Rules for a Proper Governess

Andrew prattled on, his powers of speech recovered at least. “Bertie, you should have seen what Uncle Ian built us last Christmas. It took up a whole room!”

“I liked it,” Cat said, so softly Bertie barely heard it. Ian did, and he gave her a nod.

“Will you do something like it again this Christmas, Uncle Ian?” Andrew asked. “Please?”

Ian paused a moment, then said, “Yes.”

“Hooray!” Andrew started to bounce, then winced and stopped. “I’ll take lots of medicine and get better so I can go to Scotland for Christmas. You’ll love Kilmorgan Castle, Bertie.”

“A castle?” Bertie said from her chair. “Sounds grand.”

“Papa’s house is big too,” Andrew went on. “By a loch. You’ll like it too, Bertie.”

“I’m sure I will,” Bertie said. “Stop bouncing, Andrew. You’ll tear open your wound and have to be sewn up again.”

Andrew stilled for about three seconds, then started an animated narrative about the beauties of both Kilmorgan Castle and his father’s house north of it, where they’d lived with Mama, and everyone had been happy.

When Andrew started to droop, no longer able to pretend he wasn’t hurting and tired, Ian stood up, smoothed the covers over the boy, and started out of the nursery. At the door, Ian looked back and gave Bertie a penetrating stare. Then he walked out and waited in the hall, leaning against the railing of the landing.

Bertie set aside her sewing and went out, closing the door behind her, curious as to what Lord Ian could have to say to her.

The hall was gloomy from the coming evening, the December day short. Ian’s eyes, a tawny color that went with his dark red hair, glinted in the shadows.

After Ian had stared at Bertie for a long, silent moment, he said, “Stay with them.”

“Cat and Andrew?” Bertie nodded. “Of course, I’ll stay. I’m their governess now.”

“I mean for always.” Ian gripped the railing with his big hand. “You need to stay.” He delivered this declaration, then walked past Bertie without speaking another word and went down the stairs.

Bertie watched Ian circle around the staircase and landings, keeping to the exact middle of the stairs, never touching the railings. When he reached the bottom, he opened the vestibule door and front door, blowing a draft up the stairs, then the front door banged, and Ian was gone.

The night was fully dark by the time Sinclair arrived home, Richards having wound his way through London’s packed streets. Cameron alighted at Berkeley Square, where he’d hired a house for his family’s stay in town, and Sinclair rode on to Upper Brook Street alone.

Macaulay took one look at Sinclair and ordered a hot bath be brought to Sinclair’s bedroom. Macaulay wanted to stay and bathe him but Sinclair growled that he was fit enough to bathe himself, for God’s sake. Macaulay at last agreed and left him alone.

Sinclair took his time in the bath, scrubbing off the blood and grime, pouring warm water over his hair. He finished, dried, and slipped into a dressing gown, then went upstairs to the nursery while Peter and the maids carried the bath back downstairs to empty it.

The lights were low, and Andrew was fast asleep. Cat was also in her bed, with Bertie reading to her in a soft voice. Sinclair sank down on one of the chairs, barely able to move, waiting until Bertie finished the story.

Once Bertie put the book aside, Sinclair rose and kissed Cat good night, then went to Andrew’s bed and dropped a kiss to his son’s head. Andrew was mending, and Sinclair said a thankful prayer.

After that, Sinclair took Bertie by the elbow and steered her out of the nursery, all the way down the stairs, through his study, and into his empty bedroom. He closed the door firmly behind them both and turned the key in the lock.

Chapter 17

Bertie’s heart beat faster as Sinclair clattered the key to his bureau. He turned to her, the brighter light in this room showing more clearly the bruises and cuts on his face.

She quickly closed the space between them. “You all right? Did Jeffrey do this? What happened?”

“Jeffrey’s in jail,” Sinclair said, sounding weary. “Carted off by Inspector Fellows to spend the night with the magistrate. You won’t have to worry about him ever again, Bertie. I promise you.”

Bertie believed him. “Look at you,” she said. She touched his face, barely letting her hand make contact. The side of Sinclair’s left eye was swollen, the corner of his lip cut, and bruises trailed across his cheekbone.

He stood without moving while Bertie went to the washbasin and wrung out a cloth. She came back and dabbed at his cuts, washing away the new blood. He’d just bathed—his skin was damp and smelled of soap—but wounds like these were easily reopened.

When she reached up to dab his forehead, Sinclair caught her wrist. His eyes were like pieces of winter sky as he fixed them on her. She expected him to push her away, to admonish her, but he didn’t. He held her wrist, while water from the cloth trickled from her hands.

“I’ll just put this back in the basin,” Bertie whispered.

Sinclair didn’t let go or appear to hear her. He kept his hand around her wrist, his eyes on her, his gaze holding her more effectively than any shackle.

When he finally did move, it was to take his other hand and brush it through her hair. His fingers loosened pins she’d spent a frustrating time this morning putting in, her thick hair soon tumbling free.