Rules for a Proper Governess (30 page)

Bertie gave him a brief nod. Only one thing to do.
“Run!”
she shouted.

Sinclair didn’t argue. They set off for the door through which they’d entered, Bertie praying Devlin hadn’t set other villains to waylay them on this side.

James hurtled himself into Sinclair as they went by. The knife flashed, and Sinclair stumbled.

“No!” Bertie swung around, ready with a kick at James, but Sinclair shoved her onward.

“Don’t stop,” Sinclair said fiercely. “Run!”

Bertie latched her hand around Sinclair’s, and they sprinted along together. She couldn’t tell whether the knife had only torn his coat or had gone all the way in. She only knew that lingering to let Devlin and his henchmen grab them while they checked was a bad idea.

Bertie knew the streets, but so did Devlin. Then again, Devlin hadn’t kept himself fit these past few weeks by running after Andrew. Sinclair, the former soldier, twisted through the streets with Bertie, moving rapidly but silently.

Bertie knew where they had to go. Around to the lanes near the river, down to the secret, narrow passages. Bertie slid through the tiny lane that led to her hideaway, Sinclair stifling grunts as he followed her around the jutting corners. Sinclair ducked his head this time as they went under the lintel of the door Bertie opened. “Seventeen steps,” she reminded him in a whisper.

They were down inside her hidey-hole, the door closed and bolted against the outside world. Bertie groped for matches, finding them right where she’d left them. She lit the lamps and turned back to Sinclair.

She found that he’d staggered to the makeshift sofa and collapsed on it, his hand to his abdomen. Bertie, mouth dry in fear, pulled off her hat and knelt beside him.

“Let me see.”

“Not a big wound,” Sinclair said, voice tight.

“Don’t matter. A thin knife can kill a man. Let me
see
.”

Sinclair opened his coat, moved aside his frock coat, then opened his waistcoat and inched up his bloodstained shirt and undershirt. A slice of tight brown skin came into view, and with it a raw, red wound, a hole about a half-inch across.

“Nasty.” Bertie grabbed Sinclair’s handkerchief from his pocket, folded it, and pressed it to the wound. “Stilettos can go deep, and they’re jagged.”

“So I feel.”

Bertie bit her lip. Knife wounds could be shallow and heal quickly, or they could be deep enough to puncture something vital. Or they could fester. It happened so swiftly, the sickening, and then the man or woman was no more.

“You need a doctor,” Bertie said. “And bed.”

Sinclair shifted, bringing out another sound of pain. “Two things lacking in this backstreet basement.”

“I didn’t know where else to go.” Bertie rocked a little in worry, still pressing hard on his wound. “Devlin’s got men everywhere.” She blinked back tears.

“Bertie, it’s all right.” Sinclair’s voice went gentle. He put a steadying hand on hers. “We’ll be all right. Richards is looking for us, and Hart’s footman too. The coppers walking these streets will notice armed men hunting for us.”

“Many of the coppers around here are Devlin’s men,” Bertie said darkly. “In his pay. They’ll likely help him find us.”

“Then we’ll have to rely on Fellows.”

“Who’s in Scotland,” Bertie pointed out.

“But his sergeant isn’t. I asked Fellows to telegraph Sergeant Pierce to tell him about our return to London and your summons by your father. I wasn’t happy with it.”

Bertie tried to feel relief, but it wouldn’t come. “For once, my dad’s heart was in the right place, warning me. He hates Devlin with a passion—Dad’s scared of him, and he says Devlin ruins our trade, which is true. Since Devlin’s hand in glove with the bobbies, they’re happy to arrest the likes of my dad, but they’ll leave Devlin and his thugs alone.”

“Are you sure your father only wanted to warn you?” Sinclair asked. “That he didn’t swallow his fear and take money from Devlin for bringing you to him?”

Bertie nodded. “I’m sure. Dad hates Devlin more than he can be angry at me, that’s for certain.”

“I’m sorry, Bertie.” Sinclair stroked the backs of her fingers. “I’ve dragged you straight into my troubles. It appears that James hired Devlin to try to find you to hurt me. I’d thought James safely in a prison somewhere long ago, or maybe dead and gone, but he must have persuaded the prison governors to let him out. The man always had a smooth tongue.”

“Confidence tricksters talk their way out of everything,” Bertie said. “They’re good at making people believe they can’t be that bad. Or that they’ve changed. They lie, every time.”

The handkerchief grew bright red with blood. There wasn’t quite as much blood as Bertie feared, but that didn’t mean the wound was trivial.

