Rules for a Proper Governess

by Jennifer Ashley

  “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?”

  Sinclair gave her a chill nod. “The day after Monday, yes.”

  Helena’s nostrils pinched. “I thought you’d be in chambers, and the children at lessons.” Her sharp gaze took in Bertie in her gray dress and white collar. “This is the governess, I suppose.”

  “You suppose correctly,” Sinclair said, an edge to his voice. “This is Miss Frasier.”

  Bertie smiled up at Mrs. Davies, contriving to look demure and book-learned. She was unsure whether she should rise from her chair or keep her seat—sitting seemed to be safer, but she could not tell whether this pleased or displeased Mrs. Davies. The woman fixed Bertie with another stare then ignored her utterly.

  “I suppose this is a lesson on deportment,” Mrs. Davies said. The two ladies behind her looked over Andrew, Cat, and Bertie with interest. No doubt they’d be flapping their jaws about the encounter for the rest of the day.

  “No, this is a man having tea with his children,” Sinclair said, the edge on his voice sharper.

  “After which, you’ll be buying them all kinds of things not good for them.” Mrs. Davies frowned at the remains of a cake on Cat’s plate—Andrew’s plate was scraped clean. “Toys and other frivolities.”

  “No doubt we’ll be provisioning ourselves for our trip to Scotland,” Sinclair said. “For Christmas.”

  Mrs. Davies scowled even more. She’d ruin her reasonably good looks if she weren’t careful, Bertie thought. She already had lines of sourness around her eyes.

  “It is far too cold for them in Scotland,” Mrs. Davies said. “I’ve always said so.”

  “My house is equipped with the latest modes of heating,” Sinclair said tightly. “We abandoned peat fires and sleeping rolled in our kilts last winter.”

  Mrs. Davies did not appear to be amused. “Margaret’s fate was sealed when she married you. I’ll not let the same happen to her children.”

  Sinclair underwent another transformation—this one from bleak coldness to rage. He stepped to Mrs. Davies as though ready to throttle her in the middle of the elegant tearoom.

  “Ye leave your hands off my children,” he said, towering over her. “And tell bloody Edward to do likewise. I’ll take Cat and Andrew to Scotland and never bring them back down, if that’s what I have to do to keep them from you.”

  “Not if the law has an
ything to say about it.” Mrs. Davies had taken a step back, paling under Sinclair’s fury. “Edward lost his sister because of you. You know it. If you lose your children as well, it will be your own fault.”

  Mrs. Davies delivered the last in a decided voice, swung on her heel, and stalked away. The feathers on her hat bounced, as did her bustle. Another time, Bertie would have laughed at the absurd picture she made, but Sinclair stood frozen, face fixed in cold rage.

  Bertie rose to him, touching his arm. “We should go,” she said in a low voice. “People are staring.”

  Sinclair jerked, as though he’d forgotten she and his children were there. He looked swiftly at Cat and Andrew, who were watching him, then around at the full tables of the tearoom. So many conversations were flowing, overlapping one another, that the gawkers might not have heard Mrs. Davies, but they were looking their way with interest.

  Sinclair signaled the waiter, who nodded back, but instead of settling up, Sinclair lifted Andrew into his arms and started out. The McBrides must have an account here too.

  Bertie took Cat’s hand and followed Sinclair. Richards was nowhere in sight when they emerged onto Piccadilly, and Sinclair started walking swiftly down the street, not waiting. Bertie and Cat had to jog to catch up with him.

  Sinclair turned sharply into the Burlington Arcade, with its shops of splendid silver and jewelry; not the fastest route if he were determined to walk all the way to Upper Brook Street. Bertie knew, though, that Sinclair was moving automatically, his anger taking him along without him realizing where he was going. Bertie had done such things on days when her father had upset her too much to stay still.

  Bertie caught up to Sinclair. “She’s a cow. Don’t listen to her.”

  Sinclair glanced at her, his gaze chill and remote. “We are removing to Scotland,” he said abruptly. “You, Cat, and Andrew are, that is. I have trials to finish. Can you live without the soot of London around you all the time? My house in northern Scotland is remote.”

  Bertie’s heart beat faster. She’d never been away from London in her life, didn’t know what anything outside it looked like. The thought of leaving it, without Sinclair, did funny things to her insides. She wasn’t afraid to leave London—in fact, the idea was exciting—but leaving Sinclair behind was not.

  “Can’t we wait until you finish up?” Bertie asked. “Then we can all go together.”

  Sinclair turned to glare down at her, Andrew watching interestedly from his arm, and Bertie’s face scalded. She could hardly tell Sinclair she was afraid she’d lose him if she left, that he’d forget all about her. He don’t say no to the ladies, Macaulay had said.

  Bertie rushed on, babbling a little. “Thing is, I’ve never been on a train, not that far anyway. Hadn’t you better come and make sure I do all right?”

  Sinclair gazed down at her, as though he tried to fix on what she was saying. “Safer if you go. For Cat and Andrew as well.”

  “Yeah? Well, what about you? Who’s going to look after you if we all run away to Scotland? And what’s to say your Mr. Davies won’t send the law up there, to pluck away Andrew and Cat while you’re here?”

  Sinclair’s eyes came back into focus. Ah, she had him now. It was a possibility, no doubt.

  “If you stay in London, then you stay home,” he said in a hard voice. “No jaunts to the park, not even with Macaulay. Could you stand it? Being cooped up in the house all the time?”

  “I can stay!” Andrew shouted. “I’ll run up and down the stairs if I can’t go to the park. I’d rather go on the train with you, Papa!”

  “Cat?” Bertie looked down at the girl. In the constant worry about making Andrew behave, Cat sometimes got rather left out.

