Rules for a Proper Governess (13 page)

Sinclair’s irritation rose, the darker side of his sense of humor starting to itch. “Maybe you’re thinking I should replace my brothers and sister with new ones too.” He let his accent grow thick. “Mebbe made to order.”

“No use you taking offense, McBride,” Monty said, looking down his nose. “It’s not bad advice. Marry a respectable young woman, and your wife’s family will cancel out any embarrassment yours have perpetrated.”

“Debts and credits, eh?” Sinclair asked.

“Exactly.” Monty almost smiled. “You have grasped it. I know several eligible young women, from excellent families, who might suit.”

“So do my brothers and my many sisters-in-law,” Sinclair said, trying to keep the annoyance from his voice. He thought of Clara Thomalin from the night before, with her cold skin and colorless face. Perhaps a fine enough woman, but not as a life mate. “I’m inundated with eligible bloody women.”

“No need to swear, though I suppose it’s the Scots way.” Monty sat back in his chair, lifting his hand in dismissal. “You think on what I’ve said, McBride. If you want to move up in the world, don’t sneer at your betters and their advice.”

The lackey understood the cues. He set down the sherry goblet and moved to the door to open it for Sinclair.

Sinclair got himself to his feet and swung around to go, making himself say nothing in response.

He seemed to hear Bertie’s voice ringing in his head.
Silly old man,
she’d say when Sinclair told her about it.
He’s like a spider, inn’t he? Waiting in his web for someone to come along so he can bully him.
And she’d laugh.

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.

Jeffrey Mitchell had sulked in the pub until late into the night, and this morning, he was paying for it. His head pounded and his eyes ached, and he wasn’t happy that the winter day was so bright. Sunshine leaked through even the close-set buildings of Whitechapel to stab at him.

He didn’t want to be home, not alone in his tiny lodgings. 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. 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.

Jeffrey didn’t want her, though. He wanted Bertie.

Bertie usually told Jeffrey to go to the devil, but her eyes sparkled when she said it. She laughed a lot—she was a great girl for laughing, was Bertie. She could scold too, but Jeffrey would teach her not to when they married.

And he’d marry her. Didn’t matter that she’d run off to be the tart of some rich gent. That couldn’t last, and she’d be back. Jeffrey would forgive her, after he pounded her for leaving him. She’d learn not to do that. She’d learn that Jeffrey would take care of her and none other.

A carriage came down the narrow lane. Jeffrey moved close to the wall, hugging it so the big horses and conveyance could move through. When the coach was abreast of him, a man called out the open window. “You. Come here.”

Wasn’t many back here but Jeffrey, so it was obvious who he meant. Jeffrey moved a cautious step forward. Gentry coves passing through sometimes asked the denizens of the streets to run errands for them, and the denizens, usually needing extra coin, complied. But sometimes gents wanted more than that, especially the ones with unnatural appetites.

“Yes, you,” the man went on, leaning out the window. “You’ll want to speak to me, because I can tell you exactly what you want to know about Basher McBride.”

Jeffrey’s caution deserted him. “That bloody Scots barrister? What about him?”

The man beckoned Jeffrey over, and Jeffrey stepped to the coach and peered inside. He tried to see what the man looked like, but the gent had a hat pulled over his eyes. He dressed like any other rich cove—heavy coat against the cold, gloves, walking stick he rested his hand on. The carriage was shining and fine, with a beefy coachman on the box.

“He’s got your woman,” the man said. “The little pickpocket. She’s yours, isn’t she?”

Bertie.
Jeffrey’s heart beat faster. “Yeah, she’s mine. Where is she?”

The man opened the door of the carriage. “Come inside,” he said. “And I’ll tell you all about it.”

Bertie settled herself on a bench in Hyde Park and let Cat and Andrew play, keeping a sharp eye on Andrew. Andrew’s idea of playing meant running around like a mad thing, chasing birds, yelling, and pointing out things to Bertie at the top of his voice. He’d brought a little boat, which he’d sail in the nearest pond whenever he calmed down. Bertie had learned to let him run first and do more complicated things later.

Cat, on the other hand, spread out a little blanket near the bench, sat her doll down next to her, and proceeded to hand out a pretend tea. Every movement was solemn, no smiling, the ritual rehearsed.

