Rules for a Proper Governess (3 page)

“Miss Baxter was innocent,” he said. “Why should she go down for it?”

“’Cause you’re a barrister, hand-in-glove with the judges.”

This young woman had a lot to learn about the common courts. Old Monty and Sinclair had been butting heads since Sinclair had first put on a wig. “Miss Baxter couldn’t afford a defense. I knew she was innocent when I looked at her, and I knew Mr. Small was
guilty. What does this have to do with my watch?”

“Well, Ruthie’s a pal of mine, ain’t she?” The young woman’s eyes were deep blue in the candlelight. “Thank you.”

“So, you decided to show your gratitude by pinching my watch and leading me into the arms of your ruffian friends?” He made a noise of disbelief. “If that’s your method of thanking a man, I’d hate so see ye when you’re annoyed with him.”

She didn’t smile. “I told ya, you were supposed to run. They’d have gutted you. What were you thinking? You should have just let it go.”

His temper splintered. “Why the hell should I? It’s
my
watch
.
My wife gave it to me.”

The young woman took a step back as Sinclair’s voice rose. “Yeah? You’re a rich bloke. Have her buy you another one.”

“I cannae, can I?”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s
dead
!”

The words rang against the low ceiling and the uncaring stones, and suddenly, Sinclair couldn’t breathe at all.

He’d never, not even the day she’d slipped away, declared flatly that Daisy was dead. Sinclair shied from the word. He’d said
passed, left him, was gone.
Dead
meant too much finality, it meant dust and no return.

Sinclair struggled for air. “She’s . . .”

He felt wetness on his face. Bloody hell. He hadn’t wept either. Not really. To weep for her meant she was never coming back.

“She’s . . .”

The world rushed around him, spiraling down into a single point, stifling. Blackness filled his vision, a pressure in his ears grinding out his strength. His knees were bending, and a void opened to pull him inside . . .

He blinked and found himself half lying, half sitting across the cushions piled on the floor. The young woman sat beside him, her hat gone to reveal rich dark hair, worry on her face.

“You all right, mister?”

This was the second time she’d asked him that tonight, as though sweetly concerned. She was a thief, had murdering friends, had brought him to this hole only God knew where to do God only knew what, and yet she asked with anxiety whether he was well. She’d dragged him to this sofa, he realized. Sinclair must have fallen nose-first on the floor, and she’d pulled him to the cushions and made sure he woke up.

“Damn it, woman.” Sinclair put his arm behind his head and glared at her. “What am I to do with you?”

She stared at him in wide-eyed contemplation for another second or two, then she leaned swiftly to him and kissed him on the mouth.

Sinclair’s breath went out of him again. He was surrounded by her lush warmth, her wool skirt falling over his legs and thighs, her bosom pressing his chest through his coat. The tip of her nose brushed his cheek, her lips soft on his mouth.

The kiss was unpracticed, even clumsy, telling him far more certainly than anything else that she was an innocent. She had no idea how to kiss a man, no idea how to part her lips to let him take his pleasure. And yet her kiss was welcoming, erotic, a taste of desire Sinclair couldn’t ignore.

He found his hand stealing to the back of her neck, moving under her heavy braid, pressing her closer. Sinclair felt her start of surprise as he pulled her to him, then her body responded. She closed her eyes, shutting out the lovely blue, as she flowed into him and kissed him back.

Sinclair’s arousal roared to life, the part of his body he tried to neglect becoming achingly stiff.

Why not?
This young woman was lovely, willing, had brought him here. If she wanted to rob him of everything when they were done, so be it.

Sinclair could lay her on this couch, rid himself and her of bothersome clothes, and drive into her. It wouldn’t take long, and for one glorious moment, Sinclair could lose himself in the mind-blanking palliative of coupling.

The young woman made a faint noise in her throat. Sinclair realized he’d started shifting to take her down to the couch.

The noise snapped him back to awareness. What was he doing? She was innocent—at least of bodily passions. Other men might not care, deciding that the kind of woman she was and where she lived gave them the right to take her body, but Sinclair could never be that callous.

He let her go abruptly and sat up. She blinked at him from where she’d slid down on the cushions, delightfully mussed and not calming his hardness one bit. She watched him a moment longer then gave him a shy smile.

Shy. Not coercive or coy—she wasn’t selling herself for the watch. Sinclair had no idea why she’d kissed him, but it hadn’t been because she’d sought favors.

Under his scrutiny, the young woman’s face flamed. “Now you’ll be thinking me a tart,” she said, sitting up and brushing back a lock of hair. “But I just wanted to kiss you, all right?”

Sinclair had wanted to kiss
her
. He still did. “I told you, I’m not a judge.” His arousal continued pounding, wanting release, very unhappy he’d let her go. “The only thing I know about you is that you’re a talented pickpocket, and you’ll be giving me back my watch.”

