Rules for a Proper Governess (29 page)

London greeted them with billows of coal smoke, every house stoking its fires to stay warm. Down in the slums, they’d be shivering and burning anything they could find, in stoves, fireplaces, barrels, and tin coal boxes. In Mayfair, fires danced on bright hearths, and maids brought tea and scones to warm the belly.

Sinclair summoned his coach to take Bertie to visit her dad, and insisted on coming with her.

“You’re daft, you are,” Bertie said in alarm as he followed her out, Richards waiting patiently on the box. “If Basher McBride is seen about the backstreets of Whitechapel, things will go bad for you.”

Sinclair only gave her his scowl. “I’m sure everyone in Whitechapel knows full well you’re looking after my children. I’m not letting you go alone, and that’s the end of it.”

No amount of arguing could sway him. Bertie gave up, knowing they could stand all day on the street and fight about it while the neighbors watched with interest.

Bertie, resigned, let him hand her into the coach, and they set off.

The East End hadn’t improved since Bertie had left it. The mud was frozen in streets and lanes, fires burned in barrels with dozens of men and women standing around them, trying to soak up the heat. No sun penetrated the gloom of the afternoon, the tall buildings shutting out any hint of light.

The dark and cold struck Bertie harder now, after the wide-open spaces of Scotland and the splendid comfort of Kilmorgan Castle. She’d survived here because she hadn’t known any different, but now she did. There was a world out there, oceans of it, and Bertie meant to see it.

A few of the younger lads of the street were huddled around the front of the lodging house where her father lived. They swarmed the coach when it came to a stop, trying to look pathetic as they held out their hands. The pugilist Sinclair had borrowed from the duke’s house in Grosvenor Square jumped down and tried to scatter them.

“Oi, it’s Bertie,” one of the boys yelled when the pugilist opened the carriage door for her. “It’s Bertie-girl, dressed up all swank. Is that your protector in there?” They looked past her to Sinclair. “Looks like he could spare a bob or two. Give us a coin, Bertie.”

“Why’dya think I came here, to drop all my bread in your hands?” Bertie asked good-humoredly. “I came to see me dad. He’s poorly.”

“He’ll fall over dead if he spies you with your posh coach,” another of the lads said. “Come on, Bertie. We’re your old mates.”

The pugilist waded among them, the lads diving away from his bulk without him having to touch them. “Clear off,” he growled, his accent as Cockney as theirs.

“It’s all right.” Bertie dipped her hand into her pocket and passed out pennies. “They don’t mean no harm. He’s not my protector.” Bertie gestured to Sinclair, who’d climbed down beside her. “You lot leave him alone.”

She started through the press of boys to the door of her old lodgings, and Sinclair came directly behind her, not letting her get more than one step ahead of him. The pugilist followed as far as the doorway, then turned around and faced the street, blocking the lads from following them in.

“Why are you coming with me?” Bertie asked Sinclair as they went up the stairs. “What happened to you not showing your face where it’s dangerous?”

“I’m not letting you in here alone,” Sinclair growled. “You have no idea what or who is waiting for you.”

“I thought you’d at least stay in the coach,” Bertie said, throwing him a glare.

Sinclair scowled back. “Then you were wrong.”

Maddening man. The door to the rooms on the third floor was locked, but Bertie still had her key. She opened the door and walked inside. “It’s me,” she called.

Mrs. Lang, a plump woman with dyed black hair and a perpetually red face came out of Gerry’s bedroom. “Bertie,” she said, smiling a genuine smile. “How grand to see you.”

She opened her arms and folded Bertie into a well-cushioned hug. Mrs. Lang always smelled a bit of whiskey, which she liked, and a faint scent that was the fancy soap she saved her pennies for.

“How is he?” Bertie asked when Mrs. Lang released her.

“Not well. He wants to speak to you. Is this him?” She looked around Bertie at Sinclair.

“This is Mr. McBride,” Bertie said, a bit stiffly. “My employer.”

Mrs. Lang looked Sinclair up and down, her scrutiny admiring. “Well, you’re a fine one, ain’t you? Very handsome, in that way a Scottish bloke can be. Better wait out here, duckie. Old Gerry might get upset at the sight of you.”

Sinclair didn’t look happy, but he nodded as he took off his hat. “I’ll be right here, Bertie. Shout if you need me.” He gave her a look that told her she’d better. He might barge right in if she lingered longer than he liked, in any case.

Bertie gave him a nod, squared her shoulders, and followed Mrs. Lang into the bedroom.

“Well, look at the cat who swallowed the cream.” Gerry Frasier, his face grayer than Bertie had ever seen it, gazed at her over the bedcovers. His face was also lined and haggard, but he wasn’t hung over. This was true illness.

