rawley or Thornbury, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t both lurking somewhere. At the end of the ramp, Cora was waiting near a carriage, and Bronwyn pulled her cloak around her to ward off the chill in the air.

“Where’s your paramour?” she asked the maid.

Cora’s cheeks brightened. “He has some business to attend to.”

“Does he know where we are going?”

“Yes, my lady.”

The news didn’t bother her. In fact, she was glad that Rawley knew. Despite her desire to do her job and finish the mission, Bronwyn had no intention of courting danger and putting herself or Cora in harm’s way. A little extra brawn never hurt. The rooms Wentworth had secured on her behalf were at a nondescript but clean hotel, near her ailing “Aunt Tillie’s” house just north of South Street. As she checked in, the clerk handed her a folded message that only listed an address of a tavern. The Bell in Hand Ale House.

She would have to find a way to get there unseen by Rawley.

Or a certain meddlesome duke…

***

Valentine’s posterior was sore from sitting in a carriage outside Lady Bronwyn’s hotel for the better part of six hours. His stomach let out an obnoxious growl as well, but he couldn’t risk letting her slip through his fingers. He knew she was up to something. Lisbeth had remained onboard, visually checking each of the hundred and three passengers leaving the ship against the portrait they had of the Kestrel, while he was here in a cramped carriage snooping on a woman.