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  Bertie pulled him to a halt at the top of the stairs, in the shadow of a wall. “This street will take you to Fenchurch,” she said quietly. “See, there’s St. Paul’s.” She pointed to the ghostly dome outlined in the fog. “Think you can find your way from there?”

  “Yes.” The word came with conviction. Mr. McBride was back in his own world now, arrogance and confidence flowing into him as it had when he’d stood up and looked the judge in the eye.

  Mr. McBride ran a hand through his hair, the light from the main street glittering in droplets the mists had left. “My coachman must be driving up and down the lanes, searching frantically for me. He always thinks I’m going to top myself if he’s not right next to me.”

  Bertie thought of the emptiness she’d seen inside Mr. McBride as he’d waited for the court to reconvene and again when he’d stood in the street outside the Old Bailey. She’d seen that bleak look before—in lads who knew there was nothing left in life for them, in girls who’d got themselves bellyful by men who didn’t want them. “Are you?” she asked anxiously. “Going to top yourself?”

  Mr. McBride pulled his gaze from the bulk of St. Paul’s to look down at her. She loved his eyes—a smoky gray that sparkled like diamonds in this light.

  “Of course not.” He sounded annoyed. “I have wee ones at home. I’d never leave them.”

  His voice rang with indignation, and Bertie relaxed. Whatever else went on in this man’s head, he wasn’t about to deliberately do harm to himself.

  His expression softened with the beginnings of a smile. “If something happened to me, Andrew and Cat would have to live with one of my brothers or my sister. I couldn’t be so cruel to them—my brothers and sister, I mean.”

  Bertie grinned. “Are they lively then? Your kids?”

  “Lively. That’s a good word for them.” He reached to touch his hat, then remembered it wasn’t there, lost in his pursuit of Bertie. “Good night, Miss . . . Anonymous. Go home and stop picking pockets. If I catch you again, I will drag you to a magistrate. If your father demands you do it for him, you fetch a constable and tell him to send for me. You’re a grown woman. You do as you please, not your dad.”

  He looked at her hard as he said this, his gaze flickering briefly to her bosom, which rose inside her tight corset.

  “Right,” Bertie managed to say.

  He gave her a curt nod. “Good night, then.” Mr. McBride slid his hand out of hers and turned away.

  Bertie’s heart squeezed into a tight mass of pain as he took a step away from her, and another. In a moment, he’d be swallowed by the night and the fog, gone forever.

  Bertie ran a few steps after him, grabbed his hand, and pulled him back to her. As he swung around in surprise, Bertie seized the lapels of his cashmere coat, jerked herself up on tiptoe, and kissed him.

  Mr. McBride stood still against her assault for one short moment, then he slid both arms hard around her and scooped her up to him.

  He slanted his mouth across hers, parting her lips, his tongue sweeping inside to give her a heady taste of him. Bertie moved her tongue clumsily against his, a pleasing shock searing through her cold body. His mouth was hot, lips strong, his arms around her never letting her fall.

  The kiss went on, Mr. McBride drawing her with him into the shadows. He was so strong, but his strength protected and shielded, it didn’t demand and frighten.

  Bertie kept hold of his lapels, hanging on as though she’d float away if she let go. His body was hard against hers, his tallness bending her back. Bertie fancied she spun around with him, the two of them in their own private dance, the hum and rush of the city circling them in one glorious, colorful stream.

  Mr. McBride broke the kiss, his breath fogging in the cold. He still had hold of her, his arms around her keeping all bad things from her.

  The look in his gray eyes was one of anguish and at the same time, need. Hunger. Bertie’s heart beat rapidly, and her legs were shaking. She felt him shaking too, even though he was solid and unfaltering.

  Then his jaw tightened, and Bertie saw him deliberately suppress the light in his eyes. He steadied Bertie on her feet and unhooked her fingers from his coat, leaving her cold and bereft.

  With a final look, without a good-night this time, Mr. McBride turned and strode away. Out toward Fenchurch Street he went, meeting with the mass of London, who swept him up with them into darkness and heavy mist. Then he was gone.

