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wasn’t, and she wanted him to know that. But for one wistful moment, Bertie had wished very much she
had
been a tart. Only for him, mind.
    Bertie led him up another set of steps, the sounds of busier streets coming their way. It was foggy here, nearer the river, the lights of working London obscured by gray mist.
    Her hand tightened on his. In a moment, Mr. McBride would snatch himself away and jog off, lost to the fog and Bertie forever. She wanted to hang on to him as long as she could.
    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