  Cat shrugged. “As you like, Father.”

  Sinclair studied her indifferent face, and his frown deepened. Bertie shook her head the slightest bit at him. Now was not the time to wonder about Cat.

  “I have cases scheduled all the way through next week,” Sinclair said. “I can’t get away before then.” He switched his gaze to Bertie, and she tried not to look too eager. “Very well, then, stay in London and wait for me. The Old Bailey adjourns Tuesday next, come what may. Even murderers have to wait when judges want their Christmas.”

  Sinclair lay awake late that night, gaze on the ceiling, his insomnia reaching out to tap him. He’d slept surprisingly well these last few nights, his mind eager to take him to dreams of Bertie, but the encounter with Helena Davies had left him in turmoil.

  Margaret’s fate was sealed when she married you. The accusation resounded in his head. Sinclair remembered every detail of Helena saying it, the fix of her eyes, the movement of her mouth, the shrill tone of her voice. Helena had worked to take most of her northern Irish lilt out of her voice when she’d moved to England, trying desperately to distance herself from those Irish who wanted freedom from English rule. As a result, she always sounded wrong and stilted, her words overly pronounced.

  Helena had made the same accusation she had today more baldly after Daisy’s death, in private—You killed her.

  Edward had agreed with his wife, still did.

  Tonight Sinclair had put out all the lights and pulled the drapes, so that darkness coated his bedroom, but he turned his head and gazed straight at Daisy’s photograph. He knew what he’d see if there’d been light enough—the dark eyes that had looked out at him from the photo had never been accusing, only loving.

  She’s a cow, Bertie had said stoutly about Helena. Don’t listen to her.

  Bertie had a way of putting things—straightforward, practical, never wavering. Sinclair’s first instinct had been to tuck Bertie and his children under his arms and rush them to Scotland then and there. They’d be away from Helena, away from Bertie’s vengeful Jeffrey, away from the noise and darkness of the city. Constant, constant noise. Though Sinclair had thought about London’s lively side today when they’d gone out, tonight he hated it. He wanted Scotland, his home.

  Bertie, on the other hand, embraced London. She was a child of the city, laughing at its inconvenience, blithely walking through smoke, soot, and dirt as though it couldn’t cling to her. She was down-to-earth; Sinclair was lost in the fog.

  In Scotland, he could be alone with her. No prying neighbors. No solicitors fighting one another to hand him their cases, no judges watching Sinclair to see whether he was worthy to be one of them. In Scotland, in his house beside the deep loch, Sinclair could be truly alone. With Bertie. He needed her. In Scotland, he’d bring her into his life, no matter what.

  His thoughts turned to her teaching him about pickpocketing, and he wanted to laugh. Bertie had plucked Sinclair clean each time, showing him he was hopeless before her skills. Distraction indeed.

  But he had skills of his own. He’d use them. His body warmed. Bertie would learn just what sort of skills Sinclair had, and what kind of distractions he could cause with them. With luck, they wouldn’t see the out-of-doors for days.

  Sinclair let his eyes drift closed, ready to let his imagination show him what they’d do, step by slow step.

  He opened them the next moment, coming alert.

  He’d heard a tinkle of glass downstairs, and a few seconds after that, a muffled thump.

  Chapter 14

  Sinclair quietly rose, pulled on a dressing gown and slippers, and moved silently from his bedroom into his study. He wasn’t afraid—he knew in his blood and bones that there was a threat, but he also knew he could deal with it.

  He made his way to his desk, unlocking and sliding out the drawer he always kept in good repair. Inside was a Webley pistol and a box of bullets. Fingers steady, Sinclair loaded the gun, tucked it into his dressing gown pocket, and left the room.

  No one else hurried to see what the noise had been. Macaulay slept in a room off the kitchens downstairs, as did the cook and Peter, and they might not have heard. The maids and Mrs. H
ill had comfortable rooms in the attics, likely too far away from the lower rooms to have been awakened by the soft sounds.

  The house was dark, the stairwell lit by only one lamp, turned low, on each floor. Mrs. Hill liked to save on the gas, so most lights were extinguished when the household went to bed. If anyone got up in the night, rushed about, and tripped, that was their own fault, in Mrs. Hill’s opinion.

  Sinclair had come to know the stairs well on his sleepless nights, and he traversed them without difficulty. He knew which stair creaked and which spindle on the railing was loose, and how to move past them like smoke.

  Down, down, down to the ground floor. He heard no more thumps, but he did hear a clinking sound, coupled with low voices, coming from the dining room.

  Sinclair put his hand on his pistol, lifted it from his pocket, and eased open the dining room door.

  Bertie stood near the table, watching as a beefy young man filled a valise with silver pieces taken from the open breakfront. The tinkling he’d heard had come from the thief breaking the glass door of the cabinet, which was always kept locked—Mrs. Hill and Sinclair had the only keys. The thump must have been the stout valise being hoisted to the table. The windows on the far end of the room, overlooking the garden, were closed, whole, and unbroken. A kerosene lamp burned at the end of the table, giving a warm glow to the scene.

  “I told you, I ain’t giving you any more,” Bertie said. “You take that and get out.”

  “For this time,” the man said. “I’ll be back. You’ll have more for me if you know what’s good for you, Bertie-girl—and for them.”

  “No, I won’t. You’ll get me sacked, and worse. You know my dad will beat you if my wages get taken away, and I tell him it’s your fault.”

  “You listen here.” The man, who must be Jeffrey, abandoned the valise and went to Bertie. “You will rob this fool blind for us, and if you get caught, it’s you what gets to hang. Serves you right for abandoning us. You don’t belong here, and you know it, so stop pretending.”