“How are you, Dad?” Bertie said. She pulled off her gloves and went to the bedside, holding out her hand.

Her father clasped her fingers with his hard ones. “Dying. So nice for me own daughter to bother to come and see me.”

“I was in Scotland. I know Mrs. Lang wouldn’t a’ sent for me if it weren’t bad.”

“It’s bad.” The hand that pressed Bertie’s was strong, though. “That flash bastard you’ve taken up with out there? I heard a voice.”

“Yeah, he’s here. Making sure you didn’t set me up.”

Gerry looked hurt, but he didn’t let go of her hand. “As if I would. I’ve always been good to you, Bertie-girl, haven’t I?”

“No, of course, you haven’t. You made me steal for you and smacked me when I didn’t do it quick enough. You’re an old brute, and I’m well rid of you.” She patted his hand, softening the words.

Gerry’s eyes moistened. “Well, that’s true. But I always looked after you, you know that. Your mum asked me to, before she went. Never let anyone else touch you, did I?”

“No, Dad. You’re a regular knight-errant.”

Gerry squeezed her hand, looking genuinely remorseful. “I’m sorry about Jeffrey. I never meant him to go after you, with a shooter, no less. If I’d known that, I would have had me mates sit on him until he saw reason. I’d have throttled him meself after, if he hadn’t got himself dragged off to chokey.”

Bertie believed him. For all Gerry had been hard on her, he’d also been extremely protective. Bertie had no doubt that had Jeffrey not been afraid of her father, he’d have dragged Bertie off to his bed long ago, whether she wanted to or not.

Gerry tugged her closer. “I need to tell you something else, love. I didn’t just ask you to come so you could watch your old dad push off. I need to warn you.”

Mrs. Lang looked worried, and Bertie felt a qualm. “Yeah? About what?”

“There’s villains after you, Bertie. High-end villains.”

Bertie studied her father’s face. He could be a liar, and a good one, but this time, he had true fear in his watery blue eyes. She glanced at Mrs. Lang for confirmation, and Mrs. Lang nodded.

“What do you mean,
high-end
?” Bertie asked. “Posh gents who have turned to crime, or villains who’ve come up in the world?”

“The second,” Gerry said. “Like Frank Devlin.”

Bertie started. “What’s someone like Devlin want with me?” Frank Devlin was a very bad man, made a lot of money running housebreakers and street girls, plus a couple of bawdy houses for well-paying customers. He’d never bothered much with Bertie and her dad—they were too low-grade for him, and Gerry had taught Bertie to stay well clear of him.

Mrs. Lang answered. “We don’t know. But he’s working for someone, and word is that he wants you brought to him. That’s why we asked you to come here and see us. Couldn’t trust a messenger, not with news like that.”

Bertie came running out of the bedroom, her face pale under the gray hat she loved. “We have to go,” she threw at Sinclair on her way past him.

Sinclair caught her by the arm. “Wait. Why? What did he say to you?”

Bertie wrenched herself from his grasp. “Tell you downstairs. When we’re out of this place.”

She made for the door in a swish of skirts and was gone. Sinclair, instead of following her, strode to the bedroom and went inside.

“What did you say to her?” he demanded of the two in the room.

Mr. Frasier peered at Sinclair from his bed. He didn’t look good, but he also didn’t look near to death’s door. Ill yes, but not fatally. “Mr. McBride, is it? You take good care of my girl, all right?”

“You lured her here,” Sinclair said sternly, ignoring him. “Didn’t you? What’s your game?”

“We had to,” Mrs. Lang said, her dark eyes anxious. “We couldn’t trust no one to tell her but us. Bertie will explain. Best you go now. We can’t risk anyone knowing we spilled anything to Basher McBride.”

“The entire street knows I’m here,” Sinclair said impatiently.

“Yeah, but won’t be us who told you, will it?”

“If you’re in danger, you should leave.”

Frasier laughed at him. “I’ve lived on this street man and boy. Me mates are here, me lady . . . me whole life. I’m not going. I’m proud of Bertie for trying to better herself, but I’m not in a hurry to move far from my local, am I?” Another wheezing laugh. “Fancy me walking into any other pub but me own. They’d take me head off on the spot.”

Mrs. Lang held the man’s hand. “I’ll look after him. You take care of our Bertie.”

“I intend to,” Sinclair said.

Frasier’s voice went stern. “If you don’t marry her yourself, you marry her off to someone with plenty of blunt who’s good to her. Understand me?”

