“It is far too cold for them in Scotland,” Mrs. Davies said. “I’ve always said so.”
“My house is equipped with the latest modes of heating,” Sinclair said tightly. “We abandoned peat fires and sleeping rolled in our kilts last winter.”
Mrs. Davies did not appear to be amused. “Margaret’s fate was sealed when she married you. I’ll not let the same happen to her children.”
Sinclair underwent another transformation—this one from bleak coldness to rage. He stepped to Mrs. Davies as though ready to throttle her in the middle of the elegant tearoom.
“Ye leave your hands off my children,” he said, towering over her. “And tell bloody Edward to do likewise. I’ll take Cat and Andrew to Scotland and never bring them back down, if that’s what I have to do to keep them from you.”
“Not if the law has anything to say about it.” Mrs. Davies had taken a step back, paling under Sinclair’s fury. “Edward lost his sister because of you. You know it. If you lose your children as well, it will be your own fault.”
Mrs. Davies delivered the last in a decided voice, swung on her heel, and stalked away. The feathers on her hat bounced, as did her bustle. Another time, Bertie would have laughed at the absurd picture she made, but Sinclair stood frozen, face fixed in cold rage.
Bertie rose to him, touching his arm. “We should go,” she said in a low voice. “People are staring.”
Sinclair jerked, as though he’d forgotten she and his children were there. He looked swiftly at Cat and Andrew, who were watching him, then around at the full tables of the tearoom. So many conversations were flowing, overlapping one another, that the gawkers might not have heard Mrs. Davies, but they were looking their way with interest.
Sinclair signaled the waiter, who nodded back, but instead of settling up, Sinclair lifted Andrew into his arms and started out. The McBrides must have an account here too.
Bertie took Cat’s hand and followed Sinclair. Richards was nowhere in sight when they emerged onto Piccadilly, and Sinclair started walking swiftly down the street, not waiting. Bertie and Cat had to jog to catch up with him.
Sinclair turned sharply into the Burlington Arcade, with its shops of splendid silver and jewelry; not the fastest route if he were determined to walk all the way to Upper Brook Street. Bertie knew, though, that Sinclair was moving automatically, his anger taking him along without him realizing where he was going. Bertie had done such things on days when her father had upset her too much to stay still.
Bertie caught up to Sinclair. “She’s a cow. Don’t listen to her.”
Sinclair glanced at her, his gaze chill and remote. “We are removing to Scotland,” he said abruptly. “You, Cat, and Andrew are, that is. I have trials to finish. Can you live without the soot of London around you all the time? My house in northern Scotland is remote.”
Bertie’s heart beat faster. She’d never been away from London in her life, didn’t know what anything outside it looked like. The thought of leaving it, without Sinclair, did funny things to her insides. She wasn’t afraid to leave London—in fact, the idea was exciting—but leaving Sinclair behind was not.
“Can’t we wait until you finish up?” Bertie asked. “Then we can all go together.”
Sinclair turned to glare down at her, Andrew watching interestedly from his arm, and Bertie’s face scalded. She could hardly tell Sinclair she was afraid she’d lose him if she left, that he’d forget all about her. He don’t say no to the ladies, Macaulay had said.
Bertie rushed on, babbling a little. “Thing is, I’ve never been on a train, not that far anyway. Hadn’t you better come and make sure I do all right?”
Sinclair gazed down at her, as though he tried to fix on what she was saying. “Safer if you go. For Cat and Andrew as well.”
“Yeah? Well, what about you? Who’s going to look after you if we all run away to Scotland? And what’s to say your Mr. Davies won’t send the law up there, to pluck away Andrew and Cat while you’re here?”
Sinclair’s eyes came back into focus. Ah, she had him now. It was a possibility, no doubt.
“If you stay in London, then you stay home,” he said in a hard voice. “No jaunts to the park, not even with Macaulay. Could you stand it? Being cooped up in the house all the time?”
“I can stay!” Andrew shouted. “I’ll run up and down the stairs if I can’t go to the park. I’d rather go on the train with you, Papa!”
“Cat?” Bertie looked down at the girl. In the constant worry about making Andrew behave, Cat sometimes got rather left out.
Cat shrugged. “As you like, Father.”
Sinclair studied her indifferent face, and his frown deepened. Bertie shook her head the slightest bit at him. Now was not the time to wonder about Cat.
“I have cases scheduled all the way through next week,” Sinclair said. “I can’t get away before then.” He switched his gaze to Bertie, and she tried not to look too eager. “Very well, then, stay in London and wait for me. The Old Bailey adjourns Tuesday next, come what may. Even murderers have to wait when judges want their Christmas.”
Sinclair lay awake late that night, gaze on the ceiling, his insomnia reaching out to tap him. He’d slept surprisingly well these last few nights, his mind eager to take him to dreams of Bertie, but the encounter with Helena Davies had left him in turmoil.