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  “No, of course, you haven’t. You made me steal for you and smacked me when I didn’t do it quick enough. You’re an old brute, and I’m well rid of you.” She patted his hand, softening the words.

  Gerry’s eyes moistened. “Well, that’s true. But I always looked after you, you know that. Your mum asked me to, before she went. Never let anyone else touch you, did I?”

  “No, Dad. You’re a regular knight-errant.”

  Gerry squeezed her hand, looking genuinely remorseful. “I’m sorry about Jeffrey. I never meant him to go after you, with a shooter, no less. If I’d known that, I would have had me mates sit on him until he saw reason. I’d have throttled him meself after, if he hadn’t got himself dragged off to chokey.”

  Bertie believed him. For all Gerry had been hard on her, he’d also been extremely protective. Bertie had no doubt that had Jeffrey not been afraid of her father, he’d have dragged Bertie off to his bed long ago, whether she wanted to or not.

  Gerry tugged her closer. “I need to tell you something else, love. I didn’t just ask you to come so you could watch your old dad push off. I need to warn you.”

  Mrs. Lang looked worried, and Bertie felt a qualm. “Yeah? About what?”

  “There’s villains after you, Bertie. High-end villains.”

  Bertie studied her father’s face. He could be a liar, and a good one, but this time, he had true fear in his watery blue eyes. She glanced at Mrs. Lang for confirmation, and Mrs. Lang nodded.

  “What do you mean, high-end?” Bertie asked. “Posh gents who have turned to crime, or villains who’ve come up in the world?”

  “The second,” Gerry said. “Like Frank Devlin.”

  Bertie started. “What’s someone like Devlin want with me?” Frank Devlin was a very bad man, made a lot of money running housebreakers and street girls, plus a couple of bawdy houses for well-paying customers. He’d never bothered much with Bertie and her dad—they were too low-grade for him, and Gerry had taught Bertie to stay well clear of him.

  Mrs. Lang answered. “We don’t know. But he’s working for someone, and word is that he wants you brought to him. That’s why we asked you to come here and see us. Couldn’t trust a messenger, not with news like that.”

  Chapter 25

  Bertie came running out of the bedroom, her face pale under the gray hat she loved. “We have to go,” she threw at Sinclair on her way past him.

  Sinclair caught her by the arm. “Wait. Why? What did he say to you?”

  Bertie wrenched herself from his grasp. “Tell you downstairs. When we’re out of this place.”

  She made for the door in a swish of skirts and was gone. Sinclair, instead of following her, strode to the bedroom and went inside.

  “What did you say to her?” he demanded of the two in the room.

  Mr. Frasier peered at Sinclair from his bed. He didn’t look good, but he also didn’t look near to death’s door. Ill yes, but not fatally. “Mr. McBride, is it? You take good care of my girl, all right?”

  “You lured her here,” Sinclair said sternly, ignoring him. “Didn’t you? What’s your game?”

  “We had to,” Mrs. Lang said, her dark eyes anxious. “We couldn’t trust no one to tell her but us. Bertie will explain. Best you go now. We can’t risk anyone knowing we spilled anything to Basher McBride.”

  “The entire street knows I’m here,” Sinclair said impatiently.

  “Yeah, but won’t be us who told you, will it?”

  “If you’re in danger, you should leave.”

  Frasier laughed at him. “I’ve lived on this street man and boy. Me mates are here, me lady . . . me whole life. I’m not going. I’m proud of Bertie for trying to better herself, but I’m not in a hurry to move far from my local, am I?” Another wheezing laugh. “Fancy me walking into any other pub but me own. They’d take me head off on the spot.”

  Mrs. Lang held the man’s hand. “I’ll look after him. You take care of our Bertie.”

  “I intend to,” Sinclair said.

  Frasier’s voice went stern. “If you don’t marry her yourself, you marry her off to someone with plenty of blunt who’s good to her. Understand me?”

  Sinclair had started for the door, but he turned back, his anger tight. “You beat her,” he said clearly. “You used her to rob and steal for you—too afraid to do it yourself, were you? You’ve forfeited any say in what happens to her. She’ll never be hurt again, that I can tell you for certain.”

