From his years in covert operations, Valentine was well aware that a handle could by definition be anyone. The Kestrel could be a man or a woman, but they had intelligence that it was most likely a man. Though never apprehended, the Kestrel had been seen and described once or twice—a narrow-faced, rangy man of average height with a sparse beard and mustache—and a passable sketch had been rendered.

Halfway into the voyage, however, Valentine had been unable to unearth any more clues as to the man’s identity or find anyone matching the likeness. He’d perused the ship’s manifesto, but of course no names had jumped out at him. Criminals rarely did.

He blinked. Come to think of it, Lady Bronwyn Chase hadn’t been on there either.

The cheeky little liar! Spotting her in the dining room had only been by chance, and though their eyes had met, she hadn’t seemed to recognize him at first. And then she’d run off toward the necessary. Valentine went over the names in his memory, stopping at a Miss Bee Chase. It was a common enough last name, but he should have paid it more attention. In truth, he’d been more concerned with the men onboard. A mistake a novice would make. Now, he’d have to go over the list again with a more discerning eye. Still, it had to be a nickname so he couldn’t fault her for using it to assume some clandestine deception.

Lady Bronwyn was much too on the nose for that.

Dinner, indeed. He’d stay a far step from the twit if he could help it, or he’d find himself leg-shackled by the end of the journey. Lord knew the grasping Lady Borne wouldn’t turn her nose up at the title of duchess for her daughter.

Making his way back inside, he had just entered the vacated salon when footsteps tapped on the polished wooden floors toward him.

“There you are, my darling. Thought I’d lost you.”

His fake former countess when he’d been earl and an operative like him fastened herself to his side. While Valentine was officially retired, she was not. In fact, Lisbeth was the one who had asked him to take on the assignment. She was convinced that the Kestrel was a peer, and the only way to uncover a peer was to be part of aristocratic circles.

A year ago, they had started the rumor that they were estranged and a fake divorce to a hitherto fake marriage had been procured and granted by the Home Office, but now she needed him and his connections. It was no hardship. In truth, he’d been bored out of his skull playing duke these past few months, thanks to Uncle Bucky’s sudden demise. Valentine had yet to visit the ducal seat in Scotland—a task he hoped to put off for as long as possible.