Your dear departed wife wasn’t so sweet and innocent, was she? What part of her dossier would you like me to post to your fellows in chambers, the judges on the bench?

The letter had been printed in angular capitals, like the others. Sinclair had folded it aside to take home, a bad taste in his mouth.

The letters had started coming a year ago, just after Christmas. He’d shown them to Chief Inspector Fellows, his sister’s brother-in-law, keeping it all in the family. Fellows was one of the best detectives in Scotland Yard, and he had a quality Sinclair valued—discretion. Fellows had started an investigation but so far had found nothing. The letter writer, as much as he or she threatened, had never followed up on the threats, nor had demanded any compensation for silence.

A lunatic, Sinclair told himself. One who knows nothing.

He knew he shouldn’t worry, but it rankled. Sinclair had dutifully taken all the letters he’d received to Inspector Fellows, as per Fellows’s instruction, all except ones like these. The ones that mentioned Daisy specifically he put into a box at home. They were no different from the others, except in subject matter, and he’d already given Fellows plenty to work with.

He didn’t have time to rush to pay Fellows a visit anyway. Sinclair hadn’t slept much in the last nights, and tonight he had three more briefs to read. He’d be in his study going over them while the house slept and he didn’t.

Just as well. If he went to bed, Sinclair would lie awake thinking of the chance encounter with the blue-eyed pickpocket, or he’d drift off and dream of it.

The dreams took him far beyond the kisses they’d shared. In the dreams, Sinclair would lay her back on her makeshift sofa, the lamps burning softly around them, and unbutton the rather prim dress she’d been wearing.

Underneath she’d be bare, soft and sweet, smelling of warmth and the night. He’d kiss her throat and her bosom as she ran her fingers through his hair.

He’d move down her body, trailing kisses as he went, pushing aside fabric until he found the heat between her legs. In the dreams, he could taste the nectar of her, take in her beautiful scent. She’d groan and shift as he drank her, her movements languid. Once Sinclair was finished, he’d rise over her and slide himself inside.

At that wonderful point, the dream always dissolved, and Sinclair would wake up, half groaning, ramrod stiff, fists balled. He needed release—he’d held himself in too long.

Sinclair had learned after the first few years alone that he could sate himself physically with a woman without engaging his emotions. It had been a relief to discover that—he could calm his libidinous needs without feeling he’d betrayed the woman he’d loved with all his heart.

A week before he’d met the pickpocket, Sinclair’s brother Steven and his new wife had introduced Sinclair to a widow his age, Mrs. Thomalin, who’d been charming, pretty, intelligent, and hadn’t minded Sinclair kissing her in a private corner of the ballroom where they’d been dancing. He should offer to take her out to a restaurant or some such, and they could return here afterward for a private evening. His servants would never say a word. They were loyal to him—Macaulay and the housekeeper, Mrs. Hill, and the under-servants never told tales about Mr. McBride. Their discretion could be counted on while their master relieved his pent-up desires.

The coach pulled to a halt. Sinclair came out of his stupor and gathered his papers, retrieving the ribbon and tying it around the thick stack. His valise was already full, so he thrust the papers at Macaulay, who’d opened the carriage door for him.

Sinclair’s study was on the second floor above the ground floor, a large room in the front of the house. A double door opened from it into his bedchamber, though his bedroom could be entered from the hallway as well. Sinclair liked the private aerie where he could be alone with his thoughts—that is when things were quiet in the nursery above him.

They were quiet tonight. Suspiciously so. Sinclair had left his coat, hat, and gloves downstairs with Peter, the footman, and now he thumped his valise onto his desk. Macaulay laid the armload of papers he’d carried up for Sinclair beside it.

“Where are the urchins, Macaulay?” Sinclair asked him. “Or did Miss Evans give up and slip them a dose of laudanum? I’ll have to sack her if she did.”

“They’re in bed.” Macaulay’s voice was gruffer than usual. “They had their supper and went to bed, and are now sleeping.”

Sounded unlikely. “Don’t tell me she truly did give them laudanum.”

“No, sir.” Macaulay moved uneasily.

Sinclair stopped, and the papers he’d been straightening slipped through his fingers. “Why? Are they ill?” He lived in perpetual fear his children would fall ill again, as they had when their mother had passed. They’d been so very sick, especially Andrew, a baby then. They’d survived it; Daisy had not.

“No, sir,” Macaulay said. “New governess. She . . . started today.”

“New governess?” Sinclair blinked. “What the devil happened to Miss Evans? Or did Andrew manage to lock her in the cellar? And where did I obtain a new governess, for God’s sake? I know I’m not the best of fathers, but I can manage to remember when I do and don’t hire someone to look after my wee ones.”

Macaulay opened and closed his big hands, saying nothing. Odd. Macaulay never had difficulty conveying his opinions on absolutely everything, usually in a loud Scottish growl.

“What is it, man?” Sinclair asked. “I’ve never seen you at a loss for words before.”