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  “This way,” she shouted. “Run!”

  “Get out of it, girl!” one of the toughs yelled. “Fair game.”

  “No, you leave him be! Come on.”

  She jerked at Mr. McBride, who finally saw wisdom and came with her. The lads, enraged she was depriving them of their fun, poured after them. Bertie ran out the narrow door on the far side, jumping over the sill to the street. Mr. McBride had to turn and fight at the last moment, buffeting back two lads who’d grabbed his coat. The coat tore, but stayed on, and McBride swung away and followed Bertie.

  Bertie slammed the door. She grabbed the iron bar from Mr. McBride’s hands and wedged the door shut, though she knew it wouldn’t hold for long, and the lads could always go around the other side.

  She seized him by the sleeve and started running. McBride ran with her, his strides strong.

  It wasn’t long before Bertie heard the youths coming. A few would give up, losing interest, but some would be determined. Jeffrey’s mates loved a good fight, and they’d want to divide up the spoils they found on Mr. McBride.

  “This way,” Bertie urged as she dove around a corner.

  There was one place in all of London Bertie could go. No one else knew about it but her—not her dad, not Jeffrey, not her own mates. Taking Mr. McBride there was a risk—he could have the constables raid it when she let him go—but maybe it would be worth the sacrifice. This courageous, handsome Scotsman didn’t deserve to be beaten to death by East End thugs.

  Bertie ran for the end of an alleyway that looked as though it went no farther. Mr. McBride started to argue, but Bertie put her finger to her lips and pulled him around a hidden corner, then down a slippery set of stairs and through a noisome passage. Finally, Bertie squeezed into a space that led between the backs of buildings, corners poking out and seeming to block the way. Bertie had discovered long ago that a lithe young woman could push through here and find a refuge.

  Mr. McBride grunted a bit as he struggled through the narrower parts, then popped out like a cork behind Bertie as she opened a half-size door and ducked through. This door had led to an old scullery and kitchen for a house that had once been large and fine. But the room had been walled off long ago as the houses had been changed, pulled down, or rebuilt, and this corner of the cellar was lost and forgotten.

  “Mind your head,” Bertie said.

  At the same time she heard a thump and Mr. McBride growled, “Thank you, lass. Very timely.”

  They went down a set of stairs in the pitch dark, Mr. McBride with a heavy hand on Bertie’s shoulder. “Seventeen of ’em,” she said, and started counting off.

  Mr. McBride’s hand was firm, spreading heat beneath her worn velvet coat and wool bodice. Strong too, his fingers blunt and gripping hard.

  At the bottom, they went through another door, then Bertie told him to stay put while she groped for the matches she kept on a shelf and started lighting lamps. She had three lamps down here now, which threw a rosy glow over the crumbling bricks and fallen beams that littered the triangular room.

  A pile of cushions, carefully formed into the approximation of a sofa, stood against the most solid wall. Bertie had covered it with shawls and blankets, and set up a small folding table near it, strewn now with newspapers and magazines she’d managed to smuggle down here. The passage above was too narrow for her to bring in much furniture, but she’d made the place as cozy as she could. She’d carried down small rugs over the years, overlapping them to keep her feet off the cold, damp floor.

  Mr. McBride remained in place by the door until Bertie’s lights strengthened. She’d need more kerosene before long, she saw.

  The large man was out of place down here, that was for certain. His head touched the ceiling and he had to duck under the few beams that remained. He looked around the room in wonder, then his gray gaze landed on Bertie and pinned her as hard as he’d pinned Jacko in the dock.

  “Are ye mad, lass?” he asked. “You stay down here? This ceiling could fall upon you any second.”

  Bertie shivered as his rumbling, delicious voice filled the space. “Hasn’t in sixteen years,” she said stoutly. “And probably stood up a long time before that. Solid houses in this part of London.”

  “Whichever part it is,” Mr. McBride said, half to himself. “Why’d you save me from those lads, woman, when ye’d led me to them in the first place? Why not let them beat me to a bloody pulp?”