  Sinclair lay back with his hands behind his head and contemplated the ceiling. Hours he’d lain here after he’d persuaded himself to go to bed, wide awake. His thoughts, which usually wandered during his bouts of insomnia, had fixed on one thing—kissing the pickpocket.

  A lady with an upturned nose and eyes the color of a summer sky. The warmth of her lips lingered on his, even after hours had gone by. No matter how much Sinclair told himself to stop his spinning thoughts and sleep, he couldn’t push past the soaring joy of those stolen kisses.

  Not stolen—she’d leapt on him, twined her body around his, and kissed him senseless. Twice. Every pressure, every movement of her mouth, every stroke of her fingers was imprinted on Sinclair forever.

  An anonymous pickpocket with a sunny smile and very blue eyes, whom he’d likely never see again.

  No . . . The efficient man inside Sinclair who was able to gather, store, and understand facts in lightning succession began to sort things through. His rapid thinking and spot-on conclusions were what made him feared in the courtroom, won the grudging respect of judges, and terrified suspects in the dock.

  The young woman had said she was a friend of Ruth Baxter, for whom Sinclair, or at least his junior clerk, Henry, had all the particulars. Miss Baxter would know who the young woman was, where she lived, and what her circumstances were. Sinclair could track her down within the day and . . .

  What?

  Thank her for the kiss? Give her more money? Advise her how to get away from her brute of a father?

  Did the woman have a job, or was picking pockets her main source of income? Had she lied to grab Sinclair’s sympathy when she’d said her father sent her out to steal? Or was it the truth—because, of course, pickpockets were the most honest people on the streets.

  At the very least, Sinclair could make certain her father left her alone. The young woman was of age—the plump firmness of her body, the tiny lines that feathered the corners of her eyes, and the worldly look in those eyes told him that. She was innocent of carnality, but that didn’t mean she was a child. She should have real employment, or someone looking after her. Something.

  The heady wash of the kiss erased Sinclair’s common sense for a moment, and when his lust cleared again, he laughed at himself.

  He’d never be able to track down the girl. Ruth would not give her friend over to a barrister of all people, no matter how grateful she was to Sinclair for setting her free. The girl with the violet-blue eyes would disappear into the endless drive of London. Sinclair would go back to his chambers to look over briefs, prepare for his next session in court, and try to push aside the pain that accompanied his life every day.

  That, and . . .

  “Papa!” A cannonball landed on his bed, one with small arms and legs, tow-colored hair, big gray eyes, and a wide smile.

  Sinclair succumbed to his son’s enthusiastic hug then pushed him back. “It’s the middle of the bloody night, Andrew,” he rumbled.

  Andrew shook his head in enthusiasm. “No it isn’t. It’s five o’clock in the morning, and our new governess smells funny.”

  Chapter 4

  “No, she—” Sinclair stopped. He couldn’t deny that he got a whiff of cod-liver oil every time Miss Evans walked by him. “It doesn’t matter. Miss Evans is your governess. No tormenting her, no toads in her bed.”

  “No toads,” Andrew said in perfect agreement. Andrew had the sunniest disposition of anyone Sinclair
knew, and also could cause more trouble than the most hardened criminals Sinclair had ever faced. “It’s too cold for toads,” Andrew went on. “But I found some beetles in the cellar.”

  Sinclair gave him a stern look. “No beetles, no roaches, no spiders. No insects or arachnids of any kind. Understand?”

  Andrew didn’t look contrite. “Yes, sir.”

  Sinclair remained wary. He knew if he didn’t catalog specifically what Andrew shouldn’t do, the boy would come back to him later. But you didn’t say no goldfish!

  Sinclair found matches on the bedside table and lit the lamp. His son, eight years old, already had the leggy, raw-boned look of the tall Scotsman he’d become. He had fair hair and gray eyes, a pure McBride.

  The lamplight also fell on the photograph of Maggie McBride—Daisy—with her dark hair and laughing eyes, the blue of them obscured by the sepia photograph. Sinclair’s daughter, Caitriona, had the same eyes.

  Andrew climbed over his father, picked up the photograph, and gave it a kiss. “’Morning, Mum,” he said, and put it back down.

