Rules for a Proper Governess

“This way,” Bertie urged as she dove around a corner.

There was one place in all of London Bertie could go. No one else knew about it but her—not her dad, not Jeffrey, not her own mates. Taking Mr. McBride there was a risk—he could have the constables raid it when she let him go—but maybe it would be worth the sacrifice. This courageous, handsome Scotsman didn’t deserve to be beaten to death by East End thugs.

Bertie ran for the end of an alleyway that looked as though it went no farther. Mr. McBride started to argue, but Bertie put her finger to her lips and pulled him around a hidden corner, then down a slippery set of stairs and through a noisome passage. Finally, Bertie squeezed into a space that led between the backs of buildings, corners poking out and seeming to block the way. Bertie had discovered long ago that a lithe young woman could push through here and find a refuge.

Mr. McBride grunted a bit as he struggled through the narrower parts, then popped out like a cork behind Bertie as she opened a half-size door and ducked through. This door had led to an old scullery and kitchen for a house that had once been large and fine. But the room had been walled off long ago as the houses had been changed, pulled down, or rebuilt, and this corner of the cellar was lost and forgotten.

“Mind your head,” Bertie said.

At the same time she heard a thump and Mr. McBride growled, “Thank you, lass. Very timely.”

They went down a set of stairs in the pitch dark, Mr. McBride with a heavy hand on Bertie’s shoulder. “Seventeen of ’em,” she said, and started counting off.

Mr. McBride’s hand was firm, spreading heat beneath her worn velvet coat and wool bodice. Strong too, his fingers blunt and gripping hard.

At the bottom, they went through another door, then Bertie told him to stay put while she groped for the matches she kept on a shelf and started lighting lamps. She had three lamps down here now, which threw a rosy glow over the crumbling bricks and fallen beams that littered the triangular room.

A pile of cushions, carefully formed into the approximation of a sofa, stood against the most solid wall. Bertie had covered it with shawls and blankets, and set up a small folding table near it, strewn now with newspapers and magazines she’d managed to smuggle down here. The passage above was too narrow for her to bring in much furniture, but she’d made the place as cozy as she could. She’d carried down small rugs over the years, overlapping them to keep her feet off the cold, damp floor.

Mr. McBride remained in place by the door until Bertie’s lights strengthened. She’d need more kerosene before long, she saw.

The large man was out of place down here, that was for certain. His head touched the ceiling and he had to duck under the few beams that remained. He looked around the room in wonder, then his gray gaze landed on Bertie and pinned her as hard as he’d pinned Jacko in the dock.

“Are ye mad, lass?” he asked. “You stay down here? This ceiling could fall upon you any second.”

Bertie shivered as his rumbling, delicious voice filled the space. “Hasn’t in sixteen years,” she said stoutly. “And probably stood up a long time before that. Solid houses in this part of London.”

“Whichever part it is,” Mr. McBride said, half to himself. “Why’d you save me from those lads, woman, when ye’d led me to them in the first place? Why not let them beat me to a bloody pulp?”

Bertie folded her arms, spending a moment letting his Scottish consonants and vowels flow over her. “Well, you were supposed to run away, weren’t you?” she asked. “You thought you could take on eight street toughs by yourself? You have to be daft as a brick.”

“No, I wanted my watch.” Anger flared anew in his eyes, never mind that he was down here at Bertie’s mercy with no idea where he was, no help at hand. But he was the one in command, Bertie knew. Not her.

Mr. McBride pointed a strong finger at her. “Which you stole, right out of my waistcoat while I stood gawping. Give it back to me, and I’ll say nothing.”

Sinclair watched the young woman’s face flush in the candlelight, her guilt pure and simple. She swallowed and took a step back, rubbing her arms. She still wore the hat with the absurd violets, which was now hanging half over her right ear.

“Give me the watch, and I’ll leave you be,” Sinclair said, trying to gentle his voice. “No constables, no dock, though you are a bloody little tea leaf.”

She didn’t look impressed he knew rhyming cant: Tea leaf—thief.

“Why’d ya help Ruthie?” she asked.

Sinclair had difficulty catching his breath. It was close down here, the biting wind shut out. It took him a moment to realize that by Ruthie she meant Ruth Baxter, the kitchen maid who’d stood in the dock at the Old Bailey not an hour ago. Already the details of the trial were fading, a trial that would be put down as a loss to him, but Sinclair didn’t care.

“Miss Baxter was innocent,” he said. “Why should she go down for it?”

“’Cause you’re a barrister, hand-in-glove with the judges.”

This young woman had a lot to learn about the common courts. Old Monty and Sinclair had been butting heads since Sinclair had first put on a wig. “Miss Baxter couldn’t afford a defense. I knew she was innocent when I looked at her, and I knew Mr. Small was guilty. What does this have to do with my watch?”

“Well, Ruthie’s a pal of mine, ain’t she?” The young woman’s eyes were deep blue in the candlelight. “Thank you.”