Rules for a Proper Governess (16 page)

Andrew answered, his loud voice cutting through Bertie’s headache. “We’re learning books!”

“What,
all
of you?”

Sinclair’s sharp gaze swept around the library, taking in Cat, Andrew, Macaulay, Aoife, Peter, Mrs. Hill, and the cook—who rarely came out of her kitchen—bent over books in various parts of the room.

Bertie placed a ribbon in the tome on the English Civil War, closed the book, and got to her feet. “It was my idea. Don’t be angry at them.”

The members of Sinclair’s household looked up, except for Cat and the cook, who kept reading. Cat had found she liked the books on art best, and the cook was reading hard about constellations of the southern hemisphere.

Sinclair’s sharp gaze landed on Bertie. Last night, he’d been tender, smiling, holding Bertie in his strong arms. This morning, he was the barrister again, looking at her as though she were another fool in the dock. “
Your
idea?” he rumbled. “Your idea about what?”

“Making people believe I’m a governess. People like your brother-in-law.” Bertie twined her fingers together, suddenly nervous under the unwavering gray gaze. “I knew I’d never be able to read all the books in here myself and remember what was in them. I decided that if each person in the house read some of them, then they could come out with a piece of information at an opportune time, and pretend I taught it to them.”

Sinclair kept staring. He could knock a person over with that gaze. He was like a wolf with his eye on a poor rabbit who couldn’t get away.

“Pretend you taught it to them,” he repeated.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Mrs. Hill said. She’d risen to her feet, folding her hands at her waist and looking so very respectable. “It is not a bad plan. We’d not be obvious about it, of course. But the intent is to make Miss Frasier appear to be very, very clever. Then even if her origins are known, it can be argued she’s clever enough for that to be overlooked.”

Bertie knew Sinclair heard Mrs. Hill, because a muscle moved in his jaw, but he never looked away from Bertie.

“Aye,” Macaulay said, looking up from his book on animal husbandry. “I remember the fuss Mrs. McBride’s relations kicked up when you married her. Not only did you marry quick, but they hate Scots. We’re trying to keep them from kicking up another stink. Miss Caitriona and Master Andrew belong
here,
with us. We’re willing to do anything to make sure they stay.”

“I say bugger Uncle Edward!” Andrew shouted. “We love you, and Bertie!”

“Master Andrew, such language,” Mrs. Hill said quickly, but she appeared to agree with Andrew.

Sinclair couldn’t wrench his gaze from Bertie. In her demure gray, every hair in place, but her eyes full of merriment, she was both a beauty and an erotic joy. Erotic because he knew what she looked like with the buttons loose at her throat, her hair coming down, her eyes closed in pleasure while she parted her lips for his kisses.

He clenched his hands, tamped down his rising hardness, and made himself look around the room. “Since you’re all settled in here, Andrew, you won’t want to go out with me then,” he said in a dry tone.

Andrew’s book flew into the air and came down on the floor with a clatter. “Yes, we do! Are we going to the pantomime? I’ve never been to a panto. Bertie calls it a panto.”

“Panto’s not until Christmas, Andrew,” Bertie said quickly. “Starting Boxing Day.”

“But we’ll be in Scotland then!” Andrew wailed.

Sinclair gave him a stern look. “Bertie, get them into their things and outside. Richards is on his way with the coach.”

He delivered his command and swung around out of the room, before he realized he’d called her “Bertie” and not “Miss Frasier,” to the great interest of the rest of his household.

The weather was cold today. Rain had come in the night, and though the morning had cleared, a thin sheet of ice lay on roadways. Sinclair watched Bertie settle with Andrew and Cat in the carriage seat opposite his, the glowing box on the floor giving the coach some warmth. Bertie kept Andrew from bouncing on the seat by pointing out interesting things about the coach itself as well as what they passed. Stopped Andrew bouncing a little bit, anyway.

Sinclair enjoyed himself watching her. Bertie regarded everything with lively interest—the most ordinary experience was something fascinating to explore. Sinclair had been dead for so long, he didn’t notice much anymore. But today, through Bertie, he saw anew the fine marquetry in his own carriage, the crispness of the bright day outside, and the luxury of the Georgian houses they passed. London could be a beautiful and vigorous place. Hadn’t Dr. Johnson said,
When a man is tired of London, he is tired of
life?

