In the carriage, he stared at her. His jaw ached from holding it so tightly, but if he didn’t keep himself under rigid control, who knew what might happen. Even covered in streaks of ashy grime, brown hair falling loose from her bun, and wearing filthy men’s clothing, she was stunning. The combination of wide-eyed innocence and innate sultriness had been his downfall.

She’s not innocent.

No, she had played him like a child’s top. Spun him around until he’d been dizzy, addled with lust and desire. Valentine could not recall the last time he’d been so bamboozled by anyone, much less a slip of a girl. It itched under his skin like a festering pustule.

“How did you get my report?” he asked in a curt tone.

She licked her lips and he fought not to respond. “Someone in London.”

“The Kestrel?”

She turned her head toward the window, her throat working. Her chin jutted in mutinous silence. In that moment, he saw it. The sight of that profile and the reason he’d had such an odd feeling that he’d seen her somewhere before when she’d first left the hotel dressed like a thin, young buck and sitting at the tavern. It was the profile of the portrait that had been drawn…because the damned Kestrel wasn’t a man at all.

Now that it was clear, everything seemed to fall into place all at once. The mysterious peer who had access to all of the exclusive events and parties in London, the fact that he could elude authorities so easily, and all of the many faces worn for the sake of the assignment.

This beautiful young charlatan had fooled them all.

Valentine went cold. “You’re the Kestrel.”

Ten

Bronwyn was done for.

She’d had that same thought many a time before, of course. One did not tangle with dangerous people and do dangerous things without feeling backed into a corner with no way of escape once or twice. But this was Thornbury. His reputation of being a ruthless bloodhound was something she hadn’t seen in person until now. Sure, he’d been stony and sour, but that had been his general disposition. He wasn’t a man given to warmth or docility.

But this man, this hard, hatchet-faced statue who had locked her in her cabin the minute they’d set foot on the Valor, was. But he had gone unnaturally still, his face so hard that the only thing moving had been the occasional flicker in his stubbled cheek. It hadn’t even looked like he was breathing. Not one more word had come out of him after his pronouncement.

Not a sound. Not a single expression.

Nothing.