  “Just tell Bertie . . .” Frasier said. “Tell her she’s a good girl. Always was. Like her mum.”

  He was a sad old git, Sinclair decided, but Sinclair had seen many a man turn contrite when he thought the end was nigh. Frasier probably did feel remorse, but that didn’t excuse what he’d done. “She’s a wonderful young woman,” Sinclair said. “And she’ll live like a princess. Good day to you.”

  He turned his back on the two and made his way out of the flat and down the stairs. Bertie waited for him in the carriage, the pugilist next to it.

  “You took your time,” Bertie said as the pugilist opened the door.

  Sinclair climbed inside and landed on the seat beside her, her body warm against his. It would be more proper to sit opposite her, but to hell with what was proper. “You don’t have to be afraid, Bertie,” he said. “Don’t let whatever he told you rattle you.”

  Bertie brushed back her hat’s feather. “All I know is, I want out. My dad was good to warn me, but I bet Mrs. Lang made him do it. The old soak doesn’t want anything blowing back on him. Well, I’m finished with it all.”

  “Pleased to hear it.” Sinclair tapped on the coach roof for Richards, once the pugilist had slammed the door. “Now, what did he warn you about?”

  Bertie related the conversation, and Sinclair listened in growing unease. “I’ve heard of Devlin,” he said when she finished. “Your father’s not wrong—he’s dangerous. But don’t worry about him. I’ll have one of Inspector Fellows’s men . . .” Sinclair turned his head as he saw what he couldn’t believe he saw out of the landau’s fogged window. “Richards, stop!”

  Sinclair was out of his seat, opening the door of the moving coach even as he heard Richards’s whoa.

  “Here!” Bertie grabbed at Sinclair’s coat, her voice rising to a screech. “What are you doing?”

  Sinclair shook off her grasp, then his boots hit the pavement just as Richards pulled the horses to a halt.

  He’d seen a face up the street, one from his past, though it was not a face he expected. The man belonging to it wore a fine greatcoat and hat, very out of place in this area of workingman’s caps and rough jackets.

  The man was walking rapidly away. Sinclair ran after him, never minding the swarm of people crowding between him and his mark. “Stop, blast you!” Sinclair yelled at the retreating back.

  He heard the click of Bertie’s boots behind him, her calls to him. Sinclair didn’t respond. He sped his steps, reached the other man, and pulled him around to face him.

  The man stared back at Sinclair, not in surprise or shock, but in stark anger. He knew Sinclair would be here, damn him, likely had been following him every step.

  “James Maloney,” Sinclair said. “What the hell are you doing here, and why aren’t you rotting in prison?”

  Bertie paused as she saw Sinclair confront the man. She didn’t recognize the gent, but he dressed well, and his face was soft, his body trim and not bent by hard work.

  The pugilist behind her caught up, not happy. “Don’t like to leave the coach unguarded,” he growled.

  Bertie understood, but she was too agitated to answer. Sinclair turned aside from the crowd, pulling the man with him. Sinclair’s face had gone hard, eyes glittering.

  “Now tell me what you’re doing here,” Sinclair was saying when Bertie and the pugilist reached them. Sinclair held the man by the collar of
his coat. “Why are you even in England?”

  “What did you think?” The man had a broad Irish accent. “That I’d let you take my Daisy, and that would be the end of it?”

  Bertie stared in shock. Daisy? Was this the man, James, whom Sinclair’s wife had eloped with all those years ago? Things clicked together, and Bertie stepped forward. “You’ve been sending the letters, haven’t you?” she demanded. “Those bloody awful letters.”

  “Bertie,” Sinclair said, his voice low but firm. “Go back to the carriage.”

  “Not likely,” Bertie said. “Nasty piece of work, aren’t you?”

  Sinclair shot the pugilist a glare, and the man put his beefy hand on Bertie’s shoulder. “Best come with me, miss.”

  Bertie ducked out from under him. “Should be him you’re taking hold of, and giving him to the coppers.”

