Rules for a Proper Governess Read online

  She headed for the door. Sinclair barreled in front of her, turning around at the door and putting his back to it. The young woman halted, her eyes widening.

  “You are nae going anywhere.” Sinclair dimly wondered why he didn’t take her by the arm and march her out into the street—she couldn’t be up to any good here—but his body and mouth had taken over. “You are going to tell me how ye got here and why you’re upstairs in my nursery telling stories to my children.”

  Her expression softened again. “You know, I like when your voice goes like that. All rich and lilting.”

  Dear God. The smile, the warmth in her eyes, was killing him. He was going to grab her any moment, drag her into his arms, and kiss her until he couldn’t feel anything. Sinclair had to get her out of here. Had to.

  He pressed his back to the door. “You will answer my question.”

  “Now you sound like you did in that courtroom.” She gave him an exaggerated nod. “If your lordship pleases.”

  Or maybe he’d simply fall down dead. Her laughing mimicry of a barrister bowing to a judge made Sinclair’s need for her soar. He was achingly stiff, his throat dry, and cold sweat trickled down his spine.

  “You’re good at evasion, I’ll give you that,” he managed to say. “How did you find my house?”

  Color flooded her face, and she shrugged. “Happened to be strolling by.”

  “I see. You happened to stroll out of the East End all the way to Upper Brook Street, did ye? What was the idea, to see