Rules for a Proper Governess (7 page)

Sinclair poured a measure of whiskey into a heavy glass and drank it in one go, trying to enjoy the sensation on his tongue. He heard Macaulay’s voice on the stairs, the man speaking to someone who wasn’t answering. Macaulay’s footsteps were firm, those of the governess hesitant, as though Macaulay was having to pull her down here.

Sinclair turned around as Macaulay opened the door so swiftly that it banged into the wall. Macaulay’s kilt swung as he pulled the young woman he held by the wrist around him, her dark green wool skirts swirling in ahead of her.

Sinclair dropped the glass. It made a resounding smash, almost as resonant as had the one when Andrew knocked over the decanter. Whiskey stained the carpet anew.

Macaulay, having delivered the goods, turned and fled, slamming the door behind him. The big Scotsman was fearless in the wilds, marching miles alone and facing ferocious beasts without blinking. But when it came to handling governesses, he was apt to go pale, his freckles standing out on his face, and disappear as quickly as he could.

Sinclair was exhausted, unsated, hoping to be drunk, and tired of the mad thoughts that had flooded his brain since the night his pocket had been picked.

He was not prepared to face the pickpocket herself, who stood just beyond the whiskey spots on the carpet of his study, staring up at him with her Mediterranean blue eyes. Her bare hands twined nervously, and her face was strained below dark hair straggling out of her coiffure, but she sent him a cocky grin, one that had kept him awake and hard for six nights in a row.

“Now then, Mr. McBride,” she said. “Fancy meeting you here, eh?”

Sinclair’s simmering Scots temper, fueled by fatigue, the be-damned letter, and his aching need, boiled up and exploded. He dragged in a breath and let out a shout that reverberated through the cluttered room.

“What the bloody hell are you doing in my house?”

The young woman blinked and took a step back. But she didn’t run, didn’t gasp and press her hand to her heart as young women who heard Sinclair shout were apt to. Officers and soldiers alike had blenched when Sinclair had wound up into one of his serious tempers, and scrambled to obey him.

The pickpocket only stared, the red lips he’d kissed parting a little. “I was looking after your little ones, wasn’t I? I tried to leave after they went to sleep, but your man, Macaulay, bolted the door, and I couldn’t open it.”

“Bollocks.” Sinclair’s body was tight and hot. “You scoot around the streets of London where you bloody well please—I can’t believe you couldn’t find your way out of a
house
. It’s why you’re
in
the house I want to know.”

“Told ya. Looking after your children. Your governess did a bunk, leaving them to me, if you please. Couldn’t see her for the dust, she was running so fast. Did you want me to leave them in the street?”

Sinclair scrubbed his hand over his face. “I have no idea what the devil you’re talking about. What are you doing here? In Mayfair?
In my house?
”

Her brows drew together, which made her blue eyes and her round face even more fetching. “I did you a bit of a favor, bringing them home.
And
getting them into bed to stay. I understand that’s a chore.” Her little smile came back. “Don’t know why. They just wanted a bit of a story, and they dropped off, simple as that. But seeing as you’re home, I’ll be off.”

She headed for the door. Sinclair barreled in front of her, turning around at the door and putting his back to it. The young woman halted, her eyes widening.

“You are nae going anywhere.” Sinclair dimly wondered why he didn’t take her by the arm and march her out into the street—she couldn’t be up to any good here—but his body and mouth had taken over. “You are going to tell me how ye got here and why you’re upstairs in my nursery telling stories to my children.”

Her expression softened again. “You know, I like when your voice goes like that. All rich and lilting.”

Dear God. The smile, the warmth in her eyes, was killing him. He was going to grab her any moment, drag her into his arms, and kiss her until he couldn’t feel anything. Sinclair had to get her out of here. Had to.

He pressed his back to the door. “You will answer my question.”

“Now you sound like you did in that courtroom.” She gave him an exaggerated nod. “If your lordship pleases.”

Or maybe he’d simply fall down dead. Her laughing mimicry of a barrister bowing to a judge made Sinclair’s need for her soar. He was achingly stiff, his throat dry, and cold sweat trickled down his spine.

“You’re good at evasion, I’ll give you that,” he managed to say. “How did you find my house?”

Color flooded her face, and she shrugged. “Happened to be strolling by.”

“I see. You happened to stroll out of the East End all the way to Upper Brook Street, did ye? What was the idea, to see what other pickings I had? To bring your friends here and show them the choicest bits? They’ll be disappointed. I make a good living, but I’m not a duke. No priceless paintings or silver plate in my house.”

