A bored Bronwyn had shamelessly eavesdropped on the conversation.
“He won’t listen to me, Wentworth!”
Bronwyn hadn’t recognized the mysterious Wentworth who was masked, but he had been agitated, his palm slamming into the wainscoting. “This is our only window before Ashley leaves for London. Find a way to get the message to him, Sesily. He cannot be on that train.” Bronwyn had been thoroughly intrigued by the hushed urgency in the man’s tone, but what had interested her even more was the mutinous look on Sesily’s face. She was most distraught. “I do not care what you have to do,” Wentworth had commanded in a brutal whisper before striding away. “Get it done!”
Bronwyn had approached quietly and handed her friend a handkerchief when she pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes with a groan. “Can I help?”
“Oh,” Sesily had said, startled and looking up, tight ebony spirals springing into her brow. “No, you couldn’t. It’s… Never mind.”
“Tell me what to tell him and I will.”
“Tell who?”
Bronwyn had canted her head. “Ashley.”
Panic had ensued, Sesily’s dark-brown eyes going wide, her breathing rapid as though she was going to swoon at any second. “Oh, no. You cannot!”
“Tell me the message and I will take care of it, Sesily,” Bronwyn had whispered, determined to help. “I’m masked. No one will recognize me, I promise. Now tell me what to do.”
Clearly torn, Sesily had wrung her hands, but then her spine had straightened and she’d swallowed, her pretty face drawn. “See the man over there in the gray mask? That’s him. There’s a raid planned to attack his train to London tonight. Tell him not to get on.”
“A raid?” Bronwyn had blinked her confusion. Whatever she’d expected, it hadn’t been that. She’d thought Sesily’s distress had had to do with courting or some such. Silly her. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Sesily?”
“No, nothing like that. I help deliver messages from time to time.” Her face had gone more pinched if that was possible. “But I made a mistake. I thought Wentworth could get me an introduction to Lord Cupid, er, Pam.”
“Pam?” The word had emerged on a gasp. Lord Cupid was a moniker printed by the Times about the prime minister, and Pam was yet another of his nicknames. What on earth were Sesily and this mysterious Wentworth into? Surely she did not mean…
“If Ashley gets on that train, he will die.” A hand had gripped her elbow as her brain whirled to connect the obvious dots. Dear God, Ashley was Palmerston’s private secretary. This intrigue was beyond anything Bronwyn had ever imagined. The excitement in her blood had spiked to dangerous levels.
“I’ll do it.”
And she had, and never looked back.
She’d pretended to approach the Honorable Anthony Evelyn Melbourne Ashley, with her dance card in hand and looking suitably shy.
“I believe we might have this dance, sir,” she had murmured. When he’d looked confused, she had pressed a gloved hand to her lips, eyelashes dipping in fabricated mortification. “Oh, I do beg your pardon. I’m mistaken. I must have muddled the masks.” Embarrassed laughter had tumbled out of her. “And it appears I have mistaken the dance as well because this is the polka and it’s blank. I don’t suppose you wish to dance?”
His look of shock had been comical. “This is a bit untoward, Miss…er…”
Rather untoward since they had not been introduced, but it was a country masquerade and rules weren’t as stringent as they would have been in London. Her fingers had brushed the edges of the feathers on her mask. “Miss Bee.”
“Yes, well, I…” Looking decidedly uncomfortable, he’d tugged on his collar and his voice had trailed off. Clearly, Ashley wasn’t nearly the type of womanizer his much older employer was purported to be.
“Never fear, sir, I shall let you off the hook then, but I have a message for you.” Voice low, she’d brushed passed him so close that her feathers had skimmed his arm. “Do not get on the train to London tonight. I’m told to advise you that there will be a raid.”
She’d left him gaping and melted into the crowd.
The Honorable Anthony Evelyn Melbourne Ashley had not boarded the train that evening and lived to see another day.
For Bronwyn, the rush had been indescribable.
From then on, Wentworth had named her the Kestrel on account of the spotted-brown-feathered mask she had worn that night. And as the sister to a duke, her connections offered them access in places among the ton that they didn’t have before. It had started in much the same vein as it had with Sesily…a message here, a coded letter there, and soon, the Kestrel quickly became a notorious informant. Thankfully, it had been Sesily’s brilliant idea to leak a male description of the Kestrel to Scotland Yard, which had given Bronwyn some breathing space.
This trip to Philadelphia, however, was the biggest and most nerve-racking assignment she had ever done. Bronwyn fingered the waxed correspondence. The seal was almost lifting off the parchment but remained unbroken. With a little effort, it could detach. She let out a breath. Wouldn’t it be better if she knew what was inside? Then at least the information would be protected.
But you would be at risk, you ninny.
That was also true. Being able to plead ignorance was always important in her line of work. With a huff, she tucked both sheets into her corset and rose. She’d be late for dinner if she didn’t get a move on. It was the farewell celebration before the SS Valor docked on the morrow in America. Perhaps the heat from her bosom would make the decision for her and the missive would miraculously open.
Breasts…not just for decoration.
She bit back a laugh. While her mother had made sure she was always dressed in the best of fashions, Bronwyn had never taken much pleasure in it herself. Tonight, however, the Marchioness of Borne would have approved of her garments. The silver-threaded indigo gown was one of her newer ones, the scalloped bodice daring in itself, and one that the scatterbrained Cora had packed even though Bronwyn had specified plain clothing only. Clearly, the maid did not understand what that meant since she had included the extravagant gown. Though Bronwyn was grateful for it now.
Thornbury won’t know what hit him.
She blinked at the odd thought. The dress wasn’t for him. It was the last night on the ship and she had to look her best. The sister of the Duke of Ashvale had to embody the right appearance. As though Courtland cared one whit about appearances. She bit her lip, her excuses so thin even she could see through them, and tossed her head.
It wasn’t for Thornbury and that was that.