He thrust slowly, pausing between each one, letting her feel every inch of him. Gone was the frenzy from the train—they came together in warmth tonight, locked in intimacy.
Sinclair slid his hands under Bertie’s hips. He rolled her over on the large bed, still inside her, and eased her upward until Bertie was sitting on him, straddling his thighs.
The position lifted him high inside her. Bertie’s head went back, a cry of pleasure escaping her throat. This was why men and women desperately sought passion, this amazing feeling, and the joy of finding it with another person.
Sinclair watched her, his hard-palmed hands coming up to cup her breasts. He teased her nipples with his thumbs, sending dark fire to join the one already incinerating her.
Bertie moaned, rising and falling as Sinclair lifted against her. He slid his hands from her breasts to her hips, encouraging her, until she was rocking shamelessly on him. The movement pressed him even more satisfyingly inside her.
Bertie rode him, her hair tumbling down. She was brazen, she knew, but she didn’t care. She loved this man, and she wouldn’t throw away the joy he was handing her.
By the time she was crying out, drowning in dark waves of passion, Sinclair had lifted himself onto his elbows, thrusting hard. His skin gleamed with sweat, the plaid bunched around them, the lamplight brushing his body and the gold of his hair.
Bertie never knew when it was over. Her mind whirled away, lost in the incredible delights Sinclair gave her body, but suddenly she was lying full length on top of him, holding him, kissing him. Sinclair was inside her, still hard, but he was spent, his breath coming fast, and he was laughing.
“Happy Christmas,” he said, his voice rough.
“Happy . . . Christmas.” Bertie’s words came out between breaths, then she snuggled against him and let all be well.
Christmas morning commenced without Bertie having gotten much sleep. Her eyes were hot and sandy, her body a bit sore, but she dressed and made her way to the nursery for the celebration.
The entire Mackenzie and McBride families were there, mothers, fathers, and children. Elliot and Juliana had a half Indian daughter—Bertie had heard the entire tale of Priti’s origins from Eleanor. Priti was a beautiful child, bright-eyed and full of enthusiasm for opening Christmas gifts. She was protective of her half brother, Patrick, who was not even a year old.
Amazing gifts had been showered on the children, from kites to entire armies of toy soldiers to dolls and doll furniture, to a bicycle for Aimee, the oldest Mackenzie at seven. Andrew eyed the bicycle with envy, but forgot about it when he opened his steam train on a track, with an engine that belched real steam.
Cat received jewelry, ribbons, lace, hats, and slippers, from the Mackenzie and McBride ladies, and her doll had a new frock, given to her by Sinclair. The gown was of the latest mode, a burnt orange color trimmed with brown, with a puffed bustle and long sleeves that tapered into ruffled cuffs. Cat touched the dress, thanked her father, and set the box aside.
Sinclair’s smile when Cat thanked him was strained. Beth whispered to Bertie later that Cat received a new dress for the doll every year, but never put them on her. Bertie had noted that the doll’s clothes never changed—though Cat would undress the doll and let Aoife wash the garments, the same things always went back on again.
Daniel Mackenzie didn’t let the dignity of his nineteen years mar his eagerness to help the children open and sort through their mountain of gifts. The children loved him, Bertie saw, the tiny ones crawling over him, the older ones, including Andrew, shouting for his attention. Even Cat, the oldest child present, favored him with her rare smiles.
“What did you do for us this year, Danny?” Andrew yelled at him.
“Thought you’d never ask.” Daniel rose to his feet, winked at Bertie, and told the children to follow him—no pushing, no shouting.
They filed out obediently, the older ones quivering in excitement as they ran down the stairs after him.
Ian Mackenzie, who’d left the nursery as soon as his son’s and daughters’ gifts had been opened, waited for them on the terrace. Snow had fallen in the night, but the clouds had gone, and the December day was crisp and clear. The nannies had made the children stop for coats, and Bertie adjusted mittens on several pairs of hands.