Bertie, raised in one of the grittiest parts of the city, looked as though she’d never be tired of London.

Richards took them down Park Lane, past its ponderous mansions with lavish gardens, to Hyde Park Corner and on into the park itself. The coach rolled up toward the Serpentine, and finally Richards halted near one of the walking paths. Sinclair alighted first, lifted down Cat and Andrew, then handed out Bertie.

Andrew danced and bounced on his feet, his energy incredible. Sinclair waved to Richards, and the coachman nodded and slowly drove off.

“Can I run now?” Andrew asked Bertie.

Bertie scanned the park around them, her gaze sharpening as she looked down every path, over every person she saw, checking for enemies. Sinclair had already been giving the place a once-over, and he knew Richards had too.

Finally Bertie, after a confirming look with Sinclair, gave Andrew a nod. “Off you go.”

Her eyes on Andrew, Bertie tugged a watch out of her pocket. Sinclair glanced at it, then looked again in surprise. Not a watch, but a chronograph, a device that could record the time of any event. Racehorse trainers used them to clock their horses’ speeds. They were highly expensive.

Andrew stopped his prancing, marked a line in the dirt with his toe, then crouched down. As Sinclair watched, mystified, Bertie shouted, “Go!”

Andrew bolted. Bertie had clicked a lever on the chronograph, and she eyed both it and Andrew as the boy hurtled himself along.

Andrew was running, flying. His legs weren’t very long yet, but they were long enough. He ran like a deer, sprinting over the ground, gracefully leaping over anything in his way. Cat watched him without expression, her arms around her doll.

Andrew ran past an indeterminate line, then he flung his arms out, his pace slowing. He did a long, running turn, then loped back toward them.

Bertie had clicked the chronograph as soon as Andrew slowed. “Look at
that
,” she said, shoving the watch in front of Sinclair.

Twenty seconds. Sinclair didn’t know the exact distance that his son had run, but it had been a bloody long way.

“He’s amazingly fast,” Bertie said. “You should put him into races.”

Sinclair frowned even as his pride at Andrew’s skill rose. “My son is not a horse.”

“Races for humans, silly. I knew a bloke who didn’t have two coins to rub together, but he could run like nothing you ever saw. A trainer took him up, and now he goes around the world, winning races and prizes. He lives like a king now.”

“Andrew can’t run races. He has to go to school. I’ve delayed too long sending him already.” The thought of not having Andrew’s voice blasting through the house made Sinclair feel suddenly empty. Cat would feel his absence too. Though she never said much, Sinclair knew she was very fond of Andrew.

Bertie’s nose wrinkled. “You mean one of the schools where they’ll give him cold porridge three times a day? Mrs. Hill told me about
those
.”

“He’ll go to one that serves meat and bread at least occasionally,” Sinclair said, then he caught Bertie’s eye. She looked angry, not realizing he was joking. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they treat him very well indeed. He can run races at school if he wants. You’re right, he might be good at it.”

“Are you sending Cat off to school too?” Bertie asked. Cat glanced at them, hearing. Bertie had no qualm about discussing the children in front of them. Sinclair could hear her explaining why—
Stands to reason. It’s their lives, innit?

“No,” Sinclair said sharply. “Cat will stay home.” He refused say farewell to both his son and daughter.

“I want to go to Miss Pringle’s Select Academy,” Cat said, looking straight at Sinclair. “Like Aunt Ainsley and Aunt Isabella.”

“I saw your aunt Ainsley at your dad’s do,” Bertie said to her. “She looked like a fine lady to me.”

Cat nodded solemnly. “She is. She used to pick locks and steal things.”

Bertie laughed. “Did she?” she asked Sinclair. “Can I meet her?”

Sinclair frowned. “We’ll speak of it later.”

“About what? Cat going to this Pringle’s place or me meeting your sister?”

“Both.”

Bertie grinned. “Well, if your sister’s anything like Eleanor, I shall like her.”

Sinclair growled again, but he wanted to burst out laughing. Then he wanted to grab Bertie and hug her tight. She had no snobbishness in her, no need to impress those born above her in life. Bertie was frank and honest with all, from duchess to scullery maid.

