She knew she had to let him go, though. Mr. McBride didn’t belong in this world. Bertie wagered he lived in a fancy house in some posh square, with a passel of slaveys to look after him. His fine clothes, neatly shorn hair, and polished boots told her that.

Bertie pulled him to a halt at the top of the stairs, in the shadow of a wall. “This street will take you to Fenchurch,” she said quietly. “See, there’s St. Paul’s.” She pointed to the ghostly dome outlined in the fog. “Think you can find your way from there?”

“Yes.” The word came with conviction. Mr. McBride was back in his own world now, arrogance and confidence flowing into him as it had when he’d stood up and looked the judge in the eye.

Mr. McBride ran a hand through his hair, the light from the main street glittering in droplets the mists had left. “My coachman must be driving up and down the lanes, searching frantically for me. He always thinks I’m going to top myself if he’s not right next to me.”

Bertie thought of the emptiness she’d seen inside Mr. McBride as he’d waited for the court to reconvene and again when he’d stood in the street outside the Old Bailey. She’d seen that bleak look before—in lads who knew there was nothing left in life for them, in girls who’d got themselves bellyful by men who didn’t want them. “Are you?” she asked anxiously. “Going to top yourself?”

Mr. McBride pulled his gaze from the bulk of St. Paul’s to look down at her. She loved his eyes—a smoky gray that sparkled like diamonds in this light.

“Of course not.” He sounded annoyed. “I have wee ones at home. I’d never leave them.”

His voice rang with indignation, and Bertie relaxed. Whatever else went on in this man’s head, he wasn’t about to deliberately do harm to himself.

His expression softened with the beginnings of a smile. “If something happened to me, Andrew and Cat would have to live with one of my brothers or my sister. I couldn’t be so cruel to them—my brothers and sister, I mean.”

Bertie grinned. “Are they lively then? Your kids?”

“Lively. That’s a good word for them.” He reached to touch his hat, then remembered it wasn’t there, lost in his pursuit of Bertie. “Good night, Miss . . . Anonymous. Go home and stop picking pockets. If I catch you again, I will drag you to a magistrate. If your father demands you do it for him, you fetch a constable and tell him to send for me. You’re a grown woman. You do as you please, not your dad.”

He looked at her hard as he said this, his gaze flickering briefly to her bosom, which rose inside her tight corset.

“Right,” Bertie managed to say.

He gave her a curt nod. “Good night, then.” Mr. McBride slid his hand out of hers and turned away.

Bertie’s heart squeezed into a tight mass of pain as he took a step away from her, and another. In a moment, he’d be swallowed by the night and the fog, gone forever.

Bertie ran a few steps after him, grabbed his hand, and pulled him back to her. As he swung around in surprise, Bertie seized the lapels of his cashmere coat, jerked herself up on tiptoe, and kissed him.

Mr. McBride stood still against her assault for one short moment, then he slid both arms hard around her and scooped her up to him.

He slanted his mouth across hers, parting her lips, his tongue sweeping inside to give her a heady taste of him. Bertie moved her tongue clumsily against his, a pleasing shock searing through her cold body. His mouth was hot, lips strong, his arms around her never letting her fall.

The kiss went on, Mr. McBride drawing her with him into the shadows. He was so strong, but his strength protected and shielded, it didn’t demand and frighten.

Bertie kept hold of his lapels, hanging on as though she’d float away if she let go. His body was hard against hers, his tallness bending her back. Bertie fancied she spun around with him, the two of them in their own private dance, the hum and rush of the city circling them in one glorious, colorful stream.

Mr. McBride broke the kiss, his breath fogging in the cold. He still had hold of her, his arms around her keeping all bad things from her.

The look in his gray eyes was one of anguish and at the same time, need. Hunger. Bertie’s heart beat rapidly, and her legs were shaking. She felt him shaking too, even though he was solid and unfaltering.

Then his jaw tightened, and Bertie saw him deliberately suppress the light in his eyes. He steadied Bertie on her feet and unhooked her fingers from his coat, leaving her cold and bereft.

With a final look, without a good-night this time, Mr. McBride turned and strode away. Out toward Fenchurch Street he went, meeting with the mass of London, who swept him up with them into darkness and heavy mist. Then he was gone.

Sinclair lay back with his hands behind his head and contemplated the ceiling. Hours he’d lain here after he’d persuaded himself to go to bed, wide awake. His thoughts, which usually wandered during his bouts of insomnia, had fixed on one thing—kissing the pickpocket.

A lady with an upturned nose and eyes the color of a summer sky. The warmth of her lips lingered on his, even after hours had gone by. No matter how much Sinclair told himself to stop his spinning thoughts and sleep, he couldn’t push past the soaring joy of those stolen kisses.

Not stolen—she’d leapt on him, twined her body around his, and kissed him senseless. Twice. Every pressure, every movement of her mouth, every stroke of her fingers was imprinted on Sinclair forever.

An anonymous pickpocket with a sunny smile and very blue eyes, whom he’d likely never see again.