Sinclair had started for the door, but he turned back, his anger tight. “You beat her,” he said clearly. “You used her to rob and steal for you—too afraid to do it yourself, were you? You’ve forfeited any say in what happens to her. She’ll never be hurt again, that I can tell you for certain.”

“Just tell Bertie . . .” Frasier said. “Tell her she’s a good girl. Always was. Like her mum.”

He was a sad old git, Sinclair decided, but Sinclair had seen many a man turn contrite when he thought the end was nigh. Frasier probably did feel remorse, but that didn’t excuse what he’d done. “She’s a wonderful young woman,” Sinclair said. “And she’ll live like a princess. Good day to you.”

He turned his back on the two and made his way out of the flat and down the stairs. Bertie waited for him in the carriage, the pugilist next to it.

“You took your time,” Bertie said as the pugilist opened the door.

Sinclair climbed inside and landed on the seat beside her, her body warm against his. It would be more proper to sit opposite her, but to hell with what was proper. “You don’t have to be afraid, Bertie,” he said. “Don’t let whatever he told you rattle you.”

Bertie brushed back her hat’s feather. “All I know is, I want out. My dad was good to warn me, but I bet Mrs. Lang made him do it. The old soak doesn’t want anything blowing back on him. Well, I’m finished with it all.”

“Pleased to hear it.” Sinclair tapped on the coach roof for Richards, once the pugilist had slammed the door. “Now, what did he warn you about?”

Bertie related the conversation, and Sinclair listened in growing unease. “I’ve heard of Devlin,” he said when she finished. “Your father’s not wrong—he’s dangerous. But don’t worry about him. I’ll have one of Inspector Fellows’s men . . .” Sinclair turned his head as he saw what he couldn’t believe he saw out of the landau’s fogged window. “Richards, stop!”

Sinclair was out of his seat, opening the door of the moving coach even as he heard Richards’s
whoa
.

“Here!” Bertie grabbed at Sinclair’s coat, her voice rising to a screech. “What are you doing?”

Sinclair shook off her grasp, then his boots hit the pavement just as Richards pulled the horses to a halt.

He’d seen a face up the street, one from his past, though it was not a face he expected. The man belonging to it wore a fine greatcoat and hat, very out of place in this area of workingman’s caps and rough jackets.

The man was walking rapidly away. Sinclair ran after him, never minding the swarm of people crowding between him and his mark. “Stop, blast you!” Sinclair yelled at the retreating back.

He heard the click of Bertie’s boots behind him, her calls to him. Sinclair didn’t respond. He sped his steps, reached the other man, and pulled him around to face him.

The man stared back at Sinclair, not in surprise or shock, but in stark anger. He knew Sinclair would be here, damn him, likely had been following him every step.

“James Maloney,” Sinclair said. “What the hell are you doing here, and why aren’t you rotting in prison?”

Bertie paused as she saw Sinclair confront the man. She didn’t recognize the gent, but he dressed well, and his face was soft, his body trim and not bent by hard work.

The pugilist behind her caught up, not happy. “Don’t like to leave the coach unguarded,” he growled.

Bertie understood, but she was too agitated to answer. Sinclair turned aside from the crowd, pulling the man with him. Sinclair’s face had gone hard, eyes glittering.

“Now tell me what you’re doing here,” Sinclair was saying when Bertie and the pugilist reached them. Sinclair held the man by the collar of his coat. “Why are you even in England?”

“What did you think?” The man had a broad Irish accent. “That I’d let you take my Daisy, and that would be the end of it?”

Bertie stared in shock. Daisy? Was this the man, James, whom Sinclair’s wife had eloped with all those years ago? Things clicked together, and Bertie stepped forward. “You’ve been sending the letters, haven’t you?” she demanded. “Those bloody awful letters.”

“Bertie,” Sinclair said, his voice low but firm. “Go back to the carriage.”

“Not likely,” Bertie said. “Nasty piece of work, aren’t you?”

Sinclair shot the pugilist a glare, and the man put his beefy hand on Bertie’s shoulder. “Best come with me, miss.”

Bertie ducked out from under him. “Should be
him
you’re taking hold of,
and
giving him to the coppers.”

“Letters?” James gave Sinclair a beatific smile. “No idea what she’s talking about.” His eyes were innocent, but Bertie was good at seeing through lies, and so was Sinclair. James was handsome enough, with charm in his smile. No surprise Sinclair’s wife had fallen for the scoundrel, but she’d soon learned her mistake, hadn’t she? “D’ye think I’m foolish enough to leave anything behind to connect me with any letters?” James asked.

Not if he were a good confidence trickster, he wouldn’t. Confidence men always traveled light, ready to throw their worldly goods into a small bag and dash away, leaving no trace of themselves behind.

