The Duke in Question, page 26
She felt the blood drain from her face, the warning signals in the pit of her stomach making it roil. The American president had not survived the brutal attack at Ford’s Theatre. If they could kill such a man, what would they do to her? Her body swayed.
“What is going on, Bronwyn?”
“I think he’s here,” she whispered and then shook her head. “I was on the balcony, and I thought I saw him.”
The duke swore. “Here? Are you certain?”
“I don’t usually forget a face,” she said. “But it was so fast, I can’t be sure. I told Ravenna to find Courtland and get to safety.”
“Good move.” He eyed her. “Do you have a weapon on you?”
She patted both sides of her thighs, and those golden eyes flared with a combination of approval and heady desire. “Ravenna told me the Duchess of Embry used to cut holes in the pockets of her gown to access her knives, kukri she called them. I’ve done the same but with pocket pistols.”
“Good girl.” It should have been patronizing coming from him, but all it did was make her weak in the knees. Something was officially wrong with her head. She peered at him with narrowed eyes, expecting him to order her to stay hidden like the helpless damsel she was, but he gave a firm nod. “I’m going to walk through the ballroom. Keep an eye on the exits, if you can. If you see anything, break the biggest vase you can find.”
Her brows pleated. “You’re going to trust me on my own?”
“Yes, two sets of eyes are better than one,” he said on an exhale and then rubbed the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “I must be out of my mind, but well, there it is.” Bronwyn stared at him in utter shock. Had the most decorated spy in Britain deemed her an asset instead of a hindrance? She could not hide her grin.
“I suppose I’m official now. Do we get embossed calling cards? Is there a secret spy handshake? A special wink, perhaps?”
“God, that mouth. It’s incorrigible.” The duke started to move away, but then turned around and closed the distance between them with three brisk steps. With a blazing look, he hauled her to him and planted a hard kiss on her lips before releasing her. “Be careful. Don’t get shot.”
“You don’t get shot,” she tossed back. “Partner.”
She was still smiling when he walked away with lengthy strides, already observing the guests as he walked the perimeter. Perhaps she should head back up to her small balcony. It provided an exceptional view of the entire ballroom. Bronwyn turned and promptly crashed into someone. “Forget something?”
The words died on her lips as she stared up into the ugly face of the man from the tavern. Even dressed in a bespoke suit of clothing, nothing could hide the craggy harshness of his face. The barrel of a gun pressed into her stomach. “You’ve caused a lot of trouble, little bird. Are you going to come quietly? Or shall I make an example of someone? How about the pregnant woman with you earlier?”
All the bravery bled out of her. “I’ll come quietly.”
It wasn’t her fault that on the way out, she stumbled clumsily and crashed into a giant vase of flowers in the foyer. As she watched it smash into a million pieces, she hoped the noise would be enough to alert the Duke of Thornbury, wherever he was.
If not, she was on her own.
***
Valentine’s head ached. The further he walked away from Bronwyn, the more troubled he felt. And it wasn’t as though he didn’t think she wasn’t capable of defending herself. He did. She astounded him, to be honest. How a sheltered heiress had gone from being a debutante to running messages for the Home Office and crossing international borders to do so was beyond him. He used to think that it was foolish whimsy, but he was coming to realize that Bronwyn was far from a fool. She had a cunning mind and bravery that most men lacked.
And he was letting her go like water through his fingers.
She doesn’t want to marry you.
His chest squeezed as if a huge hand had taken his heart in a tight fist. His feelings on everything were so muddled—tied up in the life he’d lived and expectations for the future. If Bronwyn knew some of the things he’d done in the name of Crown and country, would she look at him differently? She would. That was his penance. He was meant to be alone with that burden. Not foist it on someone else. The only person who’d ever understood had been Lisbeth because they were the same.
