“Leave it, Macaulay,” Mr. McBride snapped and hauled himself up into the coach.

The door shut and the coach jerked forward. Mr. McBride settled back into his seat, not looking out the window. Except for his liveliness when he’d snarled at his servant, he’d taken on the awful blankness again.

Bertie watched the coach until it turned down Park Lane and was lost to sight. She knew where it was going—every day Mr. McBride climbed into his carriage with a valise of sorts and headed off to his chambers in Middle Temple, which was located near where the Strand became Fleet Street. The Middle and Inner Temples consisted of narrow lanes of rigid brick buildings, all with fine-painted doors and windows, all holding barristers and clerks working their hearts out to bang up criminals like Bertie, her father, and Jeffrey.

Mr. McBride’s chambers were in a little square called Essex Court, in an elegant building with a fanlighted door, which matched the style of his Mayfair home. Both chambers and house spoke of money, and lots of it. Maybe the whole McBride family was as toffy as he was, or else Basher made quite a few bob sending murderers to the noose.

Bertie had discovered where Mr. McBride worked and where he lived from careful research. The day after her encounter with him, she’d seen him come out of the Old Bailey after a morning in court, but this time he’d stepped directly into his smart-looking coach. Bertie had been on her own—no dad or Jeffrey to tell her to rob the man again—and she’d found herself walking after the coach, which crawled at a slow pace through London’s jammed streets. Easy for Bertie to keep it in sight.

The coach hadn’t gone far down Fleet Street before turning off toward the Temples, stopping to let out Mr. McBride on a narrow lane. Mr. McBride had walked from there, and Bertie had pattered behind him, not too close.

Mr. McBride had never seen her. He’d gone into the fine-looking building that housed his chambers, greeting another barrister and a harried-looking clerk on the doorstep.

The other barrister had slapped Mr. McBride on the shoulder and laughed. “The legend of the Scots Machine grinds on. The newspapers love you, old man. Standing up for the downtrodden, potting the true killer between the eyes, making old Percy Montague snarl at you—the ladies will love you even more now.”

The clerk wasn’t as informal, but he nodded and said, “Good on you, sir,” with much admiration. “Your new brief is on the mantelpiece, and you’ve got a conference at three.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Mr. McBride said, tipped his hat, and went on inside.

Bertie had ducked out of the way as the barrister and clerk walked on together. Other barristers were going in and out of the houses around her, and staring at her, these stiffest of stiff men in their black suits, coats, and hats. Bertie was out of place with her worn coat and scuffed boots, even if her hat was new.

Her father had been so happy with the sovereign Bertie had brought him that he’d given her a few half-crowns as a reward, telling her to enjoy herself. Bertie’s dad was always cheery when he was rich. He’d been chuffed enough to forget that Jacko Small was now in the Bow Street jail, waiting to be shuffled to Newgate to await trial. Jeffrey was still angry about it, though, so Bertie had avoided him and gone shopping.

Why she’d decided to leave the hat shop and make her way to the Old Bailey she wasn’t certain. She’d told herself she’d never got her half-pint yesterday, so she might as well go back to the pub there and treat herself and have some dinner, but once she’d caught sight of Mr. McBride, her feet simply followed his coach.

What made her return to the Temple after more shopping later, she didn’t know either. She’d missed Mr. McBride leaving that day, but the next afternoon, Bertie spied him walking to his coach, a big bundle of papers under his arm in addition to his valise. The coachman asked him where he wanted to go, and Mr. McBride simply answered, “Home.”

The sun had already set by this time, the streets dark and chilly, but Bertie had tramped along after the carriage until it had turned onto the Strand and become lost to sight.

Her heart had sunk—she’d never find him in that mess—but she had the good fortune a moment or so later to run smack into the clerk she’d seen on the doorstep of Mr. McBride’s chambers the day before. The clerk was only about as tall as Bertie and a bit younger, but he was wiry, with thick dark hair and blue eyes that looked friendly.

The friendly light was the only reason Bertie took a chance and said, “I say, was that the one they call Basher McBride getting into that coach? I’ve heard all about him.”

“We call him the Scots Machine,” the clerk said proudly. “I’m his clerk. Well, one of his junior clerks. He’s the bright star in our chambers—a QC. He’ll be a judge one day, mark my words.”

“Fine coach, and all,” Bertie said, plying her smile. “Beautiful horses.”

“Matched grays, pure bloodlines. He searched all over the country for those. Of course, his sister’s married to Lord Cameron Mackenzie, who knows horses. All his win races, they do.”

“Do they?” Bertie’s smile deepened. “I’ll remember that. I like a flutter, now and again.”

“Then take it from me—put your money on Lady Day or Night-Blooming Jasmine in the mare races, and you won’t go wrong.”

“Lady Day or Night-Blooming Jasmine. I’ll remember when I’m in the Royal Box at Ascot.” Bertie winked. “Think they’ll like me new hat?”