He held out his hand, amazed it was rock steady, his tight leather gloves whole even after the fight in the abandoned lot. The young woman eyed his palm in trepidation while she chewed on a corner of her lip.

She shouldn’t do that. The nibbling made her lip red, made Sinclair remember her lips against his, spiking his need to taste them again.

“The thing is, Mr. McBride,” she said, oblivious to his torment. “If I go back home without something from you, my dad will beat me rotten. I’d rather he didn’t, if you don’t mind.”

Sinclair’s focus returned, her words making his anger rise. “Why should he beat you?”

“He’s put out because you got Jacko arrested. He sent me to teach you a lesson.”

“Did he, naow?” He heard the broad Scots come out of his mouth, as it always did when he grew enraged. “Tell me who your father is, and he’ll be in Newgate before the night’s out.”

She was already shaking her head. “I don’t think I’ll do that.” She dipped her hand into a pocket in her skirt and pulled out the familiar shape of Sinclair’s watch. “I have to say, it’s a fine piece.”

“I know it is.” In one swift move, Sinclair reached for the watch and yanked it from her grasp.

“Oi,” she said, indignant. “You . . .” She glared at him, outraged, but with fear behind her anger.

Sinclair let out his breath in relief at the weight of the watch in his palm. The watch was intact, all as it should be.

He believed her when she said her father would beat her if she didn’t bring something home to him. Men in this part of London often sent their sons and daughters out to steal for them, or their daughters to walk the streets. These children had nowhere to go and no one to turn to, and many of them thought it fine to go out and earn some dosh to help the family.

This young woman was a bit older than many of the game girls, but if she still lived at home with her father, taking care of him, he’d have the upper hand. Englishmen set such store on women having little power and money, living only to serve the males of the family. Sinclair could never understand why—he’d seen so much grief come of it.

He slid the watch into his waistcoat pocket, keeping a close eye on the young woman’s hands as he did so. She’d taken what she’d wanted when he’d been oblivious on the street, and there was nothing to say she wouldn’t try again.

Sinclair pulled out a coin and held it toward her. “Will this assuage your bastard of a father and make him spare the rod?”

The woman’s blue eyes went wide. Sinclair clasped a gold sovereign between his fingers, enough to pay for an East End family’s meals for a long while.

“You really are a madman,” she said in awe.

“Take it,” Sinclair said. “Before I change my mind.”

The young woman stared at the coin for a long moment, but she had no greed in her eyes. Amazement, yes, and wariness, but no greed. She knew she’d be handing over the sovereign to her father, keeping nothing for herself.

“What’s your name?” Sinclair asked her.

She gave him a sudden smile, one that lit up her eyes and made her beautiful. “Now
that
I don’t think I should tell you. Even if you were good to Ruthie an’ all.”

Fair enough. She reached for the coin, but Sinclair pulled it back. The young woman made a noise of protest, and Sinclair shook his head.

“This is also your fee for taking me out of here and leading me back to a street I can recognize. Can you do that?”

“’Course I can.” She looked proud. “No one knows London better than me.”

Sinclair believed her. She’d brought him across the city and into the East End without faltering, ducking around dark corners with complete confidence.

Sinclair took her hand in its worn glove and pressed the gold coin into it. “Show me, then.”

Another sunny grin, and she swung to her feet with energy, her wool skirts brushing his legs. Sinclair started to rise with her, still dizzy from the chase, her kiss, the closeness of the room, and whatever noxious gas was down here that had made him light-headed. This place really wasn’t safe for her.

The young woman steadied him on his feet, then blew out the lamps around the room, plunging them into gloom.

Before Sinclair could wonder whether she’d simply leave him there in the dark, ripe for the plucking, her warm hand found its way into his. “Come on, then,” she said.

Bertie pulled Mr. McBride out into the dark streets, the sun long gone behind the buildup of clouds. His hand remained in hers as she towed him along, and his warm strength came to her, making Bertie’s heart bang in a strange way.

Jeffrey Mitchell was supposed to be Bertie’s beau, the man she’d eventually marry, whenever Bertie’s dad decided he could let her go. When she’d been younger, Jeffrey’s rough charm had seemed exciting to her, but that had quickly faded as she’d grown old enough to know better. Certainly Jeffrey had never made Bertie’s heart go all achy and pounding. Bertie had never had the impulse to kiss Jeffrey more than a peck good-bye—not that Jeffrey would try more with Bertie’s dad next to him at all times.

Kissing Mr. McBride had been more than an impulse. A need had gripped her, and Bertie had launched herself at him, wanting to kiss the mouth that spoke those rich Scottish syllables.

She’d about fallen through the floor when he’d cupped her neck and pulled her closer to make the kiss deeper. She’d wanted to respond, to lay herself against him all the way and see what it felt like to be cradled by his hard body.

When he’d pulled back, Bertie feared she’d disgusted him, that he’d think her a game girl. She 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 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.