The afternoon was cold, darkening with the coming winter night. Bertie rubbed her hands together in her too-thin gloves and suggested that her dad and Jeffrey take her into the pub and buy her a half.
“Not yet,” Bertie’s dad said. “Just teach ’im a lesson, Bertie. Go on now, girl.”
Girl, when she was twenty-six years old. “Leave him alone,” she said. “He saved Ruthie.”
“But got Jacko arrested,” Jeffrey growled. “Whose side are you on?”
“Jacko killed the woman,” Bertie said. “He’s a villain; he always was. I say good on Ruthie.”
Jeffrey grabbed Bertie by the shoulder and pushed her into the shadows of the passage beside the pub. He wouldn’t hit her in public—he’d take her somewhere unseen to do that—but his hand clamped down hard. “Jacko is my best friend,” Jeffrey said, his breath already heavy with gin. “You get over to that fiend of a Scottish barrister and fetch us a souvenir. We deserve it. The traitorous bastard was supposed to take Jacko’s part.”
Jeffrey’s grip hurt. Bertie knew if she protested too much, both Jeffrey and her dad would let her have it. But she couldn’t do this.
“That fiend of a Scottish barrister is very smart,” she argued. “He’ll catch me, then I’ll be in the cell with Jacko, waiting to go before the magistrate.”
Bertie’s dad leaned in, his breath already reeking as well. “You just do it, Roberta. You’re like a ghost—he’ll never know. And if he does see you, you know what to do. Now get out there, before I take my hand to you.”
They weren’t going to leave it. In their minds, Mr. McBride was the villain of the piece and deserved to be punished. If Bertie refused, her dad would drag her away and thrash her until she gave in. If Mr. McBride went home while Bertie was taking her beating, her dad would make her wait here every afternoon until Mr. McBride returned for another case.
Either way, Bertie was doing this. One way would simply be less painful than the other.
Bertie jerked free of Jeffrey’s hold. “All right,” she snapped. “I’ll do it. But you’d better be ready. He’s no fool.”
“Like I said, he’ll never see ya,” her dad said. “You’ve got the touch. Go on with you.”
Bertie stumbled when her dad pushed her between the shoulder blades, but she righted herself and squared her shoulders. Taking a deep breath, she walked steadily toward where Mr. McBride stood waiting, his sad face and empty eyes focused on something far, far from the crowded streets of the City of London.
Sinclair McBride pulled his coat close against the icy wind and drew his hat down over his eyes.
Remember Sir Percival Montague, Daisy? he asked the gray sky. Well, I potted him good today. Old Monty was nearly rubbing his hands, wanting to pronounce sentence of death on that poor girl. Bloody imbecile. She was no more guilty than a newborn kitten.
The sky grew darker, rain coming with the night. So damnably cold here, not like the blistering heat of North Africa, where Sinclair had done his army time. His younger brother, Steven, was always trying to talk Sinclair into traveling with him—Spain, Egypt, back to Rome at least, where winters were balmy.
But there was the question of Andrew and Caitriona, Sinclair’s very interesting children. Sinclair couldn’t bring himself to foist them on Elliot and Juliana while he traveled the world. His brother and sister-in-law were starting their own family, their own life, and needed time alone. Take them with me? Sinclair had to smile. Wouldn’t that be an adventure?
Sinclair imagined his two terrifying bairns on trains, carriages, carts, all the way to Italy. No, not the best answer.
Thinking about Andrew and Cat helped him avoid the one thought Sinclair had been trying to banish all day. Now as he stood in the cold, waiting for his coachman to bring the landau, the thought came unbidden.
Seven years to this day you left me, Daisy.
Margaret McBride, Maggie or Daisy to those closest to her, had died of a fever that threatened to take Sinclair’s children as well. Seven years ago today.
My friends and family expect me to move on, can you believe it? But they’ve not had the loves of their lives ripped away from them, have they? They wouldn’t say such bloody daft things if they had.
“Moving on” sounded like forgetting all about Maggie, his wife, his lover, his helpmeet, his best friend. And I’ll never do that.
Maggie didn’t answer. She never did. But it didn’t matter. The comfort Sinclair drew from talking to her, out loud or inside his head, was some days the only thing that kept him sane.
When you’re ready for me to move on, I know you’ll tell me. Another gust of wind had Sinclair grabbing for his hat and clenching his teeth. Where the devil was Richards with the coach? I trust you, Daisy . . .
The crowd was thick, everyone in London going home for the night. Sinclair held on to his hat as he was buffeted. Richards was taking a damn long time. Sinclair wasn’t usually in a rush, but tonight was bloody cold, and the rain was starting to come down in earnest.
A shove and a thump sent Sinclair a swift step forward. A young woman had stumbled into him, her shoes skidding on the wet pavement. She struggled to keep her feet, and Sinclair put a steadying hand under her arm.
“Easy now, lass,” Sinclair said.
She looked up at him . . . and everything stopped. Sinclair saw a dark hat covered with bright blue violets, then eyes of the same blue—clear and warm in this swirl of gray. The young woman’s face was round, her nose slightly tip-tilted, her red lips curving into a charming smile.