“I don’t blame you, miss,” Macaulay said. “Ye have to forgive him for it.”
Bertie blinked, her lips parting at this unexpected turn. She’d been sure Macaulay had been about to blister her with an admonishment. “I have to forgive him?”
“Aye. He’s not been himself since . . . well, in a long time.”
Bertie took a breath, trying to recover from the surprise. “Not since he lost his wife, you mean,” she said. Her voice softened. “It was hard on them all, wasn’t it?”
“Aye, lass. This has been a house of grief for a long time.” Macaulay shook his head. “He’s a good man, is Mr. Sinclair, for all his wild ways.”
“Is he wild?” Bertie asked, perplexed again. “But he goes off to a job every day, like a respectable gent.”
“Now, he does. But I was Mr. Sinclair’s batman in the army. We were sent to parts of Africa that would make you wilt away. His men respected him more than anybody, would do anything for him, would die for him. When he was off duty though, whew.” Macaulay took on a faraway look, one that held fondness. “He loved his whiskey, Mr. McBride did, and his pranks, especially on English officers who were prats. He’d make them look like fools, but he was so good a soldier his superiors wouldn’t punish him. He was a fine officer, though. No one better in a fight, always brought his men home.”
Bertie listened, soaking in the information. Mrs. Hill had told her a few things, but this was the first time she’d gotten an outpouring about Sinclair’s past. “Why’d he leave the army? If he was so good at it?”
“Met his wife, didn’t he?” Macaulay watched Andrew leaping over a series of stones he’d set up. “Miss Margaret was a pretty thing. Miss Caitriona looks much like her.”
“I’ve seen her photo,” Bertie said. One smiled from a frame on top of the dresser in the nursery. The picture was grainy and dark, but she could tell that the woman had been quite comely. “Mr. McBride was much in love with her, wasn’t he?”
“Aye, that he was, lass. He resigned his captaincy and went into chambers in London—his grandfather had been a barrister there, and they took him on easily enough. Miss Margaret encouraged him, and he started to rise. No telling how far he’ll go—all the way to the Queen’s Bench, I wouldn’t wonder. He grew famous as a junior, and was offered silk pretty quickly. He and Mrs. McBride were a fine couple, loved by everyone they knew.”
Bertie’s heart squeezed, fully aware Mrs. McBride had been a paragon. “But she died, poor lady.”
“That she did.” Macaulay’s voice went quiet. “It was a long illness, and the two wee ones nearly went with her. Thought Mr. McBride would go himself, of grieving. The problem was, Miss Margaret had tamed him, but I think she tamed him too well. When she was gone, there wasn’t much left of him.”
“Hardly anything.” Bertie’s heart ached as she thought of the sadness in Sinclair’s gray eyes, as though he waited for some reason to come alive again. “He’s all emptied out.”
“We look after him,” Macaulay said. “Mrs. Hill and me, and the others. We make sure he’s all right and doesn’t grow too morose. We need you to help us with that.”
Bertie nodded. “I will.” Of course she would. That’s why she’d come, wasn’t it?
Macaulay gave her an approving look. “Mr. McBride, he carries on—does his cases and all, and he don’t say no to the ladies—but his heart’s in the grave.” His look turned sharp again. “Remember that.”
“Yeah,” Bertie said, her own heart seeming to shrink. “I will.”
When Bertie returned to the house, she gave the children their regular lessons—the history of Britain, sums from a book of maths, and French. Bertie enjoyed the history, was good at the maths, but let Cat take the lead in French.
She thought about what Macaulay had told her as the children read and wrote, a little lump forming in her throat. The sensations of Sinclair holding her hand yesterday evening when they sat in his study, so chummy, and his mouth on her fingers the night before lingered. Bertie had felt special, singled out, the woman with whom he’d chosen to share his troubles.
Everything’s dark for me, Bertie. But there’s a little flicker of light, the tiniest one. It’s above me every night, in the nursery and you next to it.
And then Macaulay: He don’t say no to the ladies—but his heart’s in the grave. Remember that.
Blast it.