  “Letters?” James gave Sinclair a beatific smile. “No idea what she’s talking about.” His eyes were innocent, but Bertie was good at seeing through lies, and so was Sinclair. James was handsome enough, with charm in his smile. No surprise Sinclair’s wife had fallen for the scoundrel, but she’d soon learned her mistake, hadn’t she? “D’ye think I’m foolish enough to leave anything behind to connect me with any letters?” James asked.

  Not if he were a good confidence trickster, he wouldn’t. Confidence men always traveled light, ready to throw their worldly goods into a small bag and dash away, leaving no trace of themselves behind.

  But then, he might have kept something . . .

  “Miss,” the pugilist said. His hand landed on her shoulder again.

  Bertie twisted away. This time she pretended to trip, and landed hard against James. As he started and tried to push her away, her hands went to work.

  Bertie spun away, ran a few paces, and turned back, dangling a handkerchief, a slim wallet, a card case, and a watch from her hands.

  “I wonder what I’ll find in all this?” Bertie asked.

  Sinclair looked grim, but also as though he understood why she’d done it. James’s smooth smile vanished, then he snarled and started after her.

  Sinclair grabbed for him but James leapt away, sliding from his grasp as skillfully as Bertie could have. He rushed at Bertie, and Bertie turned and fled.

  She made for the coach, which was sitting a little way down from them, jammed in by traffic. Richards was standing up, looking for them. Before Bertie got halfway to it, James seized her by her coat, hauling her back. Her hat slipped, sagging by its pins over her eye.

  Bertie knew the pugilist and Sinclair were steps away, but still she felt a qualm of fear as James pulled her around with unkind hands, shoving her into a noisome passage. Confidence men preferred to fight with their tongues, but when they were put to it, they could be very dangerous, violently so.

  James blocked her way out to the busier street where the coach and freedom lay. “Give them back, ye bloody little whore.” He thrust his hands inside Bertie’s coat, but she’d already secreted her takings in inner pockets. She knew exactly how to stash gear quickly, all the better to run from the constables.

  Where was Sinclair? There was a press of traffic and people at the entrance to the passage, but this little artery could be another world—and quiet.

  Fear made her act. Maloney might have a weapon on him, and she had no doubt he’d be happy to pluck his things from her dead body.

  She kicked him hard, her pointed-toed, high-heeled boot making a formidable weapon. When James bellowed, Bertie followed it up by grabbing him by the hair and pulling him hard to the wall behind her.

  While he shouted and scrambled to right himself, Bertie was away.

  James recovered swiftly enough to get between her and the street, but such things wouldn’t slow down Bertie. She’d been born and bred in these alleyways, and she knew better than anyone how to snake around, losing pursuit, and finding her way to where she needed to go.

  She ran, dodging into another passage, jumping over filmy puddles and patches of stinking mud. She kept her hand on her hat as she sprinted. Bertie loved this hat, the gift from Eleanor, and she vowed not to lose it to the grimy streets of London.

  She heard James come behind her, his fine shoes grating in the muck. He could run almost as well as Bertie could, unfortunately. Of course, he’d likely become fast from evading the police all his life. Those who learned to move swiftly at an early age survived the longest.

  On the other hand, Bertie figured she knew these streets better than any Irish stranger. Sinclair would be coming, and she could lead James to where he’d be caught, unable to get away.

  She turned from Whitechapel and plunged south into the warren of lanes and courtyards, heading toward the river. “Lads,” she shouted as she raced along. “I’m bringing one in!”

  Word would pass ahead of her. Bertie ran as she hadn’t run in a long time, though her new boots pinched her feet. Posh shoes weren’t made for this kind of flight.

  Bertie dashed through frozen filth, the usual detritus of broken glass, stones, splinters of wood, and other trash crushing under her feet. The darkness increased between the close-set houses, mist clinging to her as though it had weight.

  She dashed around a corner into a narrow lane, familiar edifices rising around her. She threw open the door that led into the empty space between buildings and leapt over the threshold, not stopping until she’d reached the other side of the big pile of debris in the middle. James came on in after her. But the lads poured out of the corners, street toughs and Bertie’s old mates, ready to pound the mark so Bertie could get away.

