***
Valentine was irritated.
That was nothing new, of course, but the fact that the blasted Kestrel continued to avoid detection was making him more provoked than usual. The window of opportunity would narrow once they disembarked the next day in Philadelphia and whomever he was would have a greater chance of escape. Valentine had hoped to have the man in custody by now and the missing pages from his report back in hand, but he had nothing to show for his efforts. Even Lisbeth was frustrated, and it took quite a lot to ruffle her equanimity.
On top of that, a certain young lady whose blood had to be a nauseating blend of coyness and coquetry, had burrowed under his skin like a frayed splinter. He’d had to endure watching her flirt and simper with nearly every gentleman onboard, their collective infatuation almost impossible to bear. Yes, she was an heiress. Yes, she was beautiful. But by God, she had nothing but dust motes in her brain. Could they not see that?
He was inordinately grateful that she was not in the ship’s first-class dining saloon at present. Perhaps she was ill and would bless him while disappointing all her fawning toadies with the lack of her imperiously vapid presence this evening. Oh, to be so fortunate! A whisper of shame swamped him at how uncharitable he was being. It was a good thing his thoughts were private and he was not in the habit of sharing them. In truth, he pitied the poor gentleman who would eventually be caught in the young lady’s witless snare.
“Are you well, Val?” Lisbeth asked in a low voice so their other dinner companions would not overhear. There were only two of them, an older couple, with two chairs remaining empty. “Thinking of the Kestrel?”
He set down his spoon from the first course and reached for his whisky that a servant had thankfully refilled. “Yes. The Kestrel.”
“Do you think he’s here?”
Valentine shook his head, eyes scanning the crowded room. No, he was not keeping an eye out for a shining mop of chestnut and ash-brown curls wondering what could have befallen his comely nemesis. Irritation returning, he scowled at himself. A flash of a face caught the edge of his vision and his head whipped back. Tall, thin, black top hat. He could have sworn he’d seen the man from the portrait. Bloody hell!
“What is it?” Lisbeth asked.
Valentine hissed through his teeth. “I think he might be here, but I’m not certain.”
“Did you see him?”
“I think so. It was fast.” Furious at himself for being distracted, he pointed to the left side of the saloon. “Over there somewhere.”
“Are you sure?” Lisbeth asked.
Valentine’s teeth ground together. “No, God damn it.”
Eyebrow arched in faint surprise, she stared at him. He was not a man known for an inability to remember detail or be uncertain about anything, especially a mark. “Let me take a stroll to the retiring room and have a look. I’ll be right back.”
When she rose gracefully and picked her way through the tables, Valentine released the hold on his strained jaw. His attention was all over the place. It was her fault. Ever since he’d run into her a few days ago, Lady Bronwyn had taken up more space in his head than she was due. He wasn’t a man run by his passions, but that hadn’t stopped him from being fascinated by whorls of glossy brown hair and rosy, soft skin. His fantasy version of her and the reality were two different things, however. The reality required cotton to be stuffed into his ears.
“Here you are, my lady,” the footman said, interrupting his thoughts.
“Oh, is this my seat? Thank you, Harry, you are my dashing hero.” A breathy voice chuckled, the sound making Valentine’s skin tighten. With horror, of course. “Goodness, I do apologize for joining you this late.” The footman blushed and Valentine rolled his eyes before standing and settling his stare on their latest arrival. Fate was a cruel, cruel mistress as he watched the footman pull out Lady Bronwyn’s chair beside a sea of dark-blue skirts. He and the other gentleman at the table resumed their places once she took her place. “Your Grace, what an unexpected pleasure! I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”
Like the plague.
Valentine swallowed the curt reply. “Lady Bronwyn, you look…” Stunning. Elegant. Gorgeous. He huffed an annoyed breath at how well his brain seemed to categorize details now, despite its lapse earlier with the man who could be the Kestrel. “Well.”
“Thank you, kind sir,” she replied, dark lashes dipping over clear blue eyes. “You look well yourself.” She made the word sound lascivious, like a dessert to be relished. With a warm smile to the older couple at the table, she canted her head. “Lord and Lady Willington, how marvelous you both look this evening, and how lucky I am to have been seated with you.”
They clucked at her sweetness—which made him want to retch in patent disgust—and fawned over her appearance and dress. It was just a gown, one that she wore quite well, admittedly, but so did the countless other ladies having supper here. They were all dressed impeccably.
He tore his gaze away, lest she should notice his fatuous perusal, and focused on the second course. Braised beef with morels in béchamel sauce with roasted potatoes, but even the smell of the rich broth could not overpower the cinnamon-and-spiced-apples scent wafting from his right. Why did she smell like pudding? Who smelled like bloody pudding?
Where the hell was Lisbeth?
“Something amiss, Your Grace?” Lady Bronwyn asked with a tinkling burst of laughter that set his teeth on edge. “Is your meal not prepared to your liking? You were glowering so fiercely for a moment there, I feared the tablecloth would catch fire.”
No, just you.
That was cruel. He didn’t actually wish to set the lady on fire, only that she would move elsewhere. Far away. Where he couldn’t see, hear, or inhale her maddening scent. Valentine tugged at his collar, sweat beading over his neck. “Of course not, my lady. My meal is fine. How is yours?”
“Lovely! Better now that my sweet Harry is here with wine. Huzzah!” She grinned up as the fawning footman—how was she so familiar with him as to know his name?—poured her a full glass of wine. “Thank you, dear one. Aren’t you a gem?” She lifted her glass in a toast and the older couple was quick to follow. He lifted his with no small amount of reluctance. “To my lovely companions, and of course, wonderful Harry, who has seen fit to save me more than once.”
Valentine had the distinct urge to throw the lovesick, smitten Harry overboard when he went fiery red and stammered his thanks. Valentine’s scowl grew teeth. Devil take it, was no man onboard safe from her flirtatious attentions?
“How has he?” he bit out.
Winsome blue eyes met his. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“How has a footman saved you more than once?” The way he repeated it sounded in no way how she’d said it, given the way Lady Willington’s face tightened with displeasure. Lady Bronwyn, however, didn’t lose her smile.