Bertie watched her speculatively. There was something wrong with Cat, something beyond grief for her mother, but she didn’t know what. The girl should be rushing after Andrew, or skipping rope, or pushing a hoop, or other things little rich girls in parks liked to do. Instead, she sat very quietly, pouring imaginary tea without showing any real enjoyment. Every morning, the maid Aoife dressed Cat as though she were a doll herself, Cat taking no interest in the proceedings. That was wrong. Every girl, rich or poor, young or old, liked to primp herself. Cat took very good care not to tear her clothes or soil them—unlike Andrew who was determined to ruin a fine suit every day—but that was as far as her interest went.

Cat finished her tea-pouring ritual, as though it had been a chore she needed to get through, then she reached into her bag for a notebook—the one she let no one else see. Her pencil began moving, Cat staring at the pages, but again showing no real interest.

The bench moved as someone plopped down beside Bertie, too close to her. She looked up, and all the breath went out of her.

“Bertie-girl,” Jeffrey said as he sent her an evil grin. “There you are.”

Bertie cast a swift glance around her. Andrew was still running, flapping his arms as though trying to fly, and Cat had her head down over her notebook. The kids were safe, she saw with relief, but the mild winter day suddenly became colder.

“What are you doing here?” Bertie asked in a low but fierce voice. “I’ve got a respectable job now. What do you want?”

“I wondered why you ran off from me,” Jeffrey said. “I was that riled at you, Bertie-girl. But now I’ve twigged to what you were doing. Clever, to get right into the man’s house. Send us the word, clear out of the house, and then
we’ll
clear it out.” He laughed, his ale-soaked breath washing over her.

“No, you won’t,” Bertie said furiously. “You won’t come anywhere near him or his house. I’m looking after his kids now, not setting up a mark for you.”

“Load of cobblers.” Jeffrey closed the few inches of space between them. “You can pretend all you want, but you ain’t respectable. Never will be. All I have to do is slip a nod to a magistrate that you’re a pickpocket, and he’ll haul you up before him quick as you please. I’ll make sure he knows about every bloke you done over and what you took. Bet those gents are still looking for their watches, or purses, or handkerchiefs.”

Bertie went even colder. “Yeah? Then you’ll have to tell about my dad, because he sold the stuff on. You think
he’ll
let you peach to a magistrate?”

Jeffrey’s expression grew less certain, but he scowled at her. “Look at you in your fancy gear, watching after brats in velvet collars. I bet his suit and her dress would fetch us enough to live on for a year, not to mention what you’ve got on your back. You start feeding us the goods, Bertie, or I’ll let on to your barrister all about you and what you get up to.”

Bertie jerked away to her feet. “He already knows about me. I told him.”

Jeffrey gave her a look of disbelief. “You told Basher McBride you were a thief? Couldn’t have, or I’d be talking to you in Newgate.”

“I did tell him. I didn’t rob him the other night—he gave me the sovereign to take home. He’s kindhearted.”

“And then asked you to look after his get?”

“Yes.” Bertie clenched her hands in her new gloves, which were soft leather and not out at the seams.

Jeffrey stared at her, then his face flushed, and he got off the bench to tower over her. “You’re getting on your knees for him, ain’t ya? You’re kicking your feet to the ceiling—and you’re trying to tell me you’re respectable. You’re whoring for him.”

“No!”
Bertie said. “I’d never . . .” Her face went hot, because she knew she’d bloody well kick her feet up for Sinclair if ever he said the word. Last night, he’d done nothing but suckle her fingers, but he might as well have been at her breast or some other intimate part.

“No,” she repeated, making her voice firm. “What do you take me for? Why can’t you believe I have a proper job?”

“Because no gent would let the likes of you into his house or near his brats without you paying for it. If he ain’t done you, it just means he ain’t done you
yet
.” Jeffrey grabbed her wrist, the same one Sinclair had held so tightly the night before. “But you’re
my
girl, Bertie, and you’re coming home with me now.”