Bronwyn was light, and as much as his darkness craved her, he could not drag her down with him. She deserved someone like Herbert, whom everyone loved. Who was safe and steady. And who knew, maybe he would be the grand love she deserved. Valentine couldn’t stand the thought of that wishy-washy boy kissing Bronwyn, touching her. Being the recipient of those wily smiles and weighted looks from those brilliant blue eyes.
He’d noticed her the minute she’d entered his sphere, his every sense attuned to her. In a stunning rose-colored gown that floated around her slender form, she was the loveliest lady in the room. From the tips of the ostrich feathers in her hair that had been dyed to match to her jeweled slippers, she was a vision. He hadn’t been the only one in the ballroom left slack-jawed after her entrance.
A man came abreast of him. “Rawley,” he said. “Good. Bronwyn said she saw someone in the ballroom.”
Rawley gritted his teeth. “I told Ashvale to tell his stepmother that a ball was a bad idea with someone after Bee. She probably thought it was a hoax or some attempt to thwart her plans to barter off her daughter like a side of beef. And now that man is here. Inside.”
Valentine exhaled forcefully. “He would have found a way to get her to him, no matter what. Where is Ashvale?”
“Seeing the duchess home, and also fetching the Metropolitan Police.”
“This is too much of a crush. If he is here, he could be anywhere. We need to draw him out somehow.” But even as he said the words, he felt his skin pull tight. Typically, one drew a target out with bait, but not if the bait was on the other side of the ballroom.
He was running before he could even finish his thought. He’d left Bronwyn on her own when he really should have kept her with him. A part of him had wanted to let her know that the way he saw her had changed, but even her bright burst of delight was not enough to stop him from kicking himself. The man from Philadelphia was here for her!
The loud crash of something large splintering on the floor had him lengthening his stride, his heart thumping in his chest. He was almost running by the time he neared the entrance to the residence. Efficient footmen and maids were already sweeping up the mess.
Rawley caught up to him, his chest heaving.
“She’s gone,” Valentine said.
The other man blinked. “Taken by force?”
“Yes, I suspect so. From right under our goddamned noses.” He clenched his fists. His entire body felt heavy and uncoordinated as if he were wading in mud. Even his brain felt unnaturally slow. “They can’t have gone far, unless they’re still inside.”
“I’ll search the house,” Rawley said. “You go outside.”
Valentine wavered on his feet. It was unlike him to be so undecisive, but he felt frozen with fear. At an urgent look from Rawley, he lifted a palm to his throat, inhaling great gulping breaths of air as he ran down the steps, his eyes checking all the carriages lined up for any sign of rose-colored skirts. She’d looked so beautiful tonight, too. Beautiful and lethal. He recalled the impudent look when she had tapped at her thighs, indicating her hidden weapons.
At least she was armed. That was one comfort.
Bronwyn was smart. If she was being taken somewhere, she would have left crumbs, knowing he wouldn’t be too far behind. With several harsh breaths to cleanse his foggy head, he surveyed the top part of Upper Brook Street, watching each coach and each person, and then turned to the bottom. There! What looked like part of one of the pink fronds from her coiffure lay on the ground in a patch of mud.
Clever girl.
Valentine raced past it until he saw another on the corner of the road, turning onto Park Street. Bronwyn wasn’t that far ahead of him, a few minutes at the most, but feathers could fly if there was a bit of wind, and then he would be in dire straits. Cursing, he ran faster, catching sight of yet another ripped frond. She wouldn’t have much left at this rate. He ran down the street past the mews toward South Street and blinked at the crossroads. Hell. There were no more sodding feathers in sight, or if there had been, they’d blown away.
Which way, damn it!
Retracing his steps, he stared at the ground, searching for something, anything. Come on, Bee, you know I’m right on your heels. She’d be tickled pink to know that he was calling her by Rawley’s nickname. Hell, he’d call her whatever she wanted when she was safe. That strange feeling rose from deep in his chest into his throat again, as if he was choking. He had to find her. Every second that went by—every sodding heartbeat—meant the odds of that were dwindling. Valentine had never felt so helpless in his life as he glanced one way and then the other.
