Rules for a Proper Governess

“What are you doing here?” Bertie asked in a low but fierce voice. “I’ve got a respectable job now. What do you want?”

“I wondered why you ran off from me,” Jeffrey said. “I was that riled at you, Bertie-girl. But now I’ve twigged to what you were doing. Clever, to get right into the man’s house. Send us the word, clear out of the house, and then we’ll clear it out.” He laughed, his ale-soaked breath washing over her.

“No, you won’t,” Bertie said furiously. “You won’t come anywhere near him or his house. I’m looking after his kids now, not setting up a mark for you.”

“Load of cobblers.” Jeffrey closed the few inches of space between them. “You can pretend all you want, but you ain’t respectable. Never will be. All I have to do is slip a nod to a magistrate that you’re a pickpocket, and he’ll haul you up before him quick as you please. I’ll make sure he knows about every bloke you done over and what you took. Bet those gents are still looking for their watches, or purses, or handkerchiefs.”

Bertie went even colder. “Yeah? Then you’ll have to tell about my dad, because he sold the stuff on. You think he’ll let you peach to a magistrate?”

Jeffrey’s expression grew less certain, but he scowled at her. “Look at you in your fancy gear, watching after brats in velvet collars. I bet his suit and her dress would fetch us enough to live on for a year, not to mention what you’ve got on your back. You start feeding us the goods, Bertie, or I’ll let on to your barrister all about you and what you get up to.”

Bertie jerked away to her feet. “He already knows about me. I told him.”

Jeffrey gave her a look of disbelief. “You told Basher McBride you were a thief? Couldn’t have, or I’d be talking to you in Newgate.”

“I did tell him. I didn’t rob him the other night—he gave me the sovereign to take home. He’s kindhearted.”

“And then asked you to look after his get?”

“Yes.” Bertie clenched her hands in her new gloves, which were soft leather and not out at the seams.

Jeffrey stared at her, then his face flushed, and he got off the bench to tower over her. “You’re getting on your knees for him, ain’t ya? You’re kicking your feet to the ceiling—and you’re trying to tell me you’re respectable. You’re whoring for him.”

“No!” Bertie said. “I’d never . . .” Her face went hot, because she knew she’d bloody well kick her feet up for Sinclair if ever he said the word. Last night, he’d done nothing but suckle her fingers, but he might as well have been at her breast or some other intimate part.

“No,” she repeated, making her voice firm. “What do you take me for? Why can’t you believe I have a proper job?”

“Because no gent would let the likes of you into his house or near his brats without you paying for it. If he ain’t done you, it just means he ain’t done you yet.” Jeffrey grabbed her wrist, the same one Sinclair had held so tightly the night before. “But you’re my girl, Bertie, and you’re coming home with me now.”

Sinclair left his chambers earlier than usual, another letter Henry delivered to him in the afternoon changing the entire day. This one wasn’t anonymous—Daisy’s brother had signed it, proud to throw threats at Sinclair and his family. The trouble was, the threats had teeth. Sinclair wasn’t in court this afternoon, thank God, so he packed up his valise and called for his carriage.

When he’d arrived this morning, Sinclair had been contemplating hiding in chambers, sleeping there, anything to stay away from Bertie. Now he knew he never could. After reading his brother-in-law’s letter, Sinclair wanted to be home, to surround himself with his children, to reassure himself that they were all right, to reassure them that he’d protect them at all costs.

Add to that the thought of Bertie there, and his home beckoned like a refuge. Sinclair wanted to see her, hungered for it. Even if he could only look upon her, listen to her no-nonsense voice and cheeky words, everything would be better. He had enough self-control to keep himself from ravishing his children’s governess, didn’t he? Sinclair was famous for his self-control, at least these days. His brothers teased him about it.

He reached home, the drive today seeming extraordinarily long. Afternoon sunshine slanted through the windows of the house as Sinclair tossed his greatcoat, hat, and gloves at Peter. The winter day had been mild, as winter in London could sometimes be—blue skies, crisp air, sun shining almost too brightly—but Sinclair was chilled.

The house was quiet, Bertie and his children safely tucked in the nursery, he assumed. Sinclair knew if he went straight to them, he’d alarm Cat and Andrew, who were sensitive to his moods and easily upset. He’d calm himself then go up to the nursery to be a cheerful father coming home from the office to visit his brood.

“I’ll be in my study,” he told Peter. “Not to be disturbed.”

“Yes, sir.” Peter smoothed the rumpled greatcoat in his arms and peered at Sinclair. “Anything I can get you, sir?”

“No.” Sinclair heard his abrupt tone and strove to soften it. “Thank you.”

“Right, sir.”

Sinclair took the stairs two at a time, barely out of breath when he reached the second landing. He had whiskey in his study, and plenty of it. Ever since Sinclair’s sister had married into the Mackenzie family, Sinclair had a standing order of the best Mackenzie malt, and Macaulay always kept the decanter stocked.