Rules for a Proper Governess (32 page)

Sinclair woke, moved, and cursed. Pain ripped from his abdomen through to his spine, and he hissed a breath through his teeth.

He relaxed slowly, making himself lie perfectly still. There. If he stayed just . . . like . . . this, the pain was only slightly excruciating.

He heard soft breathing beside him and carefully turned his head. Bertie was next to him, her head pillowed on her arm, her eyes closed. Her hair was a mess, the curls on her forehead damp. Her nose was free of soot now, except for one tiny smudge, and her lips were parted in her sleep.

If Sinclair didn’t hurt so much, and could move his body at all, he’d roll over and kiss those pretty red lips. Then he’d brush back her hair and slide on top of her, parting her legs to make sweet, deep love to her as the house slept around them.

Sinclair did hurt, however, so all he could do was look at her. Not a bad thing. Firelight touched her throat, her dress open at the neck, and glinted on the chain of her locket.

Safe. She was safe. James was dead or dying, Devlin would likely go after more lucrative game, and Jeffrey would be sent off to Dartmoor.

Safety. Peace. Bertie had never known it, and Sinclair had taken a long time to learn it. He’d make sure Bertie had it for the rest of her days. He’d go on standing up in court, speaking for those who didn’t know how to speak for themselves, helping the innocent and making a case against the guilty. He’d continue working toward being a judge, making Old Monty and his committee happy enough to present him with a position on the bench. Then he’d come home to Bertie and his children every night. Idyllic.

Sinclair knew, though, that he’d never stomach such an ordinary life for long. He’d clung to this routine only because it had helped him bury his grief—being caught up in his work meant he’d never had to take grief out and look at it.

He’d looked at it plenty in that basement with Bertie, when the men had come through the door, ready to kill her. Sinclair would make sure that never happened, and he’d live his life with her and his children to its fullest. He’d take them to this Christmas pantomime Bertie kept talking about, and then they’d go home to the Highlands for the rest of the holidays, back where he belonged.

Sinclair could move his right hand without too much pain. He lightly smoothed Bertie’s hair, loving the soft warmth of it. Bertie was life, and he wanted life with all his might.

Bertie stirred, her eyes fluttering open. Her first puzzled look slowly dissolved, and a little smile moved her lips. Sinclair smiled back.

Bertie’s eyes widened, and she sat up straight. Her hand went to his forehead, then his face, then lightly landed on his chest. “You all right? How do you feel?”

“Bloody awful.” Sinclair winced at the croak that was his voice. “What about you? Throwing fireballs and breaking through walls, like a warrior woman. I’ll wager Boadicea is an ancestor of yours. Though I wager she was never as pretty.”

Bertie’s cheeks went red. “You’re a charmer, ain’t you? Bet you won’t be so charming while I’m changing your bandage.” Bertie sat up, reaching for a pile of cloth on the bedside table.

Sinclair rumbled a laugh. “I was never a good patient, lass, but I won’t promise not to seduce you while you’re nursing me. With the understanding that I can’t carry out anything I suggest until I can move again.” Sinclair’s breath went out of him as he twitched the wrong way. “Bloody hell.”

“You lie still.” Bertie grabbed the bandages and hurried around the bed. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”

She started for the basin in the corner, then halted, her back quivering, and swung around again. “Blast it all, I thought I’d lose you for sure.” Tears trickled down her cheeks as she rushed back to him, leaned over him in the bed, and wrapped her arms carefully around him.

Warm goodness. Sinclair lifted his stronger hand and threaded it through her hair, gently pulling her head back so he could kiss her. This he could do—kissing—without pain . . . as long as he didn’t move too much.

Bertie eased away and touched his face. “Thank you for staying alive.”

Sinclair tried a smile, though in his heart he was thanking God, Bertie, and his stubborn constitution for not letting him slip away. “Just wait until I’m better, vixen,” he said. “I’ll show you what I’ve been dreaming about all night, what I’d do right now if I wasn’t in debilitating pain.”