Right or left?
Either decision could be wrong. The choice could mean life or death.
Toward Hyde Park or back to Mayfair. If the man was going to kill her, Hyde Park would be the logical choice. Ice bled into Valentine’s veins. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he nearly roared his frustration. Make a decision. He turned right to go to the park and then saw the glint of something that caught the light from the gas lamp on the ground to his left.
A lady’s hairpin. It could be anyone’s hairpin.
His breath rushed out at the sight of the gilded lily. A second hairpin lay a few feet away—this one with a jeweled butterfly at the curve. Yes, these were Bronwyn’s. He recognized them from the folly.
Valentine praised her dauntless, clever, brilliant self. He picked up his pace, running as fast as he’d ever run in all his life.
Twenty-three
Bronwyn tugged another hairpin loose while the man dragged her along like a rag doll. He was huge and strong, and she struggled to keep up, not because she was actively trying to slow them down—well, she was—but she couldn’t with the brutal hold he had on her arm. With her luck, he’d wrench it off. His strong grip was more than likely going to leave bruises. The street had been too clogged with carriages for him to get them into a hansom, so they walked. Correction, he’d walked. She had been forced to run to keep pace.
Oh, she hoped Valentine had found her bread crumbs.
Her coiffure was practically mangled, while she was attempting to surreptitiously pluck the feathers and then when she’d realized how foolish that was because feathers were apt to float, she had resorted to her favorite hairpins. Not much better considering it was late evening and the things were barely visible in good light, but Valentine was shrewd and missed little. He wasn’t known as the greatest spymaster in England for nothing.
“Move,” the man at her side growled.
“Where are you taking me?” To my death?
Something worse?
But he only grunted and nearly yanked her arm out of the socket. Bronwyn reached up for the last of the hairpins, the linchpin that was holding her mass of curls in place, when they made an abrupt left onto the Balfour Mews. She dropped it, and her hair, along with the rest of the ridiculous headpiece her mother had insisted she wear, fell down her back.
“What the hell happened?” the man growled, stopping to snatch up the jeweled decoration. He didn’t care that it would be a clue for anyone following.… The piece had real gems clustered to its base and would be worth a few bob.
She stared innocently up at him. “What do you expect when you’ve been jostling me like a rag doll for the last quarter of an hour? This hairstyle is meant for light dancing, not vigorous activity.”
“I wish he’d let me get rid of you.”
Bronwyn perked up. So she wasn’t going to die…yet. And who was he? Obviously, this man was not in charge and there was someone here in London, or from France or the United States, who was calling the shots. Who was the knave working for?
“Why haven’t you?” she asked. “Seemed like that was the intent in Paris and Philadelphia.”
He hissed as if she’d pressed on a raw wound, his mouth flattening into a hard white line as his fingers closed around her arm and made her wince. Cursing, he sent her a vexed look and then yanked her into the empty stables. The soft nicker of horses reached her ears, but no one of the human variety was around.
Bronwyn let out a breath and revised her statement when a shadowy form carrying a lantern loomed into view. Her heart kicked in her chest, hoping that it was the duke, but then a different feeling, one of relief filled her when the new arrival was made clear. He held a gun in his hand and looked quite fierce. Bronwyn wanted to whoop and stomp on her captor’s instep, but she stayed still, waiting for his signal.
“Lady Bronwyn, my most unexpected success and the biggest fucking pain in my arse. Where’s my goddamned list?”
She blinked at Wentworth. “Sir?”
But he only stared, waiting for her molasses-slow brain to catch up. Oh dear God. The employer of the man whose grip was currently crushing her arm was him.
Everything seemed to unravel in slow motion—the fact that her mentor in the Home Office was sneering at her, that the gun was pointed at her instead of her abductor, and the utterly numbing realization that the man she had trusted most in the world was not on her side.