Andrew made it back to them and declared he was hungry. No surprise, since Andrew was always hungry.

Sinclair took his still-prancing son by the hand and led him back toward the coach. Bertie held her hand out for Cat, and Cat readily slipped her fingers around Bertie’s. Cat trusted so few, and yet she was completely comfortable with Bertie.

“Where did you find the chronograph?” Sinclair asked her in curiosity.

Andrew answered for Bertie, in his usual shout. “Aunt Eleanor!
She
got it from Uncle Cameron. Bertie won’t let me play with it.”

“Because I want to give it back to your Uncle Cameron in one piece,” Bertie said firmly. “But yes, Eleanor lent it to me when I said I wished I had a way to know how fast Andrew could run.”

Sinclair pictured Eleanor opening her blue eyes wide as she explained to the rough-voiced Cameron that he should lend an expensive chronograph to a pickpocket from a family of thieves. Sinclair also sensed that the chronograph would be safer with Bertie than with anyone else in London.

Sinclair signaled for Richards, who drove the coach back to them, and Sinclair handed Bertie in. The smile she gave him as she pressed his hand made him know he was lost. Any thought of control—of his life, of his emotions—was utterly gone, never to return.

The coach stopped after traveling along Piccadilly, and Sinclair handed Bertie down. She loved how he treated her with as much care as he would a lady like his sister and sisters-in-law. Made her feel special, not shoved aside as she had been most of her life.

Sinclair lifted his children to the ground, then took Andrew’s hand and reached to Cat. Cat turned away from him and thrust her hand into Bertie’s. Bertie’s and Sinclair’s eyes met, and Bertie shrugged.

Sinclair turned to the door of the great edifice they’d stopped before, and Bertie saw that it was Fortnum and Mason’s.

Bertie’s interest quickened. She’d never been inside a department store, had been turned away from one she’d tried to enter by its large doorman. Clean stores full of wares were not for the likes of Bertie Frasier.

This doorman bowed respectfully to Sinclair and opened the door for him, also bowing to Bertie as she swept in with Cat. Funny how clean clothes and being in the company of a rich man changed the way people treated her. As long as Bertie kept her mouth shut, she thought, she’d be fine.

The glittering palace of goods made her want to stop and gape. So many people, so many things, so much
food
. Sinclair led them through to a teashop, already crowded with ladies and gentlemen taking their ease. Sinclair settled them into a table in the corner, and admonished Andrew to at least
try
not to shout everything he wanted to say.

Bertie noted the looks from the other tea drinkers, some disapproving. Children were meant to be kept inside nurseries or schoolrooms, seen and not heard. Daft. Andrew didn’t know how not to be heard.

Other looks were more fond for the family on an outing—a dad who cared for his children.

Andrew did keep himself quiet, mostly because he spent the time shoveling as many cakes, scones, and pieces of bread into his mouth as he could. Cat ate daintily as usual, saying little.

Sinclair said little as well, but he was polite, making sure Bertie’s plate was full, that his family wanted for nothing. Bertie poured the tea, pretending to be very prim, liking it when Sinclair’s eyes twinkled at her.

When they were nearly finished, the freezing tones of a woman cut through the warmth of their domestic moment.

“
Mr.
McBride.”

A lady had stopped at their table, two companions behind her. She was not much older than Sinclair, with brown hair and dark eyes, but lines framed her mouth. Her chin was tilted high, as though she’d perfected the art of looking down her nose.

Sinclair’s friendliness vanished behind a wash of ice as he rose to his feet. “Mrs. Davies.”

Mrs. Davies, eh? Wife to Mr. Edward Davies? The one who wanted to take away Cat and Andrew? A knot formed in Bertie’s stomach along with a burn of anger.

Andrew, his mouth full, said, “Mornin’ Aunt Helena.” Cat gave the woman a silent, expressionless look.

“How are you?” Sinclair asked, with an air that said he only inquired to show his children that a person was polite even to someone he loathed. His voice was brittle, Sinclair having become the cold, empty shell of a man once more.

“I am well, thank you,” Mrs. Davies said with poor grace. “You are aware, my dear Mr. McBride, that it is
Tuesday
?”