Bertie wrinkled her nose. “Well, I got Roberta hung on me, didn’t I? My mum called me Bertie, so that’s what I like.”

Sinclair let go of her hand. His ached to have to release hers, but she was right—he’d do Andrew no good if he was carted off to a sickbed himself. He lay down, gently, so as not to disturb his son, and Bertie pulled quilts over him.

“I’ll be right here,” she said. “On the other side of the bed, in that chair. Andrew won’t move a hair without me knowing.”

Sinclair felt some relief loosen his limbs. “Thank you, Bertie.”

Bertie leaned down and kissed his cheek, her loose hair brushing his skin. “It’s my pleasure.”

Bertie watched Sinclair sleep. Thin winter sunlight touched his hair, as fair as Andrew’s, and brushed the lines about his eyes.

He was exhausted. Bertie understood the exhaustion, and his terror. Losing someone was never easy, and never grew easier. Losing your child must be hardest of all. Though Andrew wasn’t her son, Bertie knew that if he didn’t live, her grief would cut her deeply and never heal.

Sinclair, a strong man, had already suffered much. Bertie remembered what Macaulay had said about Mrs. McBride’s death—When she was gone, there wasn’t much left of him.

Bertie vowed, looking down at Sinclair as he reposed on the bed, that she would make sure he didn’t lose any more of himself. No matter what.

Sinclair slept on, the sun rose, and the outside world rumbled around them. Macaulay and Mrs. Hill came in from time to time, both trying to persuade Bertie to relinquish her place, but she refused. She’d promised. Mrs. Hill brought her tea and toast, and Macaulay, blankets, but they seemed to understand. Macaulay tried to keep up his bluff good spirits, assuring everyone that Master Andrew was a tough little lad, but Mrs. Hill’s eyes were red-rimmed, her usual briskness absent.

Clocks around the town were striking eleven in the morning when Andrew’s eyes fluttered open. He took in Bertie, his father sleeping on his back, arm flung over his face, and said, “That man shot me.”

“Andrew, sweetie.” Bertie’s heart beat swiftly as she touched his forehead. He was still warm, but damp with sweat, the fever broken. “Sinclair.” Bertie gently shook him. She hated to wake him, but a promise was a promise. “Andrew—”

Sinclair came awake and sat up in one motion. He turned to Andrew, stark fear in his eyes, and those eyes grew wet as he looked down at his son blinking back at him.

“You had a gun too, Papa,” Andrew said, his usually loud voice faint. “Did you shoot him back? Wish I’d seen that.”

The doctor, returning to check on the patient that afternoon, expressed surprise that Andrew was alive at all, and put it down to his powders.

“Bicarbonate of soda,” Sinclair said in disgust after the doctor left. “My cook could have prepared that, and done a better job of it.”

He made Andrew take more of Warburg’s tincture to keep the fever down, as much as Andrew complained of the taste. Andrew also wanted to get up, but Sinclair forbade it. He told Andrew he’d seen many a gunshot wound in the army, and he knew exactly how long a man needed to stay down to heal. Being compared to a wounded soldier made Andrew’s grin return, though weakly. But at least he agreed to stay in bed.

Sinclair convinced Bertie to take her turn at sleeping. Bertie rested for a time, but she soon was back in the nursery with Caitriona, who didn’t need to be neglected. Once Cat was reassured that her brother would live and get better, she returned to her usual cool indifference, or at least pretended to. The relief in her eyes was evident, but Cat held it in, her earlier need to confide in Bertie gone.

Bertie had never met a child who closed herself away as much as Cat did. Even children Bertie had grown up with—beaten and hungry—had more life in them than Cat. Cat was a lovely little girl, with her ripples of dark hair always topped with a big bow, a matching bow on her fashionable dresses. But the child inside was vastly unhappy.

Cat did her lessons without much interest, the only thing that absorbed her being whatever she wrote or drew in her notebook. When Bertie expressed interest in the notebook, Cat gave her a look of alarm and hugged the book to her chest. She didn’t relax until Bertie assured her she wouldn’t pry.

The day after Andrew awoke, Sinclair said he was ready to be transferred back to his own bed. Sinclair carried him there himself. A hired nurse settled in to look after him, but Sinclair showed no hurry to rush back to chambers. Later that afternoon, he sent for Bertie to come down to him—not to his study, Aoife said, bringing the message, but to the downstairs drawing room.

When Bertie tripped inside, she found Sinclair not alone. Several large men were with him, two in kilts, one in a severe suit. They looked enough like the Duke of Kilmorgan to be his brothers, which, in fact, they turned out to be.

“This is Detective Chief Inspector Fellows,” Sinclair said, indicating the man in the suit. “He wants you to tell him all about Jeffrey and where we’ll find him.”

Chapter 16

Bertie had twigged that Fellows was Old Bill as soon as she set eyes on him, criminal investigation, no less. She recognized his name—Fellows had been a thorn in the side of East End villains for years. He always got his man, or woman, no matter what.

The way Fellows sized up Bertie with his eagle eyes told Bertie he knew all about her, or at least what she was. What she used to be, Bertie corrected herself.

The other two men in the room were as formidable as Fellows, but in different ways. The tallest one was Lord Cameron, the one with the horses. Bertie had seen him at the soiree, and she’d observed the way Sinclair’s sister had laid a tender hand on his arm whenever she’d spoken to him. Lord Cameron might be a hard man, but Ainsley obviously loved him.