Sinclair needed to be examined and stitched up. But here they were, stuck down a hole, with men roaming the streets looking for them. Sinclair’s face was gray-white, his voice, as reassuring as he tried to make it, dry and growing faint. He might die down here before they could get out. Devlin might give up eventually—depended on how much he was being paid—but it might be too late for Sinclair.

Bertie pulled out her own handkerchief and pressed its pristine white fabric to the wound. Sinclair grunted, body moving. “Am I hurting you?” Bertie asked anxiously. “I’m trying not to.”

“You’re doing fine, love. Don’t be scared. We’ll get out of this.”

Bertie drew a breath, letting his warm Scottish voice flow over her. “You’re good at reassuring me, but I’d rather hear some plans for doing it.”

“I’m thinking. Don’t rush me.”

“Says the man who boasts about his soldiering days, surviving by a hairsbreadth in North Africa.”

“I don’t boast.” Sinclair contrived to look offended. “I tell Andrew stories.”

Bertie laughed shakily. “Sounds like boasting to me. All your courage in the face of danger.”

“It’s a relief that I made it home to have a son to tell the stories to.”

“Well, maybe you’ll be able to tell him
this
story,” Bertie said.

“I will.” Sinclair’s eyes slid closed, his hand going slack on hers.

She shook him. “No! Stay awake.”

Sinclair opened his eyes again, gray slits in the dim light. “I’m alive. Don’t worry.”

“But you can’t go to sleep. Keep talking to me.” Bertie’s small handkerchief was soon soaked. All she had left was the cloth she’d lifted from James. It was fine linen, expensive, handmade with initials stitched into the corners.

“Talking,” Sinclair said. “I’ve been doing that my entire life. As a child, as an officer, as a barrister. Too much bloody talking.”

“I like hearing you talk.” Bertie pressed James’s clean handkerchief over the bloody hole. “I like your accent, and the way your voice fills up the spaces. It’s the first thing I noticed about you, your voice. Standing in that courtroom, looking the judge in the eye, your words rumbling strong as you told him Ruthie didn’t kill that poor woman. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

Sinclair’s brows twitched upward. “You flatter me.”

“I thought you were wonderful. And handsome. And kind. You helped my friend, saved her life. But you looked so empty and sad afterward, not glad you’d been right. I wanted to know why—I wanted to know everything about you. That’s why I followed you home.”

His eyes went warm, the corners of his mouth twitching. “After stealing my watch. And kissing me, little wretch.”

“Couldn’t help meself, could I?” Bertie asked. “I had a handsome man hidden away with me. I should have been afraid of you, but I knew you were good inside, all the way through. So I kissed ya.” She grinned. “I was right. You
are
good all the way through.”

“No, I’m not.” Sinclair’s eyes drifted closed again. “I have a black heart, love.”

“You don’t.” Bertie pressed harder on the handkerchief. “You have a
good
heart, a caring one. Look at you with your kids, and helping people like Ruthie. And me.” He didn’t stir, and Bertie’s fears came pouring in on her.

“Don’t,” she said frantically. “Don’t die on me and leave me alone.
Please.
” She laid her head on his chest while she held the handkerchief to the wound, relieved to hear the slow beating of his heart. “I love you, Sinclair McBride. Don’t leave me before I can tell you that.”

Sinclair’s head was buzzing, everything seeming far away and small. The only sharp points were the pain in his abdomen, and Bertie’s voice.
I love you, Sinclair McBride.

Bertie. Sinclair felt her warm weight on him, tried to move his fingers to stroke her hair.
I’m all right. I’ll be all right. You’re with me.

He didn’t hear the words come out of his mouth, which worried him. The knife hadn’t gone in that far, had it? The thick wool of his greatcoat and frock coat beneath had slowed the blade. Hell, the thing had had to penetrate five layers of cloth.

But the knife had been sharp, thin, precise. Sinclair could no longer feel his fingers.

“I love you,” Bertie said again. “I don’t know if you can love me back—if you see me as only a governess, or a pickpocket, or the girl with the funny name. But this girl loves you, and always will. Don’t matter if you send me away—I’ll always love you.”

And I’ll always love you.
“Bertie.” He made his mouth move.

Bertie raised her head, her eyes streaming with tears. “Don’t die, Sinclair.”

“Trying not to.” Sinclair wet his lips. “Say it again.”

“What?” Bertie wiped her cheeks. “That I love you?”

“Yes.” Sinclair sighed and let his eyes close again.

Bertie shook him, which hurt, damn it. “You stay with me,” she said. “I have to get you home.”

His own bed would be a much more comfortable place in which to die. Then Sinclair clenched his teeth. No, he wouldn’t die, neither here nor in his bed. He wouldn’t let James win. The man had ruined Daisy’s life—it had taken Sinclair and Daisy years to put it back together again. James could not come in now and wipe all Sinclair cared about away.