After dinner, when Cat and Andrew had a nap—at least, they pretended to until Bertie was out of the room—Mrs. Hill sent up word, asking Bertie to come to the library on the first floor.
When Bertie entered the dim room, Mrs. Hill, in her usual severe black, was standing in front of the rows of bookcases that rose to the ceiling. “A governess needs to know what she’s teaching her charges,” she said as soon as Bertie entered. “I know there’s Mangnall’s Questions, but a solid education is much easier to defend than memorization from an answer book. And if you want an education, my dear, this is the best way to go about it.” She swept her hand to indicate the rows of books around them.
Bertie took in the leather-backed tomes that marched along every wall up to the very high ceiling, and quailed. “You want me to read all these? Are ye mad? That’ll take me the rest of me life!”
“If needs must,” Mrs. Hill said in her no-nonsense voice. “Mr. Edward Davies—Mr. McBride’s brother-in-law—is determined to take our children from us, and we can’t have that. If you have to read every book in this room to fool him into thinking you’re a real governess, I will stand here until you do so.”
“Oh, Lord.” Bertie turned in a circle, taking in all the books, which seemed to spin around her. “What if I don’t understand any of them?”
“No matter. As long as, when Mr. Edward is nigh, you can trot out a few phrases such as Carlyle tells us . . . or Herodotus’s views on Ancient Egypt are . . . you’ll do well.”
Bertie’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know what’s in all these books, Mrs. Hill?”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Hill said without shame. “But I’m not pretending to be a governess, am I?”
“I’m not pretending,” Bertie said. “I am one—now.”
“Well, you’d better be one with everything you have, my girl. I don’t like Mrs. McBride’s brother, I can tell you. The first thing he’ll do is send Andrew off to some cold school in the north of England. Porridge three times a day, shivering by himself in a narrow little room, which they say will make a man of him.”
Bertie doubted Andrew would stand for being shut by himself in a narrow little room—he’d find some way to pick the lock or climb out the window—but she took the point. “What would they do with Cat?” Caitriona definitely wouldn’t benefit from being put into a cold room alone. While Andrew was always trying to burst out of himself, Cat retreated deep inside herself where no one could reach. It would not be best to put her somewhere without warmth, without people who understood and cared about her.
“Miss Cat would be educated in Mr. Davies’ home,” Mrs. Hill said, her nostrils pinching. “With a governess who’d fill her head with all kinds of nonsense, such as a true lady being too delicate to speak above a whisper and so weak she can barely lift a teacup. Then they’ll send Miss Cat to finishing school to complete her ruination.” Mrs. Hill’s lips pressed together, rage in her eyes.
Bertie liked that rage. “Well then,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “I’d best get to reading, hadn’t I?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Hill gave her a look of vast gratitude. “Thank you, my dear.”
“All the same,” Bertie said, looking up at the books again, her imagination stirring to life. “I have an idea.”
Sinclair left chambers at seven that evening and paid a visit on his way home to Detective Chief Inspector Lloyd Fellows in his comfortable home in Pimlico.
The DCI was one of the Mackenzie clan Sinclair’s sister had married into, and
the Mackenzie Sinclair felt most comfortable with. Though Fellows, a half brother to the rest of the Mackenzies, had spent his childhood in the slums of the East End, and Sinclair had lived in a well-kept house, raised by his respectable older brother, Sinclair and Fellows had both made their way up in their professions by hard work and bloody stubbornness. Both also were in the business of the law—Fellows caught villains breaking the laws, and Sinclair helped put them away. They shared a mutual respect, as well as a bemusement at being drawn into the very scandalous Mackenzie family.
Fellows had married earlier in the year to the youngest daughter of an earl—Lady Louisa Scranton. Louisa’s sister, Isabella, had married a Mackenzie herself—Lord Mac, the painter.
Louisa smiled warmly as Sinclair entered, greeting him with a kiss on his cheek. Her red hair glimmered in the lamplight, and her gown couldn’t hide her increasing girth. Louisa was expecting sometime in the early spring.
