Who the hell was she? And how had she become embroiled in this mess? What was she doing in Philadelphia, and most of all, could she identify the slippery Kestrel?

Valentine kept a close eye on her as she trudged along beside him. She knew better than to try to escape, especially in an unfamiliar place and with men at their heels. The maze of streets started to become wider as they walked into the city. No one was following them for the moment, but there were eyes everywhere, and Valentine didn’t want to take any chances that someone would be alerted to their presence.

He glanced down at Bronwyn, whose head was lowered, but he sensed she wasn’t missing a thing. Bitterness sluiced through him. How much of what had happened between them had been a lie…a sodding deception? If he hadn’t seen the blood on his handkerchief himself, he would never have known. She had played him like a goddamned fiddle and he had been completely oblivious. Thank God he’d found evidence of her treachery and she had not accepted the protection of his name.

Or then he would be branded a traitor, too!

Bloody hell, what was Ashvale going to do? The scandal would be interminable, unless there was a way he could contain the mess with the Home Office. If Bronwyn was willing to cooperate and give up the names of her cohorts—the identity of the Kestrel—maybe he could help keep it quiet for his friend’s sake and obtain some leniency.

But first…they had to get back to England.

He shook his head to clear it, recognizing the street of the Bell in Hand Ale House, the start of this foul adventure. The sound of a cocking gun made him shove Bronwyn to the ground, and he dodged the cracking shot right at the last moment. She scrambled to the other side of the street, watching him with frightened but clear eyes as he loaded his own pistol and took aim.

“Stay down,” he told her. “I don’t know how many there are.”

These men were relentless. What kind of information did Bronwyn have, and why did they want her so badly? Before he could think more about it, he was attacked on both sides by three men. None of the three were ones he fought before, but they were clothed in rags and dirty. Hired ruffians. But hired by whom?

He shot one in the leg and kicked out at another who tried to get an arm around his neck. With intense focus born of years of training, he dispatched the second man and then the third. It was daylight and someone would have reported the gunshots to the police. Considering he wasn’t officially employed by the Home Office, he didn’t have much leverage, and this wasn’t England. They could both be tossed into the stocks.