Andrew answered for Bertie, in his usual shout. “Aunt Eleanor! She got it from Uncle Cameron. Bertie won’t let me play with it.”
“Because I want to give it back to your Uncle Cameron in one piece,” Bertie said firmly. “But yes, Eleanor lent it to me when I said I wished I had a way to know how fast Andrew could run.”
Sinclair pictured Eleanor opening her blue eyes wide as she explained to the rough-voiced Cameron that he should lend an expensive chronograph to a pickpocket from a family of thieves. Sinclair also sensed that the chronograph would be safer with Bertie than with anyone else in London.
Sinclair signaled for Richards, who drove the coach back to them, and Sinclair handed Bertie in. The smile she gave him as she pressed his hand made him know he was lost. Any thought of control—of his life, of his emotions—was utterly gone, never to return.
The coach stopped after traveling along Piccadilly, and Sinclair handed Bertie down. She loved how he treated her with as much care as he would a lady like his sister and sisters-in-law. Made her feel special, not shoved aside as she had been most of her life.
Sinclair lifted his children to the ground, then took Andrew’s hand and reached to Cat. Cat turned away from him and thrust her hand into Bertie’s. Bertie’s and Sinclair’s eyes met, and Bertie shrugged.
Sinclair turned to the door of the great edifice they’d stopped before, and Bertie saw that it was Fortnum and Mason’s.
Bertie’s interest quickened. She’d never been inside a department store, had been turned away from one she’d tried to enter by its large doorman. Clean stores full of wares were not for the likes of Bertie Frasier.
This doorman bowed respectfully to Sinclair and opened the door for him, also bowing to Bertie as she swept in with Cat. Funny how clean clothes and being in the company of a rich man changed the way people treated her. As long as Bertie kept her mouth shut, she thought, she’d be fine.
The glittering palace of goods made her want to stop and gape. So many people, so many things, so much food. Sinclair led them through to a teashop, already crowded with ladies and gentlemen taking their ease. Sinclair settled them into a table in the corner, and admonished Andrew to at least try not to shout everything he wanted to say.
Bertie noted the looks from the other tea drinkers, some disapproving. Children were meant to be kept inside nurseries or schoolrooms, seen and not heard. Daft. Andrew didn’t know how not to be heard.
Other looks were more fond for the family on an outing—a dad who cared for his children.
Andrew did keep himself quiet, mostly because he spent the time shoveling as many cakes, scones, and pieces of bread into his mouth as he could. Cat ate daintily as usual, saying little.
Sinclair said little as well, but he was polite, making sure Bertie’s plate was full, that his family wanted for nothing. Bertie poured the tea, pretending to be very prim, liking it when Sinclair’s eyes twinkled at her.
When they were nearly finished, the freezing tones of a woman cut through the warmth of their domestic moment.
“Mr. McBride.”
A lady had stopped at their table, two companions behind her. She was not much older than Sinclair, with brown hair and dark eyes, but lines framed her mouth. Her chin was tilted high, as though she’d perfected the art of looking down her nose.
Sinclair’s friendliness vanished behind a wash of ice as he rose to his feet. “Mrs. Davies.”
Mrs. Davies, eh? Wife to Mr. Edward Davies? The one who wanted to take away Cat and Andrew? A knot formed in Bertie’s stomach along with a burn of anger.
Andrew, his mouth full, said, “Mornin’ Aunt Helena.” Cat gave the woman a silent, expressionless look.
“How are you?” Sinclair asked, with an air that said he only inquired to show his children that a person was polite even to someone he loathed. His voice was brittle, Sinclair having become the cold, empty shell of a man once more.
“I am well, thank you,” Mrs. Davies said with poor grace. “You are aware, my dear Mr. McBride, that it is Tuesday?”
Sinclair gave her a chill nod. “The day after Monday, yes.”
Helena’s nostrils pinched. “I thought you’d be in chambers, and the children at lessons.” Her sharp gaze took in Bertie in her gray dress and white collar. “This is the governess, I suppose.”
“You suppose correctly,” Sinclair said, an edge to his voice. “This is Miss Frasier.”
Bertie smiled up at Mrs. Davies, contriving to look demure and book-learned. She was unsure whether she should rise from her chair or keep her seat—sitting seemed to be safer, but she could not tell whether this pleased or displeased Mrs. Davies. The woman fixed Bertie with another stare then ignored her utterly.
“I suppose this is a lesson on deportment,” Mrs. Davies said. The two ladies behind her looked over Andrew, Cat, and Bertie with interest. No doubt they’d be flapping their jaws about the encounter for the rest of the day.
“No, this is a man having tea with his children,” Sinclair said, the edge on his voice sharper.
“After which, you’ll be buying them all kinds of things not good for them.” Mrs. Davies frowned at the remains of a cake on Cat’s plate—Andrew’s plate was scraped clean. “Toys and other frivolities.”
“No doubt we’ll be provisioning ourselves for our trip to Scotland,” Sinclair said. “For Christmas.”
Mrs. Davies scowled even more. She’d ruin her reasonably good looks if she weren’t careful, Bertie thought. She already had lines of sourness around her eyes.