He cracked open his eyes. “We need help,” he managed to say.

“I know that. But I’m not leaving you here to run and fetch it, and you can’t run anymore. It should be all the way dark by now—we might be able to slip through and find your coach.”

“Too much of a risk.” Sinclair wet his lips again. “Any chance of some water?”

“No. I haven’t been back to keep the place up.”

“This cellar . . .” Sinclair turned his head to look around and groaned as he pulled at his wound. The walls formed a triangle around the small space, where houses had sealed off the end. Why it was done and whether the current inhabitants knew the space was here could not be said.

“That wall.” Sinclair tried to point to his right and gave up. “It leads to another house?”

“Yeah. Used to be one house, it looks like, but broken up into flats now.”

“How solid is the wall? Can we break through?”

“Are you mad? Though . . .” Bertie trailed off. “Let me look.” Sinclair heard her skirts swish as she walked the small distance from him. He hated her gone, because he was so cold.

“It’s brick, but also plaster,” she said. “Who knows what’s on the other side?”

I’ll leap off this bed and break it down,
Sinclair told himself.
Any moment now.

“Let me see what I’ve got down here.” Bertie moved out of the circle of light, and Sinclair heard things clanking and thudding. “The builders of long ago left things lying about. Nothing worth much.”

Or she would have taken them home and given them to her father to sell, Sinclair knew. Anything, nailed down or not, could be sold in these streets, including the nails.

“Here’s something,” Bertie said at the same time Sinclair heard voices above them.

Bertie went absolutely silent. It was uncanny how she could do that—no more rattling of lumber or metal in the corner, no sound of fabric, no words, not even her breathing. She came back to Sinclair, holding something, but Sinclair couldn’t make out what it was.

She put her hand to his chest, stilling him, though Sinclair didn’t need to be told not to move. Above them, boots thumped, and voices became clearer.

“There’s blood,” a man said in thick Cockney. “Drops of it. Fresh.”

“Down there.” The Irish tones of James came through. “Another twenty quid if you make sure he’s dead.”

“A gentleman and barrister?” said a less thick voice but still a working-class accent. “Not bleeding likely. Having him crawl off to die after you knifed him is one thing. Shooting him deliberately is another.”

“Fine. Just the girl then.”

“The girl, I can do. Her father’s been a pain in my fundament for years, and she’d a nice bit of flesh.”

Bertie’s eyes were wide with rage. “I’ll give him a nice bit of flesh,” she whispered.

Sinclair managed to move his hand—his whole arm came alive, energy flowing through him. “No, you start pounding on that wall. If we get trapped in here, we’re done.”

The banging would attract the men’s attention, but they were going to check the cellar anyway. Bertie turned away, hoisting the bit of beam she’d found. Sinclair tried to swing up to help her, and found himself sitting down again.

Bertie hurried to the wall. She looked at Sinclair before she drew back for the first stroke. “When I said I loved you? I meant it, you know.”

Sinclair’s lips moved upward in a smile, his heart flooding with warmth. “I mean it too.”

Bertie’s sunny smile beamed out at him, then his beautiful, tender lady turned around and smacked the post into the wall with a resounding
boom
.

As Bertie crashed the solid wooden beam into the plaster wall, another shout sounded upstairs, and their enemies started coming down. The door at the bottom of the stairs was locked and bolted, but they could break through. The only question was whether Bertie would—or even could—break through her wall first.

Bits of plaster rained down from her onslaught, old whitewash flaking over her hair and gown like snow. Bertie was terrified, but also glowing with joy.
I mean it too.

Cryptic words from her dour Scotsman, but Bertie knew how hard it had been for him to say that. Sinclair didn’t love easily, but when he loved, he did it deeply.

Bertie kept pounding as the door to the stairs started to splinter. She couldn’t turn to see what Sinclair was doing—every second counted. Devlin being too scrupulous—or cautious—to kill Sinclair didn’t mean he wouldn’t stand by and watch James do it. Sinclair was too injured to fight them all, and Bertie would never win against them.

Which was stronger, a brick and plaster wall or a stout oak door? Bertie would soon find out.

In her favor, the bricks were quite old, the mortar crumbling between them. The plaster soon broke under her onslaught, and then a brick fell through the wall to the other side. Bertie put her hands through and pulled the next brick down, praying that what she found behind those wasn’t more bricks.

She felt air. Foul-smelling air to be sure, but air all the same. “I’m through!” She hit the bricks again, rewarded with more falling inward. “It’s coming down!”

“So’s the door,” Sinclair said.

He sounded stronger. But Bertie had seen enough victims of illness and injury who’d rallied before they’d died to take heart. She turned her head to look for him.