  Bertie folded her arms, spending a moment letting his Scottish consonants and vowels flow over her. “Well, you were supposed to run away, weren’t you?” she asked. “You thought you could take on eight street toughs by yourself? You have to be daft as a brick.”

  “No, I wanted my watch.” Anger flared anew in his eyes, never mind that he was down here at Bertie’s mercy with no idea where he was, no help at hand. But he was the one in command, Bertie knew. Not her.

  Mr. McBride pointed a strong finger at her. “Which you stole, right out of my waistcoat while I stood gawping. Give it back to me, and I’ll say nothing.”

  Sinclair watched the young woman’s face flush in the candlelight, her guilt pure and simple. She swallowed and took a step back, rubbing her arms. She still wore the hat with the absurd violets, which was now hanging half over her right ear.

  “Give me the watch, and I’ll leave you be,” Sinclair said, trying to gentle his voice. “No constables, no dock, though you are a bloody little tea leaf.”

  She didn’t look impressed he knew rhyming cant: Tea leaf—thief.

  “Why’d ya help Ruthie?” she asked.

  Sinclair had difficulty catching his breath. It was close down here, the biting wind shut out. It took him a moment to realize that by Ruthie she meant Ruth Baxter, the kitchen maid who’d stood in the dock at the Old Bailey not an hour ago. Already the details of the trial were fading, a trial that would be put down as a loss to him, but Sinclair didn’t care.

  “Miss Baxter was innocent,” he said. “Why should she go down for it?”

  “’Cause you’re a barrister, hand-in-glove with the judges.”

  This young woman had a lot to learn about the common courts. Old Monty and Sinclair had been butting heads since Sinclair had first put on a wig. “Miss Baxter couldn’t afford a defense. I knew she was innocent when I looked at her, and I knew Mr. Small was guilty. What does this have to do with my watch?”

  “Well, Ruthie’s a pal of mine, ain’t she?” The young woman’s eyes were deep blue in the candlelight. “Thank you.”

  “So, you decided to show your gratitude by pinching my watch and leading me into the arms of your ruffian friends?” He made a noise of disbelief. “If that’s your method of thanking a man, I’d hate so see ye when you’re annoyed with him.”

  She didn’t smile. “I told ya, you were supposed to run. They’d have gutted you. What were you thinking? You should have just let it go.”

  His temper splintered. “Why the hell should I? It’s my watch. My wife gave it to me.”

  The young woman took a step back as Sinclair’s voice rose. “Yeah? You’re a rich bloke. Have her buy you another one.”

  “I cannae, can I?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’s dead!”

  The words rang against the low ceiling and the uncaring stones, and suddenly, Sinclair couldn’t breathe at all.

  He’d never, not even the day she’d slipped away, declared flatly that Daisy was dead. Sinclair shied from the word. He’d said passed, left him, was gone. Dead meant too much finality, it meant dust and no return.

  Sinclair struggled for air. “She’s . . .”

  He felt wetness on his face. Bloody hell. He hadn’t wept either. Not really. To weep for her meant she was never coming back.

  “She’s . . .”

  The world rushed around him, spiraling down into a single point, stifling. Blackness fille
d his vision, a pressure in his ears grinding out his strength. His knees were bending, and a void opened to pull him inside . . .

  He blinked and found himself half lying, half sitting across the cushions piled on the floor. The young woman sat beside him, her hat gone to reveal rich dark hair, worry on her face.

  “You all right, mister?”

  This was the second time she’d asked him that tonight, as though sweetly concerned. She was a thief, had murdering friends, had brought him to this hole only God knew where to do God only knew what, and yet she asked with anxiety whether he was well. She’d dragged him to this sofa, he realized. Sinclair must have fallen nose-first on the floor, and she’d pulled him to the cushions and made sure he woke up.

  “Damn it, woman.” Sinclair put his arm behind his head and glared at her. “What am I to do with you?”

  She stared at him in wide-eyed contemplation for another second or two, then she leaned swiftly to him and kissed him on the mouth.

