That tinkling laughter he so loathed broke out across the room as she found herself surrounded by fawning admirers. He kept his feet firmly planted so that he didn’t go over there and make an ass of himself. Though he might have been her first lover, she wasn’t his to keep. He held no claim over her.

When he tore his hungry gaze away, Lisbeth’s attention was on him. “You know, you retired honorably from service for a reason, Val.”

“What’s your point?”

“The Kestrel isn’t your responsibility,” she said.

He shot her a sidelong glance. “Are you saying I should pretend she isn’t an international damsel-turned-spy who stole my confidential Home Office documents?” Valentine felt his blood boil, as if Bronwyn had committed the offense directly against him.

“We don’t know how she came into possession of them.” Lisbeth tapped her fingers against her chin. “What we need to do is find out who the real instigator is. It’s not her, clearly. She’s not an official British operative. When we get back to London, I say we let her go and see what she does.”

It was a sound plan. An excellent plan. But once more, the idea of letting Bronwyn out of his sight made his skin prickle and itch. Lisbeth was right—this had become more than personal. More of those bell-like sounds reached his ears, and he fought not to ground his teeth together when two of the men mimed having a duel in front of her. The so-called winner dropped to his knee before the lady and begged loudly for a favor.

Valentine was halfway across the room and on the edge of her space before he stopped himself from hauling the idiotic young buck to his feet. A pair of startlingly blue eyes met his and his breath constricted in his lungs. “Your Grace,” she said with a dip of her head, lashes falling demurely to her cheeks. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

He fought not to groan as the inflection on that last word arrowed straight to his groin, reminding him of the provocative scene in her bath chamber he’d escaped by the skin of his teeth. The young gentleman genuflecting in front of her skirts shot him a fulminating glare, which Valentine ignored. “A word, Lady Bronwyn,” he said, and then choked out the last word. “Please.”