“Yeah?” Bertie’s word was soft, but her eyes danced with laughter. “Well, maybe I’ll show you what I’ve been dreaming about
you.
”

Sinclair’s heart beat faster, heat creeping into his body, which had been cold too long. “Then we’ll plan an assignation.” Sinclair caressed Bertie’s face, loving her soft skin, her smile, the beautiful eyes that had snapped Sinclair out of his prison of grief weeks ago and set him on the path to the world again.

Bertie grinned at him. “Too right,” she said. “I look forward to it.”

After a week, Sinclair was able to rise from his bed and move about, regaining more of his strength. Bertie watched him anxiously, and so did his children—not to mention Mrs. Hill, Macaulay, the maids, Peter, the cook, and the coachman. Sinclair began to growl that he didn’t need to be mollycoddled, but they refused to leave him be.

Inspector Fellows and his sergeant paid Sinclair a visit in the second week, and Sinclair invited Bertie to stay and listen to what Fellows had to say. Sergeant Pierce looked uncertain about her being there, but Sinclair knew she’d played an integral part in bringing James down. She deserved to be in the room. Besides, Sinclair simply liked her near.

“James Maloney survived your shot,” the inspector said, his voice as dry as ever. “A resilient man, he is. But he has much ill will from those in the East End—a number of witnesses have come forward to claim they saw him pursuing you, stabbing you, tackling you, and numerous other things. Some went into flights of fancy of things he couldn’t possibly have done. The word has gone out, apparently, that Maloney is to fall, and East End dwellers are required to speak up.”

“Devlin, possibly,” Bertie said. “He doesn’t like me or my father, but he hates outsiders even more, especially ones who get him into trouble. He must have decided James’s money wasn’t worth it, and turned against him instead.”

“Bertie has many friends, as well,” Sinclair said.

“True,” Fellows said. “We can bang up Maloney for assault, attempted kidnapping, paying a known criminal, coercion, and numerous other things. Possibly also for causing you anguish through the letters, though we might have a devil of a time proving that. However, with the things Miss Frasier happened to . . . find . . . inside Mr. Maloney’s coat, we can tie him to other confidence games and blackmail. Seems he had several identities, and papers connecting him to victims in France, England, and Prussia. I’m enjoying going through them.” Fellows smiled one of his rare smiles. He did love catching a crook.

“Make sure he stays put this time,” Sinclair said in his deep rumble. “I don’t want him turning up again, trying to make my life and my family’s lives a misery.”

“No fear,” Fellows said. “My case will be very solid against him, and I’ll use my influence to get the best prosecutor there is. I’m sorry that barrister can’t be you, but you’ll make a very good witness.”

“That will indeed be a pleasure,” Sinclair said. “As long as my late wife’s name, and Bertie’s, stay out of it.”

“Since I don’t have hard evidence that he sent the letters,” Fellows said, “that won’t come up. Trust me, he’s done plenty else to fix himself. He’s a charmer, but juries don’t like tricksters—they’ll all have been fooled at one time or another, or know someone who has, and I’m sure they’ll see to it that this one, at least, gets his just deserts.”

Fellows left soon after, happy to get back home to his wife and put together his case.

The next visitor to gain entrance was Sinclair’s brother-in-law, Edward. Again, Bertie was present, though she wasn’t certain she wanted to be for this meeting. Edward put her back up too quickly. Then again, she’d rather be there to make sure he didn’t make Sinclair worse.

Sinclair received Edward in his study. Sinclair wore an informal suit, his abdomen bulked by bandages, and he didn’t rise from the sofa when Edward came in. Bertie had been reading Sinclair’s correspondence out to him, making notes on what he wanted to say in reply. She remained at his desk, pen poised, as the irritating Edward entered.

Edward swept his gaze over her then fixed it on Sinclair, looking him up and down. “I heard you were in a brawl,” Edward said coldly. “Somewhere in the gutter. Defending her honor, were you?”