  Chapter 3

  Sinclair’s breath went out of him again. He was surrounded by her lush warmth, her wool skirt falling over his legs and thighs, her bosom pressing his chest through his coat. The tip of her nose brushed his cheek, her lips soft on his mouth.

  The kiss was unpracticed, even clumsy, telling him far more certainly than anything else that she was an innocent. She had no idea how to kiss a man, no idea how to part her lips to let him take his pleasure. And yet her kiss was welcoming, erotic, a taste of desire Sinclair couldn’t ignore.

  He found his hand stealing to the back of her neck, moving under her heavy braid, pressing her closer. Sinclair felt her start of surprise as he pulled her to him, then her body responded. She closed her eyes, shutting out the lovely blue, as she flowed into him and kissed him back.

  Sinclair’s arousal roared to life, the part of his body he tried to neglect becoming achingly stiff.

  Why not? This young woman was lovely, willing, had brought him here. If she wanted to rob him of everything when they were done, so be it.

  Sinclair could lay her on this couch, rid himself and her of bothersome clothes, and drive into her. It wouldn’t take long, and for one glorious moment, Sinclair could lose himself in the mind-blanking palliative of coupling.

  The young woman made a faint noise in her throat. Sinclair realized he’d started shifting to take her down to the couch.

  The noise snapped him back to awareness. What was he doing? She was innocent—at least of bodily passions. Other men might not care, deciding that the kind of woman she was and where she lived gave them the right to take her body, but Sinclair could never be that callous.

  He let her go abruptly and sat up. She blinked at him from where she’d slid down on the cushions, delightfully mussed and not calming his hardness one bit. She watched him a moment longer then gave him a shy smile.

  Shy. Not coercive or coy—she wasn’t selling herself for the watch. Sinclair had no idea why she’d kissed him, but it hadn’t been because she’d sought favors.

  Under his scrutiny, the young woman’s face flamed. “Now you’ll be thinking me a tart,” she said, sitting up and brushing back a lock of hair. “But I just wanted to kiss you, all right?”

  Sinclair had wanted to kiss her. He still did. “I told you, I’m not a judge.” His arousal continued pounding, wanting release, very unhappy he’d let her go. “The only thing I know about you is that you’re a talented pickpocket, and you’ll be giving me back my watch.”

  He held out his hand, amazed it was rock steady, his tight leather gloves whole even after the fight in the abandoned lot. The young woman eyed his palm in trepidation while she chewed on a corner of her lip.

  She shouldn’t do that. The nibbling made her lip red, made Sinclair remember her lips against his, spiking his need to taste them again.

  “The thing is, Mr. McBride,” she said, oblivious to his torment. “If I go back home without something from you, my dad will beat me rotten. I’d rather he didn’t, if you don’t mind.”

  Sinclair’s focus returned, her words making his anger rise. “Why should he beat you?”

  “He’s put out because you got Jacko arrested. He sent me to teach you a lesson.”

  “Did he, naow?” He heard the broad Scots come out of his mouth, as it always did when he grew enraged. “Tell me who your father is, and he’ll be in Newgate before the night’s out.”

  She was already shaking her head. “I don’t think I’ll do that.” She dipped her hand into a pocket in her skirt and pulled out the familiar shape of Sinclair’s watch. “I have to say, it’s a fine piece.”

  “I know it is.” In one swift move, Sinclair reached for the watch and yanked it from her grasp.

  “Oi,” she said, indignant. “You . . .” She glared at him, outraged, but with fear behind her anger.

  Sinclair let out his breath in relief at the weight of the watch in his palm. The watch was intact, all as it should be.

  He believed her when she said her father would beat her if she didn’t bring something home to him. Men in this part of London often sent their sons and daughters out to steal for them, or their daughters to walk the streets. These children had nowhere to go and no one to turn to, and many of them thought it fine to go out and earn some dosh to help the family.