Stay calm. Control your emotions. Valentine’s words from the Bois de Boulogne arose as she faced down the deadly weapon.
“When did you decide to throw me to the wolves?” she asked, keeping her voice measured.
“You were always disposable, Lady Bronwyn.” He strolled closer, waving the gun carelessly in the air. She clenched her teeth. If the brute released her, she might have a chance of getting to one or both of her weapons or even disarming him as she’d practiced. Wentworth was a trained operative, however, not a careless, hired cad. “You know, when you first approached Sesily and then me so boldly, wanting to do your part for God and country, I almost laughed, but you wanted to prove yourself so badly.” He shook his head and tapped his chin with the gun. “Imagine my surprise when you turned out to be better than Sesily.”
“Where is she?” Bronwyn asked, keeping her stare on him and her shock at bay. “What have you done with her?”
The bastard laughed. “Nothing. I married the bellicose chit.”
“What?”
He shrugged. “Though lamentably, I had to send her back to San Francisco. She threatened to expose me and I couldn’t have that. At least, not until I dealt with a few loose ends that could see me lose my position.” Wentworth laughed. “She’s the one who tried to extort you, you know. After I cut her off, she was hoping for money to hide from me and remain in England.”
Poor Sesily. Valentine had been right—that note had been sent out of despair. To be that trapped and desperate, Bronwyn couldn’t imagine. But that was the thing with a patriarchal society—a wife became her husband’s property.
At least she was safe with her mother if Wentworth was telling the truth, but that would explain why she would not have received or responded to Bronwyn’s correspondence from France. Which meant Wentworth had sent the note about meeting him at the masquerade.
“If you despised her so much, why marry her?” Bronwyn froze as the answer came much too readily. She exhaled. “You wanted her fortune.”
“My very own American dollar princess. You see? This is why I love her,” Wentworth said to the silent man still holding her in an iron grip, a proud look in his eyes that made Bronwyn want to spit on him. The lily-livered liar! He’d played both her and Sesily like a fiddle and they had fallen for it. “She’s fast on her feet and intelligent to boot.”
“She walked like her legs were made of lead,” the man muttered. “Stumbling every two seconds. Crashed into a vase in her own home, lost her headpiece.”
Bronwyn stiffened right as Wentworth stilled, his sharp eyes settling on her messy hair. Unlike the one with his paws on her, her former handler wasn’t a fool. She saw the moment he realized that her hair would not have gotten into such a state without help or by her own design.
“Damn it!” he thundered. “Did you see anyone following you?”
“No.”
Wentworth let out a coarse oath, his face going red with rage. “Go keep a lookout. Shoot if you see anyone.”
When the man did as he was bid, Bronwyn forced herself not to move too quickly as blood rushed into her numb arm, prickles burning hot beneath the skin. Any big movements would be noticed, and she needed to be slow…excruciatingly slow to avoid notice. With an eye on Wentworth, she eased her hands to her sides where the false pockets had been sewn. Slowly, she urged herself, despite the need to rush. There. She was in. As if he could sense the uplift in her state, Wentworth frowned, eyes darting to her once more.
“Wait, Larry, did you check her for weapons?”
Halfway to the entrance to the mews, the man glanced over his shoulder. “Why would I? She was at a ball and she’s wearing a ball gown.”
“You’re a bloody—”
But he didn’t even finish his sentence as Bronwyn slid her pistols from their holsters in a well-practiced movement, cocking both barrels with the thumbs of each hand, and pointed one at each of them. “Never underestimate a lady in a dress.”
Wentworth’s mouth went tight, a vein pulsing in his forehead. “Give me what I want and no one will get hurt.”
Bronwyn lifted a brow, despite her racing pulse, and fought to keep her arms steady. No need to offer him a shaky countenance as more ammunition against her. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, but she refused to show this man any weakness whatsoever. “I have two guns, one trained on each of you, and believe me I’m more than capable of shooting straight with both. Hands where I can see them, Larry.”