  James went down. He drew a knife as he fell, and Bertie cried a warning.

  Sinclair came charging through the door, halting when he saw the fight in progress. He watched for a few heartbeats then made his way around the fracas toward Bertie, his anger palpable.

  And then everything stopped. The youths, one by one, looked up and peeled away from James and started off, out the door or climbing over the broken walls, disappearing into the gloom. The afternoon was just light enough for Bertie to see James come to his feet, his long knife glinting in his hand.

  Through the door behind Bertie came four men—Frank Devlin and three of his regular henchmen. Devlin was middle-aged, but he’d kept his youthful slimness. He wasn’t very tall, but he had a granite-hard face that made men half again his size back down in a trice. It was the eyes, Bertie thought. Light blue, cold, and mean, and holding no compassion whatsoever.

  Bertie had only about two seconds to wonder whether it was sheer coincidence that brought Devlin here at this moment, before James said, “I thank you, sirs. I want both of them.”

  “Damn it to hell,” Sinclair said. He grabbed Bertie’s hand.

  Bertie gave him a brief nod. Only one thing to do. “Run!” she shouted.

  Sinclair didn’t argue. They set off for the door through which they’d entered, Bertie praying Devlin hadn’t set other villains to waylay them on this side.

  James hurtled himself into Sinclair as they went by. The knife flashed, and Sinclair stumbled.

  “No!” Bertie swung around, ready with a kick at James, but Sinclair shoved her onward.

  “Don’t stop,” Sinclair said fiercely. “Run!”

  Bertie latched her hand around Sinclair’s, and they sprinted along together. She couldn’t tell whether the knife had only torn his coat or had gone all the way in. She only knew that lingering to let Devlin and his henchmen grab them while they checked was a bad idea.

  Bertie knew the streets, but so did Devlin. Then again, Devlin hadn’t kept himself fit these past few weeks by running after Andrew. Sinclair, the former soldier, twisted through the streets with Bertie, moving rapidly but silently.

  Bertie knew where they had to go. Around to the lanes near the river, down to the secret, narrow passages. Bertie slid through the tiny lane that led to her hideawa
y, Sinclair stifling grunts as he followed her around the jutting corners. Sinclair ducked his head this time as they went under the lintel of the door Bertie opened. “Seventeen steps,” she reminded him in a whisper.

  They were down inside her hidey-hole, the door closed and bolted against the outside world. Bertie groped for matches, finding them right where she’d left them. She lit the lamps and turned back to Sinclair.

  She found that he’d staggered to the makeshift sofa and collapsed on it, his hand to his abdomen. Bertie, mouth dry in fear, pulled off her hat and knelt beside him.

  “Let me see.”

  “Not a big wound,” Sinclair said, voice tight.

  “Don’t matter. A thin knife can kill a man. Let me see.”

  Sinclair opened his coat, moved aside his frock coat, then opened his waistcoat and inched up his bloodstained shirt and undershirt. A slice of tight brown skin came into view, and with it a raw, red wound, a hole about a half-inch across.

  “Nasty.” Bertie grabbed Sinclair’s handkerchief from his pocket, folded it, and pressed it to the wound. “Stilettos can go deep, and they’re jagged.”

  “So I feel.”

  Bertie bit her lip. Knife wounds could be shallow and heal quickly, or they could be deep enough to puncture something vital. Or they could fester. It happened so swiftly, the sickening, and then the man or woman was no more.

  “You need a doctor,” Bertie said. “And bed.”

  Sinclair shifted, bringing out another sound of pain. “Two things lacking in this backstreet basement.”

  “I didn’t know where else to go.” Bertie rocked a little in worry, still pressing hard on his wound. “Devlin’s got men everywhere.” She blinked back tears.

  “Bertie, it’s all right.” Sinclair’s voice went gentle. He put a steadying hand on hers. “We’ll be all right. Richards is looking for us, and Hart’s footman too. The coppers walking these streets will notice armed men hunting for us.”

  “Many of the coppers around here are Devlin’s men,” Bertie said darkly. “In his pay. They’ll likely help him find us.”