  This young woman was a bit older than many of the game girls, but if she still lived at home with her father, taking care of him, he’d have the upper hand. Englishmen set such store on women having little power and money, living only to serve the males of the family. Sinclair could never understand why—he’d seen so much grief come of it.

  He slid the watch into his waistcoat pocket, keeping a close eye on the young woman’s hands as he did so. She’d taken what she’d wanted when he’d been oblivious on the street, and there was nothing to say she wouldn’t try again.

  Sinclair pulled out a coin and held it toward her. “Will this assuage your bastard of a father and make him spare the rod?”

  The woman’s blue eyes went wide. Sinclair clasped a gold sovereign between his fingers, enough to pay for an East End family’s meals for a long while.

  “You really are a madman,” she said in awe.

  “Take it,” Sinclair said. “Before I change my mind.”

  The young woman stared at the coin for a long moment, but she had no greed in her eyes. Amazement, yes, and wariness, but no greed. She knew she’d be handing over the sovereign to her father, keeping nothing for herself.

  “What’s your name?” Sinclair asked her.

  She gave him a sudden smile, one that lit up her eyes and made her beautiful. “Now that I don’t think I should tell you. Even if you were good to Ruthie an’ all.”

  Fair enough. She reached for the coin, but Sinclair pulled it back. The young woman made a noise of protest, and Sinclair shook his head.

  “This is also your fee for taking me out of here and leading me back to a street I can recognize. Can you do that?”

  “’Course I can.” She looked proud. “No one knows London better than me.”

  Sinclair believed her. She’d brought him across the city and into the East End without faltering, ducking around dark corners with complete confidence.

  Sinclair took her hand in its worn glove and pressed the gold coin into it. “Show me, then.”

  Another sunny grin, and she swung to her feet with energy, her wool skirts brushing his legs. Sinclair started to rise with her, still dizzy from the chase, her kiss, the closeness of the room, and whatever noxious gas was down here that had made him light-headed. This place really wasn’t safe for her.

  The young woman steadied him on his feet, then blew out the lamps around the room, plunging them into gloom.

  Before Sinclair could wonder whether she’d simply leave him there in the dark, ripe for the plucking, her warm hand found its way into his. “Come on, then,” she
said.

  Bertie pulled Mr. McBride out into the dark streets, the sun long gone behind the buildup of clouds. His hand remained in hers as she towed him along, and his warm strength came to her, making Bertie’s heart bang in a strange way.

  Jeffrey Mitchell was supposed to be Bertie’s beau, the man she’d eventually marry, whenever Bertie’s dad decided he could let her go. When she’d been younger, Jeffrey’s rough charm had seemed exciting to her, but that had quickly faded as she’d grown old enough to know better. Certainly Jeffrey had never made Bertie’s heart go all achy and pounding. Bertie had never had the impulse to kiss Jeffrey more than a peck good-bye—not that Jeffrey would try more with Bertie’s dad next to him at all times.

  Kissing Mr. McBride had been more than an impulse. A need had gripped her, and Bertie had launched herself at him, wanting to kiss the mouth that spoke those rich Scottish syllables.

  She’d about fallen through the floor when he’d cupped her neck and pulled her closer to make the kiss deeper. She’d wanted to respond, to lay herself against him all the way and see what it felt like to be cradled by his hard body.

  When he’d pulled back, Bertie feared she’d disgusted him, that he’d think her a game girl. She wasn’t, and she wanted him to know that. But for one wistful moment, Bertie had wished very much she had been a tart. Only for him, mind.

  Bertie led him up another set of steps, the sounds of busier streets coming their way. It was foggy here, nearer the river, the lights of working London obscured by gray mist.

  Her hand tightened on his. In a moment, Mr. McBride would snatch himself away and jog off, lost to the fog and Bertie forever. She wanted to hang on to him as long as she could.

  She knew she had to let him go, though. Mr. McBride didn’t belong in this world. Bertie wagered he lived in a fancy house in some posh square, with a passel of slaveys to look after him. His fine clothes, neatly shorn hair, and polished boots told her that.