The young woman’s flush deepened. “I’m not a robber, Mr. Bloody Arrogant McBride.”

“Yes, you are. You picked my pocket then led me straight into the arms of thugs ready to beat me down and steal everything you hadn’t already.”

She twined her hands together. “I know, but . . .”

Sinclair stepped to her, standing right in front of her, his best courtroom sternness in his voice. She didn’t back down but stared up at him, nervous though not afraid.

“What am I to think?” Sinclair asked. “I see a pickpocket in my house, with my children, for God’s sake, when I don’t remember giving her my address. And she’s never given me her name.”

“It’s Bertie.” More flushing. “I mean, Roberta. Frasier. Miss. I ain’t married.”

“Bertie.” The name was pert, like her. It went with her laughing eyes, tip-tilted nose, and wide mouth better than the more dignified
Roberta
.

“That’s me,” Bertie said. “And I didn’t come to rob you. I’m inside by accident.”

“Oh, ye tripped and found yourself falling through my front door, did ye?”

“Mr. Macaulay told me I’d better stay. And when I tried to leave, your kids . . . whew, they can make a noise, can’t they? They’ve taken a shine to me, but I must seem funny after that stuffed goose, Miss Evans.
She
couldn’t enjoy herself if someone tied her down and tickled her with a dozen feathers.”

This depiction of Miss Evans, the prim and proper governess from the best agency in London, made Sinclair want to burst out laughing.

What was the matter with him? She was a
pickpocket
, with a father who beat her when she didn’t steal and ruffian friends to deal with those who tried to catch her. Sinclair faced women like her in the dock all the time. Most were driven to thieving and prostitution—they didn’t know any other way, couldn’t even imagine it. Bertie wasn’t a game girl, but she was a thief. A charming one, but a thief all the same.

“I know you don’t believe me,” she was saying. “I wouldn’t, if I was you. But someone needed to watch your son and daughter at that moment. Those two can get themselves in a right lot of trouble, can’t they? Now they’re asleep, as I say, so I’ll be going home. If you just step aside so I can get around you, you’ll see the back of me forever. Promise.”

Sinclair couldn’t move. “Don’t be stupid,” he heard himself say. “You can’t go now. It’s too late for you to be waltzing through the streets alone.”

Bertie blinked in surprise. “What are you talking about? I walk around at night all the time. But if you’re so worried, you can call up that fancy carriage of yours. I wouldn’t mind riding back to Whitechapel like a princess.”

Sinclair shook his head. “My coachman’s gone to bed. You’ll stay here tonight and go in the morning. No wait—you’ll go when I’ve found another blasted governess. If Cat and Andrew like you, then you can watch them until I bring home the next victim.”

Bertie raised her brows at the word
victim,
but Sinclair wouldn’t take it back. That was exactly what these poor women were. Sinclair couldn’t handle his own children, and everyone knew it.

“And how long will that be?” she asked.

“Damn it all, I don’t know. Macaulay will go to the agency tomorrow. I can’t. Too many cases to review.” Sinclair glanced at his desk piled high with paper.

“Make up your mind,” Bertie said, planting her hands on her hips. “You think I came here to rob you, so you want me out. When I say,
fine, I’ll go,
you say,
no, stay and look after me children
. I will tell you something Mr. Basher McBride.” She moved closer to him, her finger lifted in admonishment. “I don’t work for nothing. I get paid an honest wage when I do an honest job. I’ll stay and make sure the mites are all right, but you have to make it worth me while. A crown I’ll have for it.
And
you won’t charge me for breakfast.”

“A crown—?”

She looked uncertain. “Too much, you think? All right, a half crown then, but nothing less.”

“Good God.”

What the
hell
was he doing? Sinclair should wake up Richards, never mind the coachman’s sleep, and tell him to haul this young woman back to the gutter from whence she came.

But something told him to do anything to keep her around, to keep her smiling like this at him. Her presence was a warmth in the coldness, light breaking through the ponderous dark.

She was speaking again. “If you hold looking after your children so cheaply, it’s not a wonder you got a governess who ran away at the first sign of trouble.”

“What are you talking about, woman? I pay my governesses fifty pounds a year. Do you want the position or not?”

Bertie’s mouth dropped open, her eyes round. “Fifty
pounds
? Good Lord, I’d put up with the devil himself for that much. Miss Evans is a perfect fool.” She blinked again. “A moment, are you offering me a job?”

