The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie (41 page)

Sinclair McBride pulled his coat close against the icy wind and drew his hat down over his eyes.

Remember Sir Percival Montague, Daisy? Well, I potted him good today. Old Monty was nearly rubbing his hands, wanting to pronounce sentence of death on that poor girl. Bloody imbecile. She was no more guilty than a newborn kitten.

The sky grew darker, rain coming with the night. So damnably cold here. Steven was always trying to talk Sinclair into traveling with him—Spain, Egypt, back to Rome at least, where winters were balmy.

But there was the question of Andrew and Caitriona. Sinclair couldn’t bring himself to foist them onto Elliot and Juliana while he traveled the world. His brother and sister-in-law were starting their own family, their own life, and needed time alone.
I could take them with me.
Sinclair had to smile.
Wouldn’t that be an adventure?

Sinclair imagined his two terrifying children on trains, carriages, carts, all the way to Italy. No, not the best answer.

Thinking about Andrew and Cat helped him avoid the one thought he’d been trying to banish all day. Now as Sinclair stood in the cold, waiting for his coachman to bring the landau, the thought came unbidden.

Seven years to this day you left me, Daisy.

Margaret McBride, Daisy to her intimates, had died of a fever that had threatened to take Sinclair’s children as well. Seven years ago today.

My friends and family expect me to move on, can you believe it? But they’ve not had the loves of their lives ripped away from them, have they? They wouldn’t say such daft things if they had.

Moving on
sounded like forgetting all about Daisy, his wife, his lover, his helpmeet, his best friend.
And I’ll never do tha
t.

Daisy didn’t answer. She never did. But it didn’t matter. The comfort Sinclair drew from talking to her, out loud or inside his head, was the only thing that kept him going some days.

When you’re ready for me to move on, I know you’ll tell me.
Another gust of wind had Sinclair grabbing for his hat and clenching his teeth. Where the devil was the coach?
I trust you, Daisy . . .

The crowd was thick, everyone in the City going home for the night. Sinclair held on to his hat as he was buffeted. Richards was taking a damned long time with the coach. Sinclair wasn’t usually in a rush, but tonight it was bloody cold, and the rain started to thicken.

A shove and a thump made Sinclair take a step sideways. A young woman had stumbled right into him, her shoes skidding on the wet pavement. As she struggled to keep her feet, Sinclair put a steadying hand under her arm.

“Easy now, lass,” Sinclair said.

She looked up at him. Sinclair saw a dark hat covered with bright blue violets, then eyes of the same blue—clear and warm in the swirl of gray. The young woman’s face was round, her nose slightly tip-tilted, her lips red, curving into a charming smile.

“Now, I’m that sorry, mister. Some bloke put his elbow right in me back, and me feet went clean out from under me. You all right?”

“I’m whole.” Sinclair studied her with his professional assessment, honed by a long career of watching criminals. She wasn’t a street girl. Game girls had a more desperate look, and were too eager to be seductive.
Want me to make ya feel better, lamb?
was the cleanest of the many offers Sinclair had received on London’s streets.

This young woman was working-class, probably on her way home after a long day’s drudgery. She wasn’t dirty, but the sleeves of her bodice were frayed at the cuffs, her gloves threadbare and much mended. Poor, but making the best of it.

Still, she didn’t have the downtrodden look many factory women had. Her smile was sunny, as though telling the world things could be better if given a chance.

“Well, that’s good,” she said. “Night, mister. Sweet dreams.”

Another smile, and in the sudden flare of an approaching light, all Sinclair could see were her eyes.

Deep and blue, like the depths of the ocean. The Mediterranean could be that color. Sinclair remembered southern Italy and its shores, his time there in his youth, when he’d been in the army traveling the world. He’d known peace there, before he’d experienced the impossible happiness of meeting Daisy, followed by the equally impossible grief at her passing.

This young woman with her blue eyes was beautiful, with a beauty that went beyond her shabby clothes and working-class grin. She was a vision of light in the darkness, in a place where darkness had lasted too long.

Someone else shoved him, and Sinclair turned sharply. When he looked back at the young woman, she was gone. Sinclair blinked at the empty space where she’d been, then lifted his gaze and spied her slipping through the crowd, the violets on her hat bobbing.

The detail of her ridiculous hat kept Sinclair from believing he’d dreamed her. But of course he hadn’t. Visions of beautiful women were supposed to be of golden-haired sirens with perfect bodies, strumming on harps perhaps, to lure men to their dooms. Sirens didn’t have lopsided smiles and plump faces, and blue eyes that had pulled Sinclair out of his despair, if only for a moment.

But she was gone now, vision or no, and Sinclair needed to go home. Andrew and Cat would have locked their new governess in the cellar by now, or accidentally burned down the house. Or both.

They didn’t
mean
to be bad, his little ones . . . Well, mostly they didn’t. One of the governesses had claimed that Andrew was possessed by the devil. She’d even offered to contact a priest she knew who could have him exorcised. That governess hadn’t lasted more than an hour.

A clock struck. Sinclair, out of habit, reached for his watch to compare the time. His watch always ran a few minutes fast. Repairing it seemed to make no difference. Buying a new watch was out of the question, because Daisy had given him this one . . .

Which was no longer in his pocket.

Reality rushed at Sinclair with a cold slap. His gaze went to the violet-covered hat just as it disappeared around a corner.

Good God, how stupid had he been? He hadn’t pegged the young woman as a pickpocket, because pickpockets usually didn’t stop for a chat. They stole and slipped away before the victim was aware.

Her bad luck someone had tripped her. Or had it been luck?

All this went through Sinclair’s head as he whirled around and strode after the woman, his feet moving faster and faster as he went. Gone was any thought of finding his coach and going home. Nothing mattered but getting that watch back. Sinclair would find the young woman and take it away from her, even if he had to chase her to the ends of the earth.