Sinclair’s newest sister-in-law, Rose, had been a duchess—briefly—and Sinclair’s sister, Ainsley, had once been a lady-in-waiting to the queen. Between the pair of them, they knew everyone in London, and Juliana, who’d married Sinclair’s wild brother, Elliot, was amazingly fond of organizing.

When Sinclair had let slip a few weeks before that he was thinking of inviting people for a gathering before he left for Scotland, the three ladies had become a whirlwind. Tonight, Sinclair barely recognized his own house, which was festooned with ribbons and greenery for QC Sinclair McBride’s London Christmas soiree.

The children were upstairs, with Bertie. Sinclair hadn’t seen much of his pickpocket these past few days, ever since the night he’d asked her to stay. Many cases were being tried at the Old Bailey this week, the courts hurrying to have them done before they adjourned for the holidays. Sinclair was in court long hours every day, then back in his chambers preparing for more trials well into each night.

Or perhaps he was simply avoiding going home. Thinking of Bertie laughing with his children in the nursery or asleep in the bedroom above his office kept him restless and randy.

Mrs. Hill had promised that either she or Macaulay would return to the agency and bring back a list of potential governesses, but strangely, neither the housekeeper nor Macaulay had found time to do it. Sinclair thought he understood their procrastination. Andrew and Cat had been astonishingly well behaved—for them—ever since Miss Frasier had arrived. The consensus in the house was that, no matter how unconventional Miss Frasier might be, it was worth their sanity to have her here.

Their sanity might be safe, Sinclair thought darkly, but his own was in jeopardy.

Sinclair spied his brother Elliot near the windows and made for him.

“I understand Juliana being here,” Sinclair said, scooping champagne from a footman’s tray as he neared Elliot. “But you, little brother? You don’t like crowds. Or fuss. Or Englishmen.” Sinclair took a deep drink of the champagne and tried not to make a face. Whiskey, unfortunately, was nowhere in sight. Juliana, Rose, and Ainsley said that champagne was the thing for a London soiree.

Elliot drank nothing—he simply stood and watched the cream of society talking at length about very little at the tops of their voices. “I could go off into a dark corner and brood, if it would make you feel better,” he said.

Sinclair answered with a laugh, happy his brother could joke again. Elliot’s scarred face no longer bore the lines of exhaustion he’d worn for years, and the darkness in his eyes had lightened. Elliot had experienced hell as the captive of a particularly brutal tribe in the mountains north of the Punjab, and the McBrides had feared him dead for many months. It would take a long time for Elliot to fully heal, Sinclair knew, but Elliot’s episodes of darkness had lessened considerably since his marriage. The fact that Elliot could stand next to Sinclair and smile at his own joke was the greatest gift Juliana had given the McBrides.

“For a time I thought one of us would have to shoot you,” Sinclair said, taking another sip of overly sweet champagne. “I’m happy we didn’t. Of course, if I drink more of this treacle, I might ask you to drag me off and end my misery.”

Elliot answered with a laugh, which warmed Sinclair’s heart. “If you want to know, I’m here for her.” Elliot nodded in the direction of a pretty, smiling, red-headed young woman who was at the moment working to sweeten a dour judge who’d been invited to bolster Sinclair’s career. Elliot’s gray eyes softened. “I like to watch my Juliana shine.”

The simple statement made Sinclair’s gratitude to his sister-in-law surge.

Elliot’s attention was caught by something behind Sinclair. “Careful,” he said. “Matchmaking ladies on your blind side.”

Sinclair turned as Eleanor, Duchess of Kilmorgan, and Rose, now Mrs. Steven McBride, approached, the two ladies flanking a third woman.

She was Mrs. Thomalin—whom he’d kissed and planned to take to dinner when he had the chance. Mrs. Thomalin was in her early thirties and curvaceous of figure, with a mass of golden hair meticulously braided and curled. Her face held beauty, and her eyes were blue, her smile inviting.

Sinclair also noted, with his barrister’s scrutiny, that everything about her dress and hair was done with the utmost attention to the most recent style, though not fussily so. Clara Thomalin had taken care to present a pleasing picture to the world, but she didn’t ruin it by constantly patting her hair or clothes to make sure all was well. She was poised and sure of herself.

Sinclair couldn’t help himself assessing people—he’d learned to take stock of every facet of a person in the dock and witness box, every reaction, every twitch, every way they carried themselves. He learned them, and then drilled through them to get at the truth.

Therefore, Sinclair saw, penetrating Mrs. Thomalin’s smile and polite handshake, that she fully intended to share Sinclair’s bed this night.

Bertie watched from the landing between the upper floors as the last of the guests flowed out the door and into the night. Andrew and Cat had sat on the stairs with her for much of the evening, looking down at the throng below. Andrew had laughed at everyone, but Cat only watched quietly, saying nothing.

When the two children began to droop, Bertie took them back to the nursery and tucked them up in bed. Then she’d returned, moving down the stairs as far as she dared before settling in to watch once more.

The duchess, Eleanor, had spied Bertie on the landing and given her a friendly wave. Bertie raised her hand in return, expecting the lady to point her out, or come up and try to talk to her. But Eleanor only turned away with her formidable husband, leaving Bertie safe.