Sinclair gave Edward his stern barrister’s stare. “If you don’t keep a civil tongue about Miss Frasier, I’ll be defending her honor against
you
, and winning.”

“I don’t brawl,” Edward said. He sniffed.

“I don’t care,” Sinclair said with his impatient growl. “If you continue to insult her, I’ll come off this couch and punch you in the nose. What do you want?”

“To see how you are, of course.”

Oh, of course,
Bertie thought.
Come to kick a man when he’s down, more like.

“I appreciate your concern,” Sinclair said. “You may go now.”

“I was mostly worried about the children,” Edward said, ignoring him. “With you an invalid, my wife and I think it best that we take over the caring of them. Arrange Andrew’s school, find Caitriona a proper governess. You may visit them at holidays, of course. I’ve consulted a solicitor, who assures me such a thing is logical and feasible. They have no mother, and their father is unfit to take care of them. They will be well provided for by me.”

Sinclair sat still and listened until Edward finished. How Sinclair didn’t come off the couch with a roar, Bertie didn’t know.

“I’ve consulted a solicitor as well,” Sinclair said in his reasonable voice, though Bertie heard the bite of fury behind it. “As you know, I am acquainted with many. While it’s common for families to take in the children of sisters and brothers, it is entirely the father’s and mother’s choice if the parents are alive and competent. Since Margaret is no longer with us, I’ll have to speak for her. No, my children will not live with you, Edward. I’ll not have Cat and Andrew turned into stiff-necked prigs who need a pulley system in order to bow their heads. I have already ensured that if I shuffle off this mortal coil before my children are of age, either my brothers—Elliot, Patrick, or Steven—or my sister, Ainsley, will have care of them. My brothers and sister all have plenty of money and good social standing, and you’ll never need to worry about Cat and Andrew with them.”

Edward’s face suffused with red. “I’ll not have my sister’s children associated with
Mackenzies
.”

“Why not? My sister is deliriously happy, and her children are well cared for.” Sinclair sat up straighter. He didn’t wince, but Bertie saw the lines around his mouth tighten. “You aren’t concerned for your niece and nephew, Edward. You’re worried about your own standing. Margaret embarrassed you by running off to find some happiness, and you want to shove Cat and Andrew back into the Davies mold to show the world that your way is right. Sod you, and your wife too. My children are mine, and they’re staying with me.”

“To become indolent little layabouts?” Edward asked. “There’s also some question, I’ve always known, about whether you married my sister correctly or not.”

“I’ll show you the license if you doubt.” Sinclair’s voice hardened. “The marriage was true. I’d think you’d not be so hasty to bastardize your own niece and nephew. But I’ve decided to make you happy.” Sinclair sank back, keeping his gaze firmly on Edward. “Your main objection seems to be that my children are being educated at home. I’ll have you know that at Easter, Andrew will be starting at Harrow, and Cat has been enrolled in Miss Pringle’s Select Academy, one of the best schools for girls in the country. She’ll begin at Easter as well.”

Edward blinked in surprise then shot a sharp look at Bertie. Bertie regarded him calmly, the revelation no surprise to her. Sinclair had discussed it with her—and Cat and Andrew—at length. Cat had asked most of all to take drawing lessons. She’d shown Bertie a few more of her astonishing pictures, and she’d shyly agreed to let her Uncle Mac see some of them. Mac had looked at them, been quietly stunned, and told Cat she had the beginnings of great talent. Which had sealed Cat’s decision to go to Miss Pringle’s and study with the best teachers she could.

“And Miss Frasier?” Edward asked.

“My children will no longer need a governess. Will all that keep you from running to my house every fortnight or your wife accosting me in tearooms?”

Edward still looked surprised, but he wasn’t the sort of man to not find something to be annoyed about. “I suppose it will have to do,” he said sourly.

“You may of course visit the children on holidays and for school treats,” Sinclair said.

