Valentine was 90 percent sure there was no sick relative, but what was she up to? Philadelphia wasn’t exactly a popular hub, and America was embroiled in the middle of a civil war. Was she meeting a gentleman? A lover? A future husband? The thought irritated him more than it should. Why should he care if she wanted to tie herself to a wealthy American? Perhaps she hoped it would get her away from the unpleasant Marchioness of Borne.

Rawley had gone missing the moment the ship docked. Given Valentine’s knowledge of Rawley’s close ties to men like Augusta and Douglass, he wasn’t surprised in the least. Valentine had hoped to pawn off the responsibility of keeping an eye on the chit to the Duke of Ashvale’s cousin, but when he’d seen Bronwyn getting into a carriage with her maid, he’d had no choice but to follow or lose track of her. Lisbeth had rolled her eyes, but told him to go. And so, here he was.

Stuck in a carriage.

Spying on a woman who was most likely having a rendezvous with a libertine.

Was she? Valentine blinked, pondering the question. It wasn’t any of his business, but he was curious. After working with a firecracker like Lisbeth who flaunted her lovers across three continents, he was the last person who would tell a woman what to do with her body. The world of the ton, however, was a different story. If a lady, especially an unmarried one, dared to break the rules, she was excoriated faster than one could say scandal.

What if she was already betrothed to someone here?

He hadn’t even thought to ask if she was. That notion didn’t sit well either.

Clearly, his hunger was making him irrational. It was good if she was engaged. Best for everyone. The sight of a tall, lithe figure in a bulky, dark coat coming out of the dark alley adjacent to the hotel had him sitting up, but it wasn’t her. The brim of a top hat obscured the person’s face, but from his vantage point, the figure was most definitely a man. Valentine blinked, peering at the disappearing shape of the person and a sensual gait that seemed all too familiar. Unless that wasn’t a man…

Bloody hell, it was her!

Swearing aloud, he descended from the coach and kept to the shadows until she got into a hackney a few streets away. He waved down another hansom with curt instructions to the coachman to follow her conveyance. His clever quarry didn’t go far, only a few streets north to what looked like a tavern. The wooden placket on the wall read BELL IN HAND.

“Here we are, sir,” the driver said. “McGillin’s, best place for an ale and a cottage pie. Ask for Ma or Pa and tell ’em Beckett sent ya.”