Fellows didn’t bother knocking; he simply had his two burly constables kick the door open. Jeffrey, stirring coals in a rusting kitchen stove, turned on them with the poker.

Jeffrey was fast, beating back the constables with deadly intent. A woman came screeching out of the bedroom in her dressing gown. She didn’t bother beseeching them—she grabbed a pan from the stove and threw the hot water in it at the constables. Then she came with the sturdy pan after Fellows, who’d waded in and grabbed Jeffrey.

Cameron stepped behind the woman and seized her, lifting her from her feet as she screamed obscenities. He half threw her onto the sofa, then blocked her way when she tried to get up.

The neighbors were coming, pouring out of doorways and up the stairs to see what was going on. Some cheered on Jeffrey and his mistress; some came to encourage the police. Jeffrey took advantage of the chaos to twist from Fellows’s grasp and make for the window. They were one floor above the ground, but Jeffrey shoved open the shutters and jumped.

Sinclair, still in the hall, ran back down the stairs, pushing aside those in his way. He emerged from the house to see Jeffrey dash into a passage that ran alongside the building. Sinclair went after him, reaching Jeffrey as he was hauling himself up a wall at the end to make his escape.

Sinclair grabbed Jeffrey by the leg and yanked him down. The crate Jeffrey had used to boost himself gave way, sending Jeffrey, Sinclair, and crate to the ground. Jeffrey rolled to his feet first and kicked Sinclair in the stomach.

Sinclair’s breath went out of him as pain washed through his body. The pain coupled with the annoyed look in Jeffrey’s eyes—annoyed—made Sinclair’s red anger rise.

He’d been in plenty of battles in the heat and desperation of the desert that would make Jeffrey run far and fast. Sinclair and four of his men had once fought their way out of a place where they’d been cut off, out of water, and had only enough ammunition between the five of them for one gun. They’d fought hand-to-hand with some of the best-trained men in North Africa, and they’d won through—to nearly die of thirst picking their way back to camp. But all five had made it.

They’d survived because Sinclair had refused to let them die. Rolling over and giving in wasn’t in his nature, no matter what the odds.

His yell of rage boomed through the passage. Sinclair came to his feet and launched himself at Jeffrey, all the grief and anger in him focused on one target—the man who’d nearly killed his son.

Jeffrey fought, first in anger, then in fear and desperation. He wrenched himself away and tried to run, but Sinclair grabbed his coat with both hands and hauled him back. Sinclair threw Jeffrey against a wall and raised his fist to strike, strike, and strike again.

“Leave . . . off,” Jeffrey panted, blood spewing onto Sinclair’s greatcoat.

Sinclair gave him another furious punch. “You shot my son, you filthy bastard. He’s eight bloody years old!”

“Didn’t mean to,” Jeffrey said, words muffled by his broken jaw. “Your fault. Meant to hit you. He shouldn’t a’ been there.”

Sinclair grabbed the lapels of Jeffrey’s coat and hauled him up the wall. “It was you who shouldn’t have been there. You broke in, you shot at me and hit Andrew. Your fault, and yours alone.”

“No, it were Bertie’s.” Jeffrey snarled the best he could. “She ran away from me, and you made her your whore, you Scottish pig! If she hadn’t left me, nothing would have happened.”

Sinclair ground him back into the wall. “Don’t blame her for your idiocy, you piece of dung. Don’t even say her name.”

“I knew it. I knew she were your whore.” Jeffrey tried to spit at him.

Sinclair drew back his fist again, but his hand was caught by the large one of Lloyd Fellows, the man’s grip amazingly strong.

“Enough of that,” Fellows said in his no-nonsense tone. Something clinked, and Fellows had a cuff around one of Jeffrey’s wrists. “Jeffrey Mitchell, I arrest you in the queen’s name for the breaking and entering of a Mayfair home, the attempted murder of Mr. Sinclair McBride, and the shooting of Andrew McBride, an eight-year-old boy. The jury probably won’t have much sympathy for that. I have a police van waiting for you, so we can pay an afternoon call on the magistrate.” He gave Sinclair a stern look. “You, go home and drink. Make sure he gets there, Cam.”

Cameron Mackenzie had come up behind them. “A large whiskey is what I prescribe,” he said. He put his big hand on Sinclair’s shoulder and steered him from the alley.

Inside the carriage, Sinclair collapsed against the cushions, his breath leaving him. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his face, covering the cloth with blood.

“You look bad,” Cameron said, his broken-gravel voice too cheerful. “Clean yourself up, and then tell her. Straight out. I don’t think she’ll be heartbroken that her philandering, murderous beau is on his way to the clink.”

Sinclair couldn’t speak. He leaned back against the cushions, dabbing at his bloody face, and accepted the flask Cameron handed him in silence. Cameron had an attractive trait—knowing when to talk and when to shut up. Without speaking, the two men traveled back across London, Sinclair letting the whiskey burn deep.

Andrew was delighted with the visit from his uncle Ian, though Andrew did most of the talking. He showed Ian his wound, and described the wild gunfight—which he wholly invented—that had led him to being hurt. Ian nodded as Andrew spoke, as though he believed every word. Cat listened, not interrupting, and Bertie pretended to focus on her mending.