“I was beginning to think you had forgotten our rendezvous, Thornbury,” she drawled when his dank expression scared off most of her hangers-on, who retreated a safe distance away. “I almost had to stop a duel from happening over who would be my new escort in to dinner.”

“Sorry I’m late. Something came up.”

An amused brow lifted, a smirk drifting over her mouth. “Does that something have brown hair, bright blue eyes, and a body made for an artist’s canvas?”

Positively. Valentine ignored the rush in his blood and schooled his features to remain blank. He couldn’t, however, keep the flush from heating the tips of his ears. Predictably, Lisbeth’s smile widened, but she kept those opinions to herself.

“Yes and no,” he replied. “She’s a nuisance who’s only going to get herself killed.”

Lisbeth ran her fingers over a scale and then turned to face him. “You have blinders on where the lady is concerned, Val. She’s more accomplished than you think.”

Didn’t he know it now. Valentine loosed a breath and resisted the urge to tug on his cravat. He leaned in, voice low. “We need to talk.”

Lisbeth rose, much to the disappointment of her audience who had retreated to a safe distance but were still present. She had a way with people. They fell to her charms like blocks of dominoes. Like Bronwyn. Valentine’s scowl deepened. The two women were nothing alike.

When he led Lisbeth to a quiet set of armchairs in an alcove that wasn’t in the middle of the room, she frowned at his expression as she took the seat opposite him. “Do I even want to know what this is about?”

Best to just get it out. “She’s the Kestrel.”

Whatever she’d been expecting him to say, he knew it wasn’t that. Her mouth went slack, her eyes glittering with shock bleeding into mirth, and then she started to laugh. Those light, airy chuckles drew attention, but Valentine couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d laugh too, if the whole situation didn’t paint him in the worst possible light.

He’d missed all the signs.

He’d been led like a dog following a meaty bone.

He’d taken dreadful advantage and deflowered a lady.

“It’s not that funny,” he growled.

Lisbeth wiped her eyes and shook her head. “Of course the Kestrel is a woman,” she said. “I had my suspicions, but the Home Office was so adamant it was a man. And of course they were. No man could be so elusively brilliant. My hat is off to her. Honestly, I think I’m half in love with her already.”