Edward made a sound like a grunt, and gave Sinclair a stiff nod. “Very well then. Good day.”

He turned around and walked out of the room, to find Macaulay standing slap outside the door holding Edward’s hat and coat. Edward was uncomfortable with Macaulay, it was clear as he cringed away from the big Scotsman. Macaulay herded Edward toward the stairs, nearly chasing him with the coat and hat.

“Close the door, Bertie.” Sinclair sank back to the cushions, sounding tired.

Bertie left the desk and shut the door, but her anger wasn’t assuaged. “He has no call to come here and berate you while you’re feeling poorly.” Bertie looked at the door, picturing Edward fleeing down the stairs. “No wonder your Daisy ran away from him.”

Sinclair grunted a laugh. “I fully understood the first time I met him. She’d simply picked the wrong man to run off with at first.”

“She was lucky to find you,” Bertie said. She left the door and came to stand in front of the sofa. “Something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Now that Cat and Andrew are going away, and they won’t need a governess . . .” She drew a breath. “I’d like to stay on. I can help you write letters, like today. Or help Mrs. Hill. Or be the cook’s assistant, or black the boots—I’m not particular.”

Sinclair watched her without changing expression. “Why do you want to stay on in my poky house? There’s a large world out there. I thought you wanted to see it.”

Bertie swallowed, a little pain in her heart. “Because, truth to tell, I’ve got nowhere to go. With Mrs. Lang moved in with my dad, there’s not much room for me. Not that I want to go back to him at all. If I can’t stay here, then can you at least help me be governess for one of your brothers? Or housekeeper, or cook’s assistant?”

Sinclair let her finish without interrupting, but he watched her closely. “No, Bertie. I won’t get you a place in one of my brothers’ houses. I think you should stay on here. In what capacity—
that
we must discuss.”

Bertie’s heart beat faster. “I agree. We should discuss it. At length.”

Sinclair looked her over, a much more welcome scrutiny than what his brother-in-law had given her. Then he laid his head back and closed his eyes. “The first thing we should talk about is your clothes.”

“My clothes?” Bertie glanced down at her dark gray dress, a new one to replace the frock sadly torn on her East End adventure. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“You’ll need more of them. Much more.” Sinclair opened his eyes a slit, humor sparkling in them. “A wedding dress first, I think. Have my sister and sisters-in-law find something you’ll be so beautiful in I’ll forget all my lines when we’re standing in front of the vicar.”

Bertie’s breath deserted her. The room spun around, as had the ballroom when they’d danced, whirling faster and faster until she couldn’t think. “Sinclair McBride,” she said, her voice scratchy. “You open your eyes and look at me.”

Sinclair did, a grin spreading across his handsome face.

“Are you asking me to marry you?” she demanded.

Sinclair shrugged. “Wedding gown, church, vicar, vows—if we put it all together, I believe that’s exactly what I am saying.” He lost every bit of indifference and pinned her with a sharp look. “What answer will you give, Miss Frasier? Remember, you’re under oath.”

“Damn and blast you.” Bertie got herself across the room to him, her shaking legs threatening to collapse under her. She knelt beside him on the sofa, being careful of his wound. “Are you sure? We’re not exactly the same, you and me.”

“Thank God,” Sinclair said fervently. “The women pushed at me are wooden, expressionless, and afraid to say yes or no without permission. You’re forthright, honest, courageous, full of life, and my children love you.
I
love you. I remember telling you that before we ran out to meet our maker.” Sinclair put his large hand on her cheek, his fingers warm, the chill of his injury gone. “I love you, Roberta Frasier. My Bertie.”

Bertie felt herself floating. “I love you too,” she whispered.

“Then marry me. Marry me, and to hell with them all.”

Bertie nodded, a lump in her throat so tight she couldn’t speak. Sinclair’s gray eyes were free of emptiness, the bleakness gone. The pieces of the broken man were back together again, Sinclair ready to take on the world.