Daniel held his hands up for silence, then spoke. “Those of you who were here for Christmas last year remember the spectacular show put on by his brilliance, Ian Mackenzie, assisted by your humble servant.” Daniel pressed his hands to his chest and bowed. The children laughed and applauded.
“Get on with it, Danny,” Louisa shouted.
Daniel took another bow. “As you know, I have a fondness for mechanical workings, and Ian has a fondness for precision. He also has a fondness for his children, who are spoiled rotten.” Ian’s two older children jeered at him, while his youngest, Megan, waved her fists from her mother’s arms. “We pooled our efforts to bring to you the launch of the first Mackenzie flotilla—of the air!”
Daniel rotated his arms in a wild signal to Ian, who carefully leaned down and pulled some kind of lever half hidden by the terrace’s wall.
The pops of small explosions, like miniature fireworks, sounded, making the children jump and squeal, some sticking fingers into ears. Puffs of smoke burst up all along the terrace, and with it, balloons, each about a foot in diameter. Dangling from each was a small box.
The balloons, dozens of them, soared up into the air and headed for the garden. The children jumped and danced, or stared, enchanted.
“Those boxes are my presents to you,” Daniel shouted. “Catch them if you can!”
Chapter 22
Another collective cheer, and the children swarmed down from the terrace, racing into the garden, screaming and laughing.
Cameron went off the terrace after his tottering, happy daughter. “Blast you, Danny. I’d dreamt of putting my feet up somewhere warm for the rest of the morning, not rushing around the freezing garden.”
Daniel only grinned at his father. “I know your meaning, and you can cuddle with my stepmama later. But it’s the bairns’ day, isn’t it?”
Sinclair said nothing at all, only went after Andrew, who was running hell-bent after one of the drifting balloons. Cat watched with some interest, but she sat down on the terrace wall and took out her notebook.
Bertie sat down next to Cat, and Cat shut the book, as usual. “That was a lovely dress your father gave you for your doll.”
Cat nodded. “He has a dressmaker make them. It’s very kind.”
“Will you show them all to me? I bet you can see the march of fashion all the way back to this one.” Bertie touched the dress the doll always wore, which had a tighter skirt and a smaller bustle than the one Cat had received today, the mode of about eight years ago.
Cat gave her another nod. “They’re in London. We can look when we get back.”
Her answers were polite, but she was impatient, her fingers tightening on her notebook.
“Will you show me what’s in there?” Bertie asked, gesturing to the notebook.
Cat shot her a look that was almost fearful. “No.”
Bertie’s curiosity rose, but she remembered how she’d been at Cat’s age, having lost her mother. She’d needed something private, hers alone, and so Bertie had made her hideaway under the street. “It’s all right. I won’t ask if you don’t want me to.”
Cat watched the children running through the garden, arms outstretched for the balloons, which were drifting down again. Their parents ran after them, like colorful ducks after their ducklings. Bertie and Cat were relatively alone on the terrace, no one in their corner.
“I don’t want anyone to see,” Cat said, shifting her doll in her arm. “They’ll laugh, or try to make me stop. Even Papa.”
Bertie’s curiosity rose even higher, but she quelled it. “I won’t let a
nyone look if you don’t want them to. Promise. Not if it’s that special to you.”
Cat shifted the doll again, her brows furrowing as though she debated with herself. Finally, slowly, she opened the notebook, at first holding it so Bertie couldn’t see inside. Then she leafed to a page and held it out to Bertie.
Bertie stared at the drawing on the paper in some puzzlement, then she realized what she was looking at. It was Bertie herself, standing in front of the mirror in Eleanor’s dressing room, gazing at herself in wonder.
The picture wasn’t an exact representation of her, with every line precise—it was more light and shadow than thick lines. Bertie’s gown flowed into her body, short, bold strokes delineating where gown ended and woman began. Her face was a suggestion but her eyes held all the amazement Bertie had felt, seeing herself pretty for the first time in her life.
The other ladies were there, squiggles of darkness and light, each of them expressing delight.