“Lovely to see you, Sinclair,” she said warmly. “How are dear Cat and Andrew?”
“Dear Cat and Andrew are very well, thank you,” Sinclair answered, waiting for Louisa to sit before he took the chair she indicated. “They have a new governess they’ve taken a liking to, and so the house has stayed more or less intact for the last few days.”
“Yes, the new governess,” Louisa said, giving Sinclair a shrewd look. “Eleanor told us about her.”
Sinclair blinked, though he knew he shouldn’t be surprised Louisa already knew about Bertie. “It’s gone around, has it?”
“In the Mackenzie family?” Louisa shot him another smile and began pouring out tea. “Of course. Everyone from Hart’s manservant to Beth’s scullery maid knows you’ve recently employed a young governess with a charming Cockney accent.”
“No denying it, I suppose.” Sinclair accepted the cup Louisa handed him. “One of the reasons I’ve come is to ask you to help her,” he said to Fellows. “I need you to find out about her relations and keep them away from her. Especially one called Jeffrey. A thug who styles himself her beau.”
Louisa’s brows rose. “A thug? That sounds ominous. Is he a danger?”
“I don’t want him to be,” Sinclair said. “Either to my children or to Bertie—I mean, Miss Frasier.”
Louisa peered closely at him, noticing the slip. “A very winsome young lady, Eleanor said.”
Sinclair flushed, and Louisa smiled at him again and lifted her teacup.
Fellows didn’t share his wife’s amusement, but he did share her concern. “If he weren’t a danger, you wouldn’t have come to me,” he said. “I advise you to keep your governess and little ones close to home, or don’t let them go out without you.”
“Exactly why I’m here,” Sinclair said. “Macaulay keeps a good eye on them, but I want this man found, warned, stopped.” He took a sip of tea. “That and . . . the letters.”
Fellows’s eyes sharpened. “You’ve had another?”
“Yes. Same as the others. Full of insinuations.”
“Let me see.” Fellows held out his hand.
Sinclair shook his head, thinking of the letter he’d slid into the box in his study. “I burned it,” he lied.
Fellows made a noise of disapproval. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Trust me, it was the same. In all capitals printed as though he’d used a straight edge to draw them. Ordinary paper, which hundreds of people buy by the score every day. Same nonsense about his intention to destroy me. Any ideas from your end at all?”
Fellows sat back, irritated. “No. And you have no idea how much that galls me.”
“Lloyd so hates to be perplexed,” Louisa said, her fingers graceful as she held the dainty teacup. They were such a contrast, Fellows and Louisa—he a tall, hard man, she as elegant as the porcelain cup she held. “But he’ll find out in the end, I’m sure of it,” Louisa finished.
Fellows gave Louisa a look that was supposed to be severe and instead was full of fondness. His gaze dropped to the swell of her belly, which held his first child, and Sinclair watched the hard man soften.
“My wife has much confidence in my abilities,” Fellows said. “I’ve been going through the list of men and women who I think would hold a grudge against you. It is, unfortunately, long.”
Sinclair nodded, unsurprised. “I’ve made sure many a criminal was convicted in the last dozen years—for anything from counterfeiting and fraud, to robbery with violence and murder. It could be any of them, or their families. Basher McBride has made enemies. And I don’t want any of them near my family.” He pinned Louisa with a stare. “Will you make certain, Louisa, that this bit of intrigue does not run around the Mackenzie clan? I don’t want Andrew and Cat getting wind of it.”
Louisa gave him a nod. “I understand perfectly. I’m sure it won’t be long before Lloyd solves the problem.”
Fellows gave Sinclair a wry look over his teacup. Fellows had helped Louisa when she’d been accused of a crime, and Louisa was convinced he could help anyone. She wasn’t far from wrong—the detective chief inspector usually got his man.
The trouble was, whoever this person sending the letters was worked in the dark, pulling strings, manipulating. The worst kind of criminal, keeping to the shadows while aiming to ruin the lives of others. Give Sinclair a straightforward thug like Jeffrey, who spoke with his fists, or even Edward, who openly threatened Sinclair—Sinclair was much more comfortable with someone he could clearly fight.