Sinclair left his chambers earlier than usual, another letter Henry delivered to him in the afternoon changing the entire day. This one wasn’t anonymous—Daisy’s brother had signed it, proud to throw threats at Sinclair and his family. The trouble was, the threats had teeth. Sinclair wasn’t in court this afternoon, thank God, so he packed up his valise and called for his carriage.

When he’d arrived this morning, Sinclair had been contemplating hiding in chambers, sleeping there, anything to stay away from Bertie. Now he knew he never could. After reading his brother-in-law’s letter, Sinclair wanted to be home, to surround himself with his children, to reassure himself that they were all right, to reassure
them
that he’d protect them at all costs.

Add to that the thought of Bertie there, and his home beckoned like a refuge. Sinclair wanted to see her, hungered for it. Even if he could only look upon her, listen to her no-nonsense voice and cheeky words, everything would be better. He had enough self-control to keep himself from ravishing his children’s governess, didn’t he? Sinclair was famous for his self-control, at least these days. His brothers teased him about it.

He reached home, the drive today seeming extraordinarily long. Afternoon sunshine slanted through the windows of the house as Sinclair tossed his greatcoat, hat, and gloves at Peter. The winter day had been mild, as winter in London could sometimes be—blue skies, crisp air, sun shining almost too brightly—but Sinclair was chilled.

The house was quiet, Bertie and his children safely tucked in the nursery, he assumed. Sinclair knew if he went straight to them, he’d alarm Cat and Andrew, who were sensitive to his moods and easily upset. He’d calm himself then go up to the nursery to be a cheerful father coming home from the office to visit his brood.

“I’ll be in my study,” he told Peter. “Not to be disturbed.”

“Yes, sir.” Peter smoothed the rumpled greatcoat in his arms and peered at Sinclair. “Anything I can get you, sir?”

“No.” Sinclair heard his abrupt tone and strove to soften it. “Thank you.”

“Right, sir.”

Sinclair took the stairs two at a time, barely out of breath when he reached the second landing. He had whiskey in his study, and plenty of it. Ever since Sinclair’s sister had married into the Mackenzie family, Sinclair had a standing order of the best Mackenzie malt, and Macaulay always kept the decanter stocked.

Sinclair strode into the room and slammed the door, making straight for the amber liquid. He sloshed a large measure into a glass, thumped the decanter back down with a clatter, and plunked himself onto the sofa under the tall front windows.

“Hiya,” Bertie said next to him.

Sinclair was on his feet as swiftly as he’d sat down, the whiskey slopping out of the glass. Bertie huddled against the end of the sofa, her feet tucked under her, her gray dress rumpled, as though she’d been napping.

Sinclair opened his mouth to demand to know what she was doing in here, then noticed her face. Bertie regarded him without a smile, her expression so sad his heart missed a beat.

He sat back down, thrusting the whiskey glass to a table beside him, his fingers sticky. “Bertie, what is it?”

Tears stood in her blue eyes, not only of sorrow but deep anger. “I have something to tell you,” she said. “Something that happened today.”

“To the children?” Sinclair asked, alarmed. But no, Peter had been tranquil, even cheerful, and Macaulay hadn’t met him at the door to break bad news.

“No, no,” Bertie said quickly. “They’re fine. Went to sleep already—worn out from the late night last night and a long play in the park today.”

“Then what?” Sinclair demanded. Bertie looked morose, very unlike herself. “Your father didn’t come making trouble, did he?”

“No, no. Dad’s a lazy lout, if nothing else. Traveling across the city is too much for him. It’s Jeffrey.”

Sinclair scowled. “Jeffrey? Who the devil is Jeffrey?”

“Thinks he’s in love with me. But he just wants my dad to let me marry him so he can have someone to wash his socks.”

“Bertie.” Sinclair took a deep breath. “Tell me what the hell you are talking about.”

Bertie sat up, pushing back a lock of hair that had come out of its braid. “I’m talking about Jeffrey and what he said to me today. He’s a villain, a bad one. He boasts a lot, but the trouble is, he’s not always just telling porkies for fun. He’s dangerous.”

“Porkies?” Sinclair tried to focus on what she was saying, and not the fact that the wisps of hair straggling about her face made her even more beautiful. “Lies? About what?”

“About things he’s going to do, or wants to do. Sometimes it’s idle threats but sometimes it ain’t.”