But then, he might have kept
something
 . . .

“Miss,” the pugilist said. His hand landed on her shoulder again.

Bertie twisted away. This time she pretended to trip, and landed hard against James. As he started and tried to push her away, her hands went to work.

Bertie spun away, ran a few paces, and turned back, dangling a handkerchief, a slim wallet, a card case, and a watch from her hands.

“I wonder what I’ll find in all this?” Bertie asked.

Sinclair looked grim, but also as though he understood why she’d done it. James’s smooth smile vanished, then he snarled and started after her.

Sinclair grabbed for him but James leapt away, sliding from his grasp as skillfully as Bertie could have. He rushed at Bertie, and Bertie turned and fled.

She made for the coach, which was sitting a little way down from them, jammed in by traffic. Richards was standing up, looking for them. Before Bertie got halfway to it, James seized her by her coat, hauling her back. Her hat slipped, sagging by its pins over her eye.

Bertie knew the pugilist and Sinclair were steps away, but still she felt a qualm of fear as James pulled her around with unkind hands, shoving her into a noisome passage. Confidence men preferred to fight with their tongues, but when they were put to it, they could be very dangerous, violently so.

James blocked her way out to the busier street where the coach and freedom lay. “Give them back, ye bloody little whore.” He thrust his hands inside Bertie’s coat, but she’d already secreted her takings in inner pockets. She knew exactly how to stash gear quickly, all the better to run from the constables.

Where was Sinclair? There was a press of traffic and people at the entrance to the passage, but this little artery could be another world—and quiet.

Fear made her act. Maloney might have a weapon on him, and she had no doubt he’d be happy to pluck his things from her dead body.

She kicked him hard, her pointed-toed, high-heeled boot making a formidable weapon. When James bellowed, Bertie followed it up by grabbing him by the hair and pulling him hard to the wall behind her.

While he shouted and scrambled to right himself, Bertie was away.

James recovered swiftly enough to get between her and the street, but such things wouldn’t slow down Bertie. She’d been born and bred in these alleyways, and she knew better than anyone how to snake around, losing pursuit, and finding her way to where she needed to go.

She ran, dodging into another passage, jumping over filmy puddles and patches of stinking mud. She kept her hand on her hat as she sprinted. Bertie loved this hat, the gift from Eleanor, and she vowed not to lose it to the grimy streets of London.

She heard James come behind her, his fine shoes grating in the muck. He could run almost as well as Bertie could, unfortunately. Of course, he’d likely become fast from evading the police all his life. Those who learned to move swiftly at an early age survived the longest.

On the other hand, Bertie figured she knew these streets better than any Irish stranger. Sinclair would be coming, and she could lead James to where he’d be caught, unable to get away.

She turned from Whitechapel and plunged south into the warren of lanes and courtyards, heading toward the river. “Lads,” she shouted as she raced along. “I’m bringing one in!”

Word would pass ahead of her. Bertie ran as she hadn’t run in a long time, though her new boots pinched her feet. Posh shoes weren’t made for this kind of flight.

Bertie dashed through frozen filth, the usual detritus of broken glass, stones, splinters of wood, and other trash crushing under her feet. The darkness increased between the close-set houses, mist clinging to her as though it had weight.

She dashed around a corner into a narrow lane, familiar edifices rising around her. She threw open the door that led into the empty space between buildings and leapt over the threshold, not stopping until she’d reached the other side of the big pile of debris in the middle. James came on in after her. But the lads poured out of the corners, street toughs and Bertie’s old mates, ready to pound the mark so Bertie could get away.

James went down. He drew a knife as he fell, and Bertie cried a warning.

Sinclair came charging through the door, halting when he saw the fight in progress. He watched for a few heartbeats then made his way around the fracas toward Bertie, his anger palpable.

And then everything stopped. The youths, one by one, looked up and peeled away from James and started off, out the door or climbing over the broken walls, disappearing into the gloom. The afternoon was just light enough for Bertie to see James come to his feet, his long knife glinting in his hand.

Through the door behind Bertie came four men—Frank Devlin and three of his regular henchmen. Devlin was middle-aged, but he’d kept his youthful slimness. He wasn’t very tall, but he had a granite-hard face that made men half again his size back down in a trice. It was the eyes, Bertie thought. Light blue, cold, and mean, and holding no compassion whatsoever.

Bertie had only about two seconds to wonder whether it was sheer coincidence that brought Devlin here at this moment, before James said, “I thank you, sirs. I want both of them.”

“Damn it to hell,” Sinclair said. He grabbed Bertie’s hand.