Fellows gave Sinclair a nod, and they exchanged a look, two men who understood each other. “I’ll see to it,” Fellows said.
Bertie hurried out into the hall when she heard the front door thud shut. Cat and Andrew were already asleep, and it was well dark. Sinclair was very late getting home, which had Bertie fretting, though she tried to reason that the coach hadn’t come home either, meaning the redoubtable Richards was looking after him.
Below her, Sinclair handed his coat and things to Peter, as usual, but not as usual, Sinclair strode into the downstairs drawing room instead of heading up to his study.
Bertie gathered up her gray skirts and hurried down the stairs, passing Macaulay on the way. Macaulay gave her a cautioning look but didn’t stop her.
Sinclair had paused at a sideboard in the large room to pour himself a whiskey when Bertie came in. Unlike the clutter of Sinclair’s study, the front drawing room was rather empty of furniture. Unusual, Mrs. Hill said, for a Mayfair residence, which could be stuffed full of bric-a-brac and plants, but Sinclair liked to have space for his guests to roam.
“Where the devil have you been?” Bertie demanded as she rushed inside. Her heart beat swiftly with relief to see him whole, and home.
Sinclair swung around to her. He’d yanked off his collar, baring a patch of sunburned throat. He scowled at Bertie and swallowed a dollop of whiskey before he answered. “Visiting friends, who insisted I stay for a cup of tea.”
Bertie unclenched her hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like a shrew. But I was worried about you.”
Sinclair gave her a curt nod. “I know you’re concerned about Jeffrey, but don’t be. I will take care of him.”
Her heart squeezed in dismay. Sinclair spoke so confidently, but he had no idea what he was up against. “Oh, you will, will you? He’s a first-class villain, Jeffrey is. Even his friends don’t trust him. He’s got all kinds of tricks, and he likes hurting people.”
“My friends are well able to take on someone like him. Trust me.” Sinclair drained the glass in one long swallow and turned back to the sideboard.
Bertie waited until he’d set the glass down, then she launched herself across the room and got her arms around the startled Sinclair from behind. She pulled him backward and jammed her hand to his throat as though she held a knife.
“Yeah?” Bertie said in his ear, trying to ignore the sleek warmth of his hair so near her lips. “This is what Je
ffrey would do to you. If I’d been him, he’d have killed you already. What do you think about that?”
Chapter 12
For a moment Sinclair didn’t move. His body was solid under hers, hard muscle beneath the giving fabric of his coat. Bertie felt his chest expand with his breath, his pulse thud beneath her fingertips. The contact, this intimate, made her so giddy she almost lost hold of him.
A heartbeat later, Sinclair broke her grip, whirled Bertie around, and had her off him and against the nearest wall before she knew what happened. Sinclair’s strong hand was at her throat, his fingers just pressing her skin.
His breath was warm and smelled of whiskey. “This is what I do to men who attack me, Bertie. You don’t have to worry about me. I can hold my own.”
His gray eyes were so near hers, the irises flecked with lighter gray, his lashes as light as his hair. Sinclair’s mouth—that firm-lipped mouth that spoke the rich, rumbling words—was very close to her own. If Bertie didn’t squirm away now, she’d do something foolish, like kiss him.
She drew a breath, contriving to look intimidated. “I’m sorry. I only meant . . .”
Instantly, Sinclair took his hand from her neck, set her on her feet, and took a swift step back. “Lass, I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to frighten you . . .”
Bertie spun away, laughing. “You’re a soft touch, you are. As soon as a thief starts to cry, you’ll apologize and let him go?” She held up her hands. From her fingers dangled Sinclair’s handkerchief, his watch, and a small pouch of coins. She grinned her triumph.
“Bertie, you bloody little . . .” Sinclair broke off, glancing at the open door, then crossing to close it. “How the devil did you do that?”
“Easy as winking. You see? You need someone looking after you.”
Sinclair came to her, his amazement mixed with irritation. “Show me how you took them. So I can be on my guard.”