“Oh, Cat,” Bertie said breathlessly. “This is lovely!”
Cat pried the book from Bertie’s fingers. “It’s not right. I know I don’t draw like the drawing master taught me, but it’s how I see things.”
Bertie touched the notebook’s leather cover. “Are all your pictures like that?”
Cat nodded. “I draw all the time.” She flushed. “Sometimes I write little poems about what I draw.”
Bertie instantly wanted to read them, but she restrained herself. “Have you ever shown your Uncle Mac any of what you’ve drawn? I’ve seen his paintings. They’re beautiful, even though some of them are . . . well, blurry.”
“He paints like Monsieur Manet and Monsieur Degas,” Cat said. “Mrs. Evans said that what Uncle Mac paints is shameful, but I think his pictures are beautiful. But no, I haven’t showed him.”
“Why not? Maybe he can give you some lessons.”
“No!” Cat said in a hard voice. She swallowed. “What if he says they aren’t any good? It would be . . .”
She made a helpless gesture as though not knowing how to finish the thought. Bertie believed she understood. If Mac derided Cat’s drawings—not that Bertie thought he would—that would take something away from Cat, something she considered personal and precious.
“You can’t tell him,” Cat said with a scowl. “You promised, Bertie.”
Bertie lifted her hands. “I know I did. I’ll not say a word. Not unless you want me to.”
Cat nodded, though she gave Bertie a skeptical look. Bertie saw she’d have to win the girl’s trust in this matter, and she determined to do so.
The picture Cat had done of Bertie was full of vibrancy and strange beauty. She had talent, Bertie was sure of it. Maybe one day, Cat would be ready to share it with the world.
After breakfast, once the adults of the family had rested from the mad chase of children in the garden, Sinclair went to meet Fellows and Ian in Ian’s wing of the house. Before Sinclair could shut the door of Ian’s upstairs sitting room, it was pushed open by Bertie, who slid in behind Sinclair without apology.
Fellows raised his brows, but Sinclair answered, “It’s all right. I want her here. She might be able to help.”
Fellows pinned Bertie with his policeman’s stare but conceded with a nod. Ian, who was leaning on the edge of a desk, had the letters in his hand and was peering at them in turn. Sinclair watched him interestedly.
Ian didn’t simply read the letters. He held each one an inch away from his face and scanned the paper, turning it over and then upside down. He even touched a page to his nose, as though taking in its scent.
“What do you make of them, Ian?” Sinclair asked.
Ian didn’t answer, continuing his scrutiny in silence. After a few moments, he stood up and laid the sheets out on the wide desk, making three rows. He stood back and studied the arrangement, then lifted a few letters and changed their places with others, neatening the rows again.
At last Ian stepped back and made his pronouncement. “They were all written by the same person.”
Sinclair came to stand next to him—not too close, because Ian didn’t like anyone to touch him without warning. His wife and children could, and his sisters-in-law, but no others. Even his brothers had to be careful with him. Sinclair noted, however, that Ian didn’t seem to mind Bertie coming close to his other side to look at the letters with him. Was Ian a madman, or simply crafty?
“I’d worked that out already,” Sinclair said with a touch of impatience.
“They were all written at the same time,” Ian went on, as though Sinclair hadn’t spoken. “There are five missing.”
Sinclair started. The strange revelation that they’d been penned at the same time was lost in the cold qualm that Ian knew Sinclair had kept some of the letters back. What’s more, from the look Bertie threw at Sinclair, she knew it too, blast her.
Bertie asked the question Sinclair would have if he could have found his voice. “How the devil do you know all that?”
Ian didn’t answer. He touched each page in turn in silence, aligning their corners perfectly with the edges of the desk.
Sinclair couldn’t take his eyes from Bertie, who looked delicious in a modest gown of McBride plaid. The dark blue of the plaid brought out Bertie’s eyes, the blue-violet Sinclair had first noticed under her god-awful hat in the dirty London street. Those eyes flicked to him now, and Bertie flushed.