  He flopped onto the mattress, ready to snuggle in and continue his sleep. Sinclair knew bloody well Andrew had sneaked out of the nursery, so there would be uproar when he was found missing, but Sinclair didn’t have the heart to send him back. Andrew closed his eyes and made a good impression of a loud snore.

  Sinclair lifted a handkerchief and wiped Andrew’s wet kiss from the photograph. He’d had to replace the glass in the frame a few times because of Andrew’s enthusiasm, but it didn’t matter.

  The thing is, Daisy, Sinclair said silently, setting down the photograph and tucking the covers around his son, I think you would have liked her.

  She was out in the city somewhere. One in hundreds of thousands of souls, a young woman with violet eyes and a warm smile, who kissed like fire. Sinclair would probably never see her again.

  Bertie watched Mr. McBride emerge from his house on Upper Brook Street, a posh address, and no mistake. She munched the hot chestnuts she’d bought from a vendor, keeping her fingers and mouth warm as Mr. McBride turned to say something to a broad-shouldered Scotsman who’d followed him out.

  The two men were about the same size, but the second one had flame red hair and wore a Scottish kilt and the coat of a slavey—maybe he was what they called a gentleman’s gentleman, a Scottish version of one. Ruthie had told Bertie that valets could be so haughty and correct you’d think they were the duke or baron. This one wasn’t so haughty—he looked more like a fighting man stuffed into a suit and not liking it. He growled something at Mr. McBride, and Mr. McBride growled right back. Good for him.

  The red-haired Scotsman stepped aside as a coach came rattling up. The red-haired man opened the door for Mr. McBride, still scowling mightily, and Mr. McBride tossed a case inside the carriage.

  “Leave it, Macaulay,” Mr. McBride snapped and hauled himself up into the coach.

  The door shut and the coach jerked forward. Mr. McBride settled back into his seat, not looking out the window. Except for his liveliness when he’d snarled at his servant, he’d taken on the awful blankness again.

  Bertie watched the coach until it turned down Park Lane and was lost to sight. She knew where it was going—every day Mr. McBride climbed into his carriage with a valise of sorts and headed off to his chambers in Middle Temple, which was located near where the Strand became Fleet Street. The Middle and Inner Temples consisted of narrow lanes of rigid brick buildings, all with fine-painted doors and windows, all holding barristers and clerks working their hearts out to bang up criminals like Bertie, her father, and Jeffrey.

  Mr. McBride’s chambers were in a little square called Essex Court, in an elegant building with a fanlighted door, which matched the style of his Mayfair home. Both chambers and house spoke of money, and lots of it. Maybe the whole McBride family was as toffy as he was, or else Basher made quite a few bob sending murderers to the noose.

  Bertie had discovered where Mr. McBride worked and where he lived from careful research. The day after her encounter with him, she’d seen him come out of the Old Bailey after a morning in court, but this time he’d stepped directly into his smart-looking coach. Bertie had been on her own—no dad or Jeffrey to tell her to rob the man again—and she’d found herself walking after the coach, which crawled at a slow pace through London’s jammed streets. Easy for Bertie to keep it in sight.

  The coach hadn’t gone far down Fleet Street before turning off toward the Temples, stopping to let out Mr. McBride on a narrow lane. Mr. McBride had walked from there, and Bertie had pattered behind him, not too close.

  Mr. McBride had never seen her. He’d gone into the fine-looking building that housed his chambers, greeting another barrister and a harried-looking clerk on the doorstep.

  The other barrister had slapped Mr. McBride on the shoulder and laughed. “The legend of the Scots Machine grinds on. The newspapers love you, old man. Standing up for the downtrodden, potting the true killer between the eyes, making old Percy Montague snarl at you—the ladies will love you even more now.”

  The clerk wasn’t as informal, but he nodded and said, “Good on you, sir,” with much admiration. “Your new brief is on the mantelpiece, and you’ve got a conference at three.”

  “No rest for the wicked,” Mr. McBride said, tipped his hat, and went on inside.