Bertie trailed off and wet her lips, making them red and moist. Sinclair’s body went tight. “Bertie, will you please come to the point?”

“I’m trying to. Jeffrey.” Her face was too pale, her eyes dark in the dim light. “He told me if I didn’t go home to him he’d come back with his friends to rob you blind or take your children and hold them to ransom—though I warned him he’d have a bit more than he bargained for if he tried that with Andrew. I got Jeffrey to leave me today, though I think it was more the sight of the nice constable strolling by that persuaded him, but he’ll be back. I’m scared about what he’ll do.”

Sinclair’s temper mounted. “He won’t do anything. I won’t let him. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Don’t dismiss him. He came all the way to Hyde Park, where I was alone with Cat and Andrew. I’m grateful he didn’t try anything then, but he likes strength in numbers. He’ll do what he said.”

“Unless you go back to him?” Sinclair’s rage wound higher. “The hell you will. He won’t be grateful for it—he’ll keep bullying you, threatening worse if you try to leave him again.” He came to his feet, unable to sit still any longer. “Bullies never stop, Bertie. They keep at you and at you, unless you face them and spit at them.” Sinclair punctuated his words with sharp jabs of his finger. Bertie blinked at him, but she didn’t look afraid. Not of him. “I bloody well won’t let you go running off back to him if he’s that much of a danger to you. You stay here, and help me with what I need you to, and be damned to those who don’t like it!”

The world started rocking, the air leaving it. Bertie came to her feet next to him, her skirts making a pleasant rustling sound. “Something else has happened, hasn’t it?” she asked in concern. “You’re as upset as I am, but not about Jeffrey. We’re talking about different things, ain’t we?”

“
I’m
talking about my ass of a brother-in-law, damn him. Oh, God, Bertie, what if he’s right, and he takes them away from me?”

Sinclair struggled for breath. He’d been like this since childhood—when something bad enough happened, an iron band would wrap around his chest and compress his lungs until he couldn’t breathe. He’d learned to hide the malady, especially in the army, teaching himself exercises to suppress it. The first year Daisy had gone, Sinclair had barely been able to breathe normally for any stretch of time. He’d painfully taught himself control again, and the incidents had mostly stopped. Until recently—since he’d met Bertie, in fact.

Bertie reached for his hand, her warm fingers wrapping his ice-cold ones. Her touch broke through the constriction, and Sinclair dragged grating air into his lungs.

“You all right?” Bertie led him one step back to the sofa. “Sit with me. Tell me what happened. What brother-in-law? You mean the lord with the horses?”

“What?” Sinclair made himself suck in another breath as they sank to the couch. “No, not Cameron. My wife’s brother, Edward. He wrote me a letter.” He touched his breast pocket, the paper inside crackling. He had to wait until he could breathe enough to speak in clear sentences. “A bloody awful letter. Edward never liked me. He blames me for taking Daisy away from him. I met Daisy in Rome, when I was on leave—we were married by the end of the second week we knew each other. Edward never forgave her, or me, especially me. He’s pursuing legal means to become Cat and Andrew’s guardian. He says he knows it will be difficult, but it’s the least he can do for poor Maggie’s son and daughter.”

Bertie listened in alarm. “Can he do that?”

Sinclair felt his chest tighten again, but he made himself stop. He concentrated on exhaling, letting his lungs draw the air back in on their own. “It’s a possibility. A father has full say over his children, but if Edward can make a case that I’m incompetent, that the children would be better off if he and his wife took them in—dear God, Bertie, he could do it.”

“The law made me stay with my
dad when my mum died,” Bertie said. “And he’s bloody awful.”

Sinclair shook his head. “Edward has much money and influence, many connections. He wants more money still, which is another reason the bastard is after me. If he can mold and shape Andrew, he can go to Andrew with his hand out when Andrew comes into his inheritance.” Sinclair scrubbed his hands over his face, his breathing easier now, but bleakness lingered in his heart. “What if Edward’s right? Look at me. I’m a wreck of a man. What kind of father have I been? My children are little devils. I love them, but I’m not blind. If I’d paid more attention, Andrew wouldn’t be so wild, or Cat so . . . detached.”