She’d learn that Jeffrey would take care of her and none other.Ī carriage came down the narrow lane. Jeffrey would forgive her, after he pounded her for leaving him. Didn’t matter that she’d run off to be the tart of some rich gent. She could scold too, but Jeffrey would teach her not to when they married.Īnd he’d marry her. She laughed a lot-she was a great girl for laughing, was Bertie. He wanted Bertie.īertie usually told Jeffrey to go to the devil, but her eyes sparkled when she said it. She wasn’t no more French than Jeffrey was, but she’d been a whore, and caught more flats with her fake accent and name. He didn’t want to go all the way to Hackney to see the woman who called herself Sylvie, pretending to be French, even if she was a good ride. He didn’t want to be home, not alone in his tiny lodgings. Sunshine leaked through even the close-set buildings of Whitechapel to stab at him.
His head pounded and his eyes ached, and he wasn’t happy that the winter day was so bright. Jeffrey Mitchell had sulked in the pub until late into the night, and this morning, he was paying for it. Not until Sinclair was halfway back to his chambers, his stride swift, did he realize that he’d pictured sitting down with Bertie and confiding all to her without giving it a second thought. He’s like a spider, inn’t he? Waiting in his web for someone to come along so he can bully him.
Silly old man, she’d say when Sinclair told her about it. He seemed to hear Bertie’s voice ringing in his head. Sinclair got himself to his feet and swung around to go, making himself say nothing in response. He set down the sherry goblet and moved to the door to open it for Sinclair.
If you want to move up in the world, don’t sneer at your betters and their advice.” “No need to swear, though I suppose it’s the Scots way.” Monty sat back in his chair, lifting his hand in dismissal.
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