“I told you, yes, until a new governess can be sorted out. Wages and board, and an allowance for clothes.” Her worn frock would have to go—she’d have to look the part. Mrs. Hill would throw a fit, but then she’d rise to the occasion, as she always did. Macaulay, a thoroughly egalitarian man, would shrug and nod, seeing nothing wrong with an East End working-class girl taking care of the McBride children, as long as she could do it.

“Clothes.” Bertie looked down at the wool dress, the skirt stained with mud from London streets and rent in several places, including her backside, as though she’d sat on something rough. “What sort of clothes?”

“Ones that don’t look as though you’ve been wrestling dogs in them.”

Her smile beamed out like bright sunshine. “I haven’t been wrestling dogs. Only your kids.”

Did Sinclair want to know what had caused Miss Evans, a haughty woman, to run off and leave Andrew and Cat with Bertie? Or was it best that the adventure never came to his ears?

He made himself step out of the way of the door. “Mrs. Hill, my housekeeper, will sort you out. You’ll take breakfast in the nursery. The governess’s bedroom is next to it.”

Right above this one, in fact. Bertie looked at the ceiling, already knowing that. Sinclair would be in this study all night, poring over the briefs, knowing that right above his head she was lying in bed, stripped to her smalls, her face flushed with sleep. His hands clenched to hard fists.

“You can go now,” he said sternly.

She sent him a narrow look. “You say every different sort of thing at once, don’t you? You want me to stay? Or leave?”

“Stay. But not in here.”

Bertie looked around the room, taking in the wreck of the desk, the overflowing bookcases, books piled on the desk and the floor, and now the smashed whiskey glass and amber stain on the carpet. “You have a passel of servants downstairs—don’t they clean up the place for you?”

“No. That is, yes. They’re not allowed to touch anything in here. I might mislay something crucial.”

Bertie moved toward the desk, her curiosity apparent. “Some note that tells you a maid with blood on her apron ain’t a cold-blooded killer? Amazing how you twigged Jacko did it.”

“Wasn’t much to it. I’ve learned to recognize the differences between a violent criminal and an innocent woman.”

“Still, it was a bloody miracle, and I thank you for it.” Bertie reached to straighten a paper that had come out of one of the briefs, and Sinclair realized it was the anonymous letter.

He caught her wrist. “Don’t touch anything.”

He found warm, firm flesh beneath her sleeve. Bertie glanced at his hand, then up at his face, her eyes holding wariness but also a softness that called to him. “It’s all right,” she said, her voice quiet, as though she calmed a frightened animal. “I wouldn’t hurt nothing.”

Sinclair grunted. What the sound was doing in his throat, he didn’t know, but it came out. “Go to bed.”

“Will, as soon as you turn me loose.”

Sinclair told his fingers to release her, but instead, he pulled her closer, bending her arm until her wrist and his hand were just below her chin. “If I find out you’ve been playing me,” he said, trying to sound severe, “if you’ve come to take what you want, I won’t stop until the weight of the law comes down on you.”

The most hardened villains the Scots Machine said that to cringed and mumbled that they’d behave, promise. Bertie only sent him another grin.

“Wouldn’t be hospitable, would it? I’m not a robber, Mr. McBride. Not anymore. The watch was a one-off, and I was put up to it.”

Bertie spoke with sincerity, innocence in her eyes, but Sinclair knew better than to let down his guard and trust her. If she could keep Cat and Andrew amused for a day or so while he tracked down yet another governess, well and good. The moment she wasn’t useful anymore, she’d be gone.

Sinclair abruptly released her. “Upstairs with ye then.” His throat dried out as he said the words, and he ended on a cough.

Bertie laughed. Sparkles and sunshine was that laughter. She spun around and walked away from him, heading for the door. Relief.

Before opening the door, however, she turned and came back to him.
God, no. Stay away from me.
Sinclair was so hard he knew he’d never sleep—maybe not for days.

Bertie’s smile was wide as she held out a handkerchief to him—
his
, damn it. Plus two loose coins he’d had in his frock coat’s outer pocket.

“You’re too easy a mark,” she said. “I’ll have to teach you better.”

Bertie pressed the handkerchief and coins into his big hand while he stood, stunned. Then she turned around again, her skirts swishing, and headed out the door. The swinging skirts let him see ankles in lace-up boots and a hint of pale stocking before the skirt fell again, and she was out the door. Gone.