  Bertie had ducked out of the way as the barrister and clerk walked on together. Other barristers were going in and out of the houses around her, and staring at her, these stiffest of stiff men in their black suits, coats, and hats. Bertie was out of place with her worn coat and scuffed boots, even if her hat was new.

  Her father had been so happy with the sovereign Bertie had brought him that he’d given her a few half-crowns as a reward, telling her to enjoy herself. Bertie’s dad was always cheery when he was rich. He’d been chuffed enough to forget that Jacko Small was now in the Bow Street jail, waiting to be shuffled to Newgate to await trial. Jeffrey was still angry about it, though, so Bertie had avoided him and gone shopping.

  Why she’d decided to leave the hat shop and make her way to the Old Bailey she wasn’t certain. She’d told herself she’d never got her half-pint yesterday, so she might as well go back to the pub there and treat herself and have some dinner, but once she’d caught sight of Mr. McBride, her feet simply followed his coach.

  What made her return to the Temple after more shopping later, she didn’t know either. She’d missed Mr. McBride leaving that day, but the next afternoon, Bertie spied him walking to his coach, a big bundle of papers under his arm in addition to his valise. The coachman asked him where he wanted to go, and Mr. McBride simply answered, “Home.”

  The sun had already set by this time, the streets dark and chilly, but Bertie had tramped along after the carriage until it had turned onto the Strand and become lost to sight.

  Her heart had sunk—she’d never find him in that mess—but she had the good fortune a moment or so later to run smack into the clerk she’d seen on the doorstep of Mr. McBride’s chambers the day before. The clerk was only about as tall as Bertie and a bit younger, but he was wiry, with thick dark hair and blue eyes that looked friendly.

  The friendly light was the only reason Bertie took a chance and said, “I say, was that the one they call Basher McBride getting into that coach? I’ve heard all about him.”

  “We call him the Scots Machine,” the clerk said proudly. “I’m his clerk. Well, one of his junior clerks. He’s the bright star in our chambers—a QC. He’ll be a judge one day, mark my words.”

  “Fine coach, and all,” Bertie said, plying her smile. “Beautiful horses.”

  “Matched grays, pure bloodlines. He searched all over the country for those. Of course, his sister’s married to Lord Cameron Mackenzie, who knows horses. All his win races, they do.”

  “Do they?” Bertie’s smile deepened. “I’ll remember th
at. I like a flutter, now and again.”

  “Then take it from me—put your money on Lady Day or Night-Blooming Jasmine in the mare races, and you won’t go wrong.”

  “Lady Day or Night-Blooming Jasmine. I’ll remember when I’m in the Royal Box at Ascot.” Bertie winked. “Think they’ll like me new hat?”

  She laughed, and the clerk laughed with her. “It’s fetching enough,” the clerk said, thoroughly thawed now. “But even the royal family will lose if they don’t wager on Lord Cameron’s horses.”

  “He’s Mr. McBride’s brother-in-law you say? A lordship?”

  “Lord Cameron married our Mr. McBride’s sister. Scots, the lot of them.” The clerk shook his head, as if to say Mr. McBride would be perfect in his eyes except for that one little flaw. “Mr. McBride lives in London much of the time, though he has a big house in Scotland—he’s grown such a large practice here. Wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t become head of chambers soon.”

  “He must live in a grand London house then,” Bertie said, at last getting to what she wanted to know.

  The clerk had well warmed to her now. “He does. I’ve been once. Big house in Mayfair, near to Grosvenor Square. So many rooms, huge staircase—I had to describe the whole thing to my mum at least a dozen times.”

  Bertie asked him a few more questions, but either the clerk didn’t remember the exact address or he had no intention of letting on what it was. But it was a start.

  “I say,” the clerk said, stepping closer to Bertie. “I’m off home now. Maybe I can stand you a half in the pub at the end of the road?”

  Bertie put on her warmest smile. “That’s kind of you, but I have to be getting home to me dad. He’s a right bear when he doesn’t get his supper on time, and he’s got the biggest fists, I have to tell you. Like that.” Bertie held up both hands, showing an exaggerated size of her father’s. “Nice chatting with you.”