Rules for a Proper Governess

Caitriona stared at Bertie, then the necklace, then back at Bertie again. She looked stunned, as though it had never occurred to her that other people might have lost someone dear to them, and had keepsakes they hung on to.

Bertie closed the locket and tucked it away. “I wear it always, so it’s like she’s with me.”

Caitriona nodded, and Bertie feared for a moment that the girl would burst into tears. Cat’s brow furrowed the smallest bit, her eyes losing focus.

Then she drew a breath, blinked, and the moment passed. She held her cup out for more tea and, after Bertie poured, sipped it delicately, falling silent again.

Bertie didn’t pursue it. The poor lass was missing her mum, and that was something Bertie could understand.

Andrew ate most of the cakes. Bertie managed to eat her fill in spite of that, and she lingered over her last scone. This was like a wonderful dream—a warm shop, clotted cream, smooth tea, and no need for money. What a fine world Mr. McBride lived in.

At last the plates were clean, the cups empty, and Bertie knew it was time to go. She took Cat and Andrew by the hands and led them out of the shop and back through Mayfair to Upper Brook Street.

She was sorry the outing was over, but the children belonged at home, and Bertie in the East End. She needed to be back before her dad returned from his work with a house builder, so he wouldn’t be angry his supper wasn’t waiting for him.

Also, Bertie didn’t need Mr. McBride to catch her with his children. He’d wonder what the devil she was doing, and why she was following him about. Bertie wasn’t quite sure how she’d answer—she couldn’t even come up with an answer that satisfied her.

When they reached the house, the front door was flung open by none other than the large Macaulay. He stared out at the three, giving Bertie such a grim look she was ready to drop the children’s hands and flee as fast as she could.

Macaulay looked sharply at Caitriona’s hand in Bertie’s, his frown becoming even more formidable. Bertie tried to release the girl, but Cat wouldn’t let go of her.

Andrew, on the other hand, launched himself at Macaulay, wrapping his arms around the big man’s kilted knees. “Miss Evans ran away. Bertie gave us tea and brought us home. She’s our governess now.”

Macaulay’s eyes narrowed. He was no fool, and this close, he looked more like a frightening giant than ever.

Bertie swallowed on her dry throat, forcing herself to meet Macaulay’s light blue gaze. “They needed a bit of looking after, that’s all. Their governess did run away and leave them, the silly cow. But here they are, and I’ll be off home now.”

Cat made a faint cry of anguish and clung even tighter to Bertie’s hand. Andrew turned around to Bertie and shouted at the top of his voice: “No, you have to stay! You’re the best governess we ever had! Please, Bertie! Please!” His yells grew louder, until he was screeching, the words blurring to incoherence.

Macaulay looked alarmed, his grim expression changing to the perplexity of a man who had no idea how to deal with hysterical children. “Mebbe you’d best stay until himself comes home,” he said over Andrew’s noise.

“But . . .” Bertie wet her lips. “I’m not a governess . . .” Her words were drowned under Andrew’s incoherent screams.

“Doesn’t matter,” Macaulay said. “Nursery’s on the top floor, one below the attics. Best you take them up there.”

Other servants were coming to see what was wrong, popping out of everywhere, like rabbits from a warren. Two maids in caps, a woman all in black, and a young man in a stiff suit carrying a bucket of coal—all stopped and stared, concern on their faces.

Andrew’s eyes were squeezed closed, his face red, fists balled as he bellowed. Cat shrank into Bertie’s side, holding on to Bertie’s hand as tightly as she held her doll in her other arm.

“All right, all right,” Bertie said quickly. “I’ll stay. This is as good a place as any to put up me plates for a while. Andrew, stop that awful screeching. I think me head’s being cut in two.”

Andrew instantly dropped into silence, opening his eyes and breathing hard. “Your plates?” he asked hoarsely, looking her up and down. “What plates?”

Bertie laughed, the laugh shaky. “Plates of meat—feet. See?”

Andrew gaped at her in fascination then he nodded. “Why do you say it like that?”

“It’s a rhyme—kind of a game, innit? So no one knows what you’re saying.”

Andrew sniffled. “Will you teach me?”

Bertie expected Macaulay to snarl that a gentleman’s children didn’t need to know any Cockney slang, but Macaulay only looked relieved she wasn’t rushing away. “I don’t see why not,” Bertie said. “Now, show me this nursery.”

Andrew let out a triumphant whoop and scampered happily up the stairs. Cat led Bertie after him, still holding hard to her hand.

The other servants watched, eyes wide, jaws slack, but none of them stopped Bertie as the two children led her higher and higher into handsome Basher McBride’s magnificent house.

Exhaustion. That was key to a night’s oblivious sleep. Must be, anyway.

Sinclair laid the thick roll of paper next to him on the carriage seat. The ribbon that had bound the brief slid off to the floor, but he didn’t bother to retrieve it.

His head ached. Not only had he been in court every day since the Ruth Baxter case—the day he’d met the pickpocket—he’d received another of the confounded letters.