Ian lifted the second letter, turned it over, and held the back of it to Bertie. He traced his large fingertip over the indentations of the written letters. In silence, he turned the paper to its front side and traced indentations of additional letters, ones that weren’t inked. He then lifted the first paper, set it over the second, and moved his finger along those lines again. Bertie made a sound of delight.
“I see.” She took the pages from Ian’s hand, holding them up to the light. “He had a stack of paper and wrote each message on the top page, which left indents on the paper below.” Bertie piled the first three letters together and mimed writing. “The indentations of the first letter fades as it goes farther down the stack, and then the second, and so on. But how do you know they were written at the same time?” she asked Ian.
Ian took the pages from her and laid them out again, still in silence. He didn’t answer, Sinclair understood, not because he didn’t know, but because he didn’t have the words to explain. They jumbled up on him sometimes, Beth had said, and wouldn’t come out as he wanted them to. So he remained silent.
“The ink,” Sinclair said. “It’s faded on each letter by exactly the same amount. The ones I received later aren’t any sharper than the earlier ones.”
“Except the last one you got,” Bertie said. “That one’s new.”
Fellows gave Sinclair a severe look as Ian continued to lightly touch the pages. “Last one? I don’t remember you mentioning this.”
“Probably because it was about me,” Bertie said before Sinclair could answer. “Nasty thing. It came not long before we left London. But it couldn’t have been written at the same time as the others, because I didn’t happen along until a few weeks ago.”
“Was it delivered to your house?” Fellows asked Sinclair.
“To my chambers,” Sinclair said. “Henry brought it to me when I was staying home with Andrew. Yes, it was foul, and mentioned Bertie—if not by name, then by inference. The letter said, I know who she is and what she is, though he shied away from specifics.”
“Hmm.” Fellows looked unhappy. “That means this person is watching you or having you watched. He knows you’ve taken in a young governess, and he possibly does know where she came from. He prepared the first letters to send out to you little by little, to slowly torment you, but he’s taking advantage of opportunity now.”
“And I want him found,” Sinclair said, his anger rising. “I want my children and Bertie safe.”
“I’ll find hi
m.” Fellows spoke with conviction. “Ian, what about the missing letters you talked about? Do you mean they haven’t been sent yet?”
Ian shook his head. He ran his fingers in the space between letters four and five, then seven and eight, then a few more down the table.
Bertie followed him. “I see—you mean the indentations don’t match any of the ones here. That’s how you know they’re gone.”
“I have them at home,” Sinclair broke in impatiently. “Same writing, same paper.”
“I believe you told me you burned one,” Fellows said mildly.
Sinclair let out a breath of exasperation. “I kept them in case it turned out they’d help. But I didn’t want you to read them, Fellows. I’m sorry.”
“Because they’re about his wife,” Bertie said. “I don’t blame him for not wanting anyone to see. Even if what they say ain’t—isn’t—true.”
Sinclair felt his maddening rage again. “Bertie.”
Bertie looked at him in all innocence. “I know I shouldn’t have read them. It was an accident. But it’s no use waiting for you to tell me things. I want to help, but you hold everything back.”
“I know the feeling,” Fellows said dryly.
“Forgive me,” Sinclair said, voice hard. “You have enough to go on here. You don’t need them.”
Fellows nodded once. “Probably not. I’d like the last letter you received though, the one about Miss Frasier, to see how they differ.”
“Calls me a viper and a whore,” Bertie said readily. “Don’t matter to me. I’ve been called worse. You have to have a thick skin to grow up in the East End.” She lost her cheeky smile. “I don’t like how it says I’ll be the death of them, though. I almost was.”
“I’ve told you,” Sinclair said sternly. “That was not your fault, but entirely Jeffrey’s.”
“Did the letter come before or after Jeffrey’s attack?” Fellows interrupted.
Sinclair considered. “I’m not sure. Henry didn’t bring it to me until a few days after, but I’ll have to ask him when it arrived.” He met Bertie’s gaze again. “Still not your fault.”