Sinclair had managed to get himself off the cushions. He’d upended the small folding table and piled the sofa cushions on top of it. A barricade, but not a very good one.

“Go!” Sinclair shouted at her, just as the door burst open, admitting men and bright lanterns.

Sinclair had something bulky and black in his hand. There was a roar of noise, a flash, a stench of pistol shot. One of Devlin’s henchmen cried out.

“You brought your pistol,” Bertie shouted.

“Excellent observation,” Sinclair said in his biting tones. “Now get through there.”

“I’m not leaving you!”

“Yes, you are. Go, before I shove you through with my foot on your backside.”

The men in the room, blinded by their own lanterns and the gunshot, took a moment to readjust. Bertie knew that when they did, those who were armed would open fire.

“Bertie, damn you to hell.” Sinclair started for her. Which would leave him exposed, and Devlin was shouting at his men to douse their lanterns.

Bertie dove through the opening. She’d done such a thing many times as a girl, throwing herself through windows for her dad, or through holes in walls to escape the approaching bobbies. She landed on a pile of bricks, mud, and slime, hearing the drip-drip of water from a pipe somewhere in the room.

Light flared as a hand thrust a lamp at her, then the hand was gone. Bertie was alone in a cellar full of damp, rotted timbers, and the beady eyes of rats. Behind her, noise filled the room she’d left, and voices.

James’s fury. “Get her!”

Devlin, annoyed. “He’s got a shooter, you daft Irish bastard.”

“How many bullets can he possibly have?”

“Five,” Sinclair said clearly. “I have five left. There’s five of you, and I’m a dead shot. Want to wager on me missing any of you?”

Bertie froze, unable to move. By the light of her lamp, she saw that the cellar she stood in was small, and about an inch of water covered the floor. A wooden stair on the other side of the room led up to a door. Locked, probably, though it looked flimsy.

Had Devlin sent men around to the other side to wait for them to pop out? Possibly, but then, would Devlin know which house it was? The warrens around here were tricky.

Sinclair was ready to shoot all those men, and risk that he could before they shot him back.
Run!
Bertie’s mind screamed at her.
Bring help!

That would be sensible, but her feet wouldn’t move. If she went for help, she’d never be able to get back in time to save Sinclair. Devlin or James would have killed him by then.

What do I do? What do I do?
Bertie had only one weapon in her arsenal, the post she held. Unless she could command the rats to attack—Bertie had one giddy vision of the rats swarming in to terrorize Devlin, before her eyes alighted on her second weapon.

Sinclair fired, and another man grunted in pain. “Make him stop!” James cried.

“Damn your hide,” Devlin snarled, though whether at Sinclair or James, Bertie couldn’t tell.

Bertie ran across the room and up the stairs. She didn’t like rats, but she didn’t fear them—they were simply trying to survive like the rest of London.

The door at the top was closed fast, but as Bertie yanked at it, she found it was only latched. Another yank tore the latch from the wall on the other side, the piece of metal clinking onto a stone floor beyond.

Bertie opened the door and peered into the passage. All was dark and quiet, but that did not mean the house wasn’t inhabited.

Bertie didn’t much care at the moment. She raced down the stairs again and snatched up her lamp, rushing back toward the hole.

Sinclair fired again. This time James shouted and cried out. Whether Sinclair had hit him fatally or only grazed him, Bertie couldn’t tell, but she had no time for assessment.
I’m a dead shot,
Sinclair had said, with chilling conviction.

Bertie scrambled back through the hole and grabbed Sinclair, who was crouching behind his barricade. The look on his face was that of a grim soldier who knew he would likely fall to his enemy, but who would take as many as he could down with him.

He glared at Bertie when she tugged him, but she didn’t wait to explain. Rising, she lifted her lamp high and threw it at their pursuers.

Devlin swore, as did his one thug left standing. Bertie caught up the second lamp and tossed that one as well. The lamps were nearly empty, but there was enough kerosene in them to catch and burn.

Sinclair rose. He fired another shot, then he grabbed the remaining lamp and tossed it into the blaze. It burst with a puff of flame, and then fire and smoke filled the tiny space.

Sinclair’s fingers latched around Bertie’s arm, and he shoved her back toward the hole. Bertie paused a split second to snatch up her precious hat, then she climbed through. Sinclair followed, turning around to fire one more time before he dove after her.

He landed and rolled, as Bertie had, but instead of leaping to his feet, he groaned and slipped down to the muck. Bertie ran to him. She got under his arm and lifted him, half dragging him to the stairs. Behind them, she heard Devlin yell, “To hell with this. Get up there and around. I
want
them.”