The other stood a little away from his two brothers and Sinclair, not looking at them. He stared at nothing, in fact, his eyes a blank, and the others didn’t seem to find this unusual.

If Bertie told these men where to find Jeffrey, he would go down, she understood that. She saw it in their faces, even of the one who wasn’t looking at her. Jeffrey would shiver in jail for a brief time, then be taken out and hanged or banged up with penal servitude for life.

But Bertie’s anger against him was strong. Jeffrey had broken into the house of a man who’d done him no harm, had tried to make Bertie help him rob it, and had shot Andrew. Didn’t matter that hitting Andrew had been an accident; Jeffrey had shot with intent to kill. He’d hurt so many in his life that even Bertie’s East End neighbors, who knew Jeffrey well, wouldn’t blame her for peaching on him.

“I know all his hiding places,” Bertie said readily. “Mind you, he knows I know, so he might not have gone to any of them. Then again, he isn’t very wise.”

She named them: a deserted house in Spitalfields, rooms in a lane off Whitechapel, and the house of his mistress—a lady Jeffrey didn’t think Bertie knew about—in Hackney.

Inspector Fellows gave Bertie a nod when she finished, one that told her he knew exactly what she’d done, and that he respected her for it.

Lord Cameron said, “Good. Then let’s go find the bastard.”

“I’ll get my coat,” Sinclair said.

The other Mackenzie, who hadn’t spoken a word or even acknowledged the conversation, now looked at Sinclair and said, “Andrew.”

Sinclair nodded at him. “Miss Frasier, this is my brother-in-law, Ian Mackenzie. Will you take him up to the nursery to see Andrew?” He hesitated. “Do you want to come hunting with us, Ian? We can wait.”

Lord Ian shook his head. He turned his back and crossed the room toward the piano, sitting down on its bench. The others let him go, not trying to persuade him.

“Any hunting will be done by me,” Fellows said, giving Sinclair a severe look. “I’m only bringing you along so you can watch the man be arrested. Understand?”

“I heard you,” Sinclair said, as though this were part of an ongoing argument. “Bertie . . .” He paused in the doorway and looked at her fully. “Thank you.”

“I wish you wouldn’t go,” Bertie said, chilled. “He’s dangerous, is Jeffrey.”

“I have to go. You know that.”

Bertie shook her head. “No, you really don’t. Inspector Fellows is a good copper. He’ll find him.”

“I know that here.” Sinclair touched the side of his head, his short hair brushing his fingertips. “But I need to see, to know it here.” He touched the center of his chest and held her gaze with his clear gray eyes. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll come home.”

The carriage pulled up to the house, Richards at the reins. Sinclair touched Bertie’s cheek. His eyes were glittering, the man inside him awake and ready to do battle for his son. She knew she’d never talk him out of it—if this had been a hundred years or so ago, he’d be grabbing his claymore on his way out instead of his coat and hat.

The touch became a caress, Sinclair’s eyes holding heat, then he turned away and went out.

“You just make sure you bring him back whole,” Bertie said to Inspector Fellows.

Fellows flashed her an irritated glance as he took his coat and hat from Peter. “I will endeavor, Miss Frasier,” he said, then went on out the door after Sinclair and Cameron.

Ian Mackenzie was still in the drawing room when Bertie, her throat tight, turned back to it. Ian softly pressed the keys of the piano, playing a trickling tune that Bertie recognized from music halls. Gilbert and Sullivan, the song about the major general.

Bertie went to the piano, jittery and impatient. “You wanted to pay Andrew a visit, your lordship?”

Ian didn’t answer, the music continuing. After he’d played about half the song, he said, “When I met my Beth, she taught me to play this. She sat with me at the piano, and I kissed her.”

The words were simple, but Bertie saw the look in the big man’s eyes as he spoke them. She couldn’t help but smile a little. “Aw. That’s sweet.”

“Fellows wanted to pin a murder on me back then. Beth stopped him.”

“Oh.” Bertie blinked. “I suppose that’s sweet too.”

“You will like my Beth.” Ian took his fingers from the piano, the music ceasing. “I used to hate my memory. Now I’m glad of it. Things remind me of her.” His accent was not as pronounced as Sinclair’s, but it was there, the Scots richness running through his words.

“I like that,” Bertie said. She too had memories now, of Sinclair and his family, things that would remind her of them. “Andrew’s upstairs. If he’s not asleep, he’ll be trying to bully his way out of bed. He’s very hearty, is our Andrew.”

Ian lost his faraway look to flash Bertie an ironic glance. She saw intelligence in Ian’s eyes, and the depths of him, which she wagered many people would miss. Mrs. Hill had told Bertie about Lord Ian during one of her gossipy moods, how he’d spent time in an asylum, but Bertie saw nothing of the madman about him.

Flashing him a grin, Bertie led Lord Ian out of the drawing room and upstairs to the nursery.

They found Jeffrey Mitchell in Hackney, in the rooms of his mistress. Sinclair had told Richards to drive there first—if Jeffrey thought Bertie didn’t know about this woman, he’d likely seek refuge with her.