He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as hard as he could until spots danced in his vision. He had a job to do, and babysitting the younger sister of one of his friends was not in the cards. Valentine hadn’t expected her to be on the ship, and he was certain Ashvale would be surprised to learn that she had bandied his name about to secure passage.
He wondered if the ailing relation was real, or whether that was some pretext to leave her mother’s clutches. He shook his head—that adder of a woman wouldn’t let her spawn go far, not if it endangered her chance to make an exceptional match. Her young, nubile daughter was much too valuable a commodity for that. Then again, money was as attractive a lure as a title these days.
Valentine recognized the initial pulse of interest for what it was. Lady Bronwyn was a comely girl, there was no denying that. Ash-brown hair with hints of rich chestnut was coiled into an artful arrangement that framed her oval-shaped face to perfection. Darkly lashed crystalline blue eyes were the jewels of a creamy porcelain countenance, overshadowing the small bow-shaped mouth that resided below a sloping nose.
She wasn’t even his type. He preferred his women bashful, buxom, and brainless.
While she had the last going for her, Valentine couldn’t explain the vexing pulse of attraction. Thankfully, the early spurt of it had evaporated the moment she’d opened her mouth. And he had more important things to do than worry about some silly chit, though he did feel a beat of responsibility to his friend, the duke. Ashvale would pummel him to a pulp if he found out that Valentine had left his friend’s younger sister in a compromising situation.
He palmed his face and frowned. So was she lying?
No. She had likely used the Ashvale connection to occupy the owner’s accommodations onboard. He sighed, rethinking his early thought that she was the shallowest sort of woman. A pity, really. Or perhaps a blessing in disguise. Not that he required any temptation while he was working. He had one job—he needed to find the rogue operative known as the Kestrel.
And his prey was on this ship.
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.
“Lisbeth, dearest. Weren’t you supposed to be playing cards?”
Her lips curled, her eyes flashing with chagrin. “It was a bust.”
Damn. He felt his frustration rise. They were both sure that the mysterious Lord Kestrel would show his face after being at sea for three days. Dinner, a dance, or a hand of cards, but no, nothing. Peers, even treasonous ones, enjoyed their entertainments.
“Everyone in the cardroom has been cleared,” she said. “Did you find your little diversion? You took off like a bat out of hell when you saw that chit. Who is she?”
“It’s Ashvale’s sister,” he said in a dispassionate tone.
Her brows rose in surprise. “Lady Borne’s daughter?”
“One and the same, and suffice it to say that that apple is firmly still part of that beetle-bitten tree.”
“Wasn’t she the one who helped the duke?” Lisbeth frowned. “She seemed to have a good head on her shoulders despite her sorry parentage.”
“A year is a long time to change a person,” he said, lip hooking in a repulsed sneer.
“That bad?” Lisbeth asked.
“Worse, if you can imagine it.”
“I cannot.”
Passing another couple and exchanging pleasant nods, Lisbeth hooked her arm in his and peered up at him. It was all a farce, of course, but it was like walking in a worn, comfortable shoe. The pretense came easily to both of them. Though they had been lovers in the past, that had been a long time ago. Valentine kept his liaisons short and detached, while Lisbeth preferred female company these days. Still, they remained close friends, and he suspected that that would never change.
“She wants us to dine together,” he said.
Lisbeth grinned as he led her back to their adjoining chambers. “Will you?”
“I’d rather take my chances with the sharks, thank you very much.” He shook his head and scowled. “It’s only because of Ashvale that I’m even considering it. She claims to have a sick aunt in Philadelphia, but I expect it’s more than that. She could be running away the way the Duke of Embry’s sister did.”
“Do you blame her?” Lisbeth asked when they stopped at her door. “With a mother like that threatening to marry her off to the highest bidder, if I were her, I’d slip away too the first chance I got. Leave her be, Val. You remember what it was like to be young once, don’t you?”