“No denying it, I suppose.” Sinclair accepted the cup Louisa handed him. “One of the reasons I’ve come is to ask you to help her,” he said to Fellows. “I need you to find out about her relations and keep them away from her. Especially one called Jeffrey. A thug who styles himself her beau.”
Louisa’s brows rose. “A thug? That sounds ominous. Is he a danger?”
“I don’t want him to be,” Sinclair said. “Either to my children or to Bertie—I mean, Miss Frasier.”
Louisa peered closely at him, noticing the slip. “A very winsome young lady, Eleanor said.”
Sinclair flushed, and Louisa smiled at him again and lifted her teacup.
Fellows didn’t share his wife’s amusement, but he did share her concern. “If he weren’t a danger, you wouldn’t have come to me,” he said. “I advise you to keep your governess and little ones close to home, or don’t let them go out without you.”
“Exactly why I’m here,” Sinclair said. “Macaulay keeps a good eye on them, but I want this man found, warned, stopped.” He took a sip of tea. “That and . . . the letters.”
Fellows’s eyes sharpened. “You’ve had another?”
“Yes. Same as the others. Full of insinuations.”
“Let me see.” Fellows held out his hand.
Sinclair shook his head, thinking of the letter he’d slid into the box in his study. “I burned it,” he lied.
Fellows made a noise of disapproval. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Trust me, it was the same. In all capitals printed as though he’d used a straight edge to draw them. Ordinary paper, which hundreds of people buy by the score every day. Same nonsense about his intention to destroy me. Any ideas from your end at all?”
Fellows sat back, irritated. “No. And you have no idea how much that galls me.”
“Lloyd so hates to be perplexed,” Louisa said, her fingers graceful as she held the dainty teacup. They were such a contrast, Fellows and Louisa—he a tall, hard man, she as elegant as the porcelain cup she held. “But he’ll find out in the end, I’m sure of it,” Louisa finished.
Fellows gave Louisa a look that was supposed to be severe and instead was full of fondness. His gaze dropped to the swell of her belly, which held his first child, and Sinclair watched the hard man soften.
“My wife has much confidence in my abilities,” Fellows said. “I’ve been going through the list of men and women who I think would hold a grudge against you. It is, unfortunately, long.”
Sinclair nodded, unsurprised. “I’ve made sure many a criminal was convicted in the last dozen years—for anything from counterfeiting and fraud, to robbery with violence and murder. It could be any of them, or their families. Basher McBride has made enemies. And I don’t want any of them near my family.” He pinned Louisa with a stare. “Will you make certain, Louisa, that this bit of intrigue does not run around the Mackenzie clan? I don’t want Andrew and Cat getting wind of it.”
Louisa gave him a nod. “I understand perfectly. I’m sure it won’t be long before Lloyd solves the problem.”
Fellows gave Sinclair a wry look over his teacup. Fellows had helped Louisa when she’d been accused of a crime, and Louisa was convinced he could help anyone. She wasn’t far from wrong—the detective chief inspector usually got his man.
The trouble was, whoever this person sending the letters was worked in the dark, pulling strings, manipulating. The worst kind of criminal, keeping to the shadows while aiming to ruin the lives of others. Give Sinclair a straightforward thug like Jeffrey, who spoke with his fists, or even Edward, who openly threatened Sinclair—Sinclair was much more comfortable with someone he could clearly fight.
Fellows gave Sinclair a nod, and they exchanged a look, two men who understood each other. “I’ll see to it,” Fellows said.
Bertie hurried out into the hall when she heard the front door thud shut. Cat and Andrew were already asleep, and it was well dark. Sinclair was very late getting home, which had Bertie fretting, though she tried to reason that the coach hadn’t come home either, meaning the redoubtable Richards was looking after him.
Below her, Sinclair handed his coat and things to Peter, as usual, but not as usual, Sinclair strode into the downstairs drawing room instead of heading up to his study.
Bertie gathered up her gray skirts and hurried down the stairs, passing Macaulay on the way. Macaulay gave her a cautioning look but didn’t stop her.
Sinclair had paused at a sideboard in the large room to pour himself a whiskey when Bertie came in. Unlike the clutter of Sinclair’s study, the front drawing room was rather empty of furniture. Unusual, Mrs. Hill said, for a Mayfair residence, which could be stuffed full of bric-a-brac and plants, but Sinclair liked to have space for his guests to roam.
“Where the devil have you been?” Bertie demanded as she rushed inside. Her heart beat swiftly with relief to see him whole, and home.
Sinclair swung around to her. He’d yanked off his collar, baring a patch of sunburned throat. He scowled at Bertie and swallowed a dollop of whiskey before he answered. “Visiting friends, who insisted I stay for a cup of tea.”
Bertie unclenched her hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like a shrew. But I was worried about you.”
Sinclair gave her a curt nod. “I know you’re concerned about Jeffrey, but don’t be. I will take care of him.”