Recruited as part of an enormous espionage network, Van Lew was the one with ties to Wentworth, but it was Mary whose bravery had stuck with Bronwyn. Risking discovery and her own neck, the courageous Black woman had posed as a domestic servant behind enemy lines and passed on critical information to Van Lew. A huge part of how she avoided exposure was by pretending to be insensible and witless, fooling dozens around her, when the fascinating truth was she possessed a photographic memory. The information she gleaned was vital to the cause. Mary was one of the true unsung heroes of the war.

In truth, Richards’s efforts were the reason Bronwyn had agreed to do this in the first place. She had seen the opportunity as a chance to do something. To be part of a changing tide and the revolution that women like Richards so bravely led.

The duke frowned, his brows dipping so harshly that she swore she heard a crash of thunder. “You are not a spy, Bronwyn. You are a girl playing at grown-up reconnaissance games.”

His words stung, but Bronwyn hardened herself against them. It wasn’t the first time she’d faced the disdain of men in her chosen line of work. Some of the longtime operatives who worked for Wentworth had been openly contemptuous of her ability—as a decorous lady of quality—to do anything worthwhile. But she had! She’d risked life and limb to get that message to Richards.

“Think what you will, Your Grace. You have already formed your opinion of me.”

“What did you talk about?” he ground out. “What was the missive?”

Bronwyn ran a hand down the edge of the tub. “There was chatter about an attempt to abduct the president on a certain date at a certain location.”

The duke’s eyes narrowed, likely in disbelief or anger at her prevarication, but she didn’t care what he thought. She’d done what she had to do. The message had been delivered.

“Who do you work for?”

She smiled. “Now that will have to wait until we are back in London.”

“I can get it out of you.”

“What are you doing to do, Your Grace? Starve me? Torture me? Punish me?”

His eyes widened at the lowered inflection on that last word, but nothing else moved, not even the muscle in his cheek. He could be a statue for how rigidly he held himself, but Bronwyn knew better. He was fuming underneath that frigid facade.

“I might be a silly girl in your eyes, but underestimate me at your own peril.” She slid the cloth between her legs and arched lewdly, giving voice to the erotic moan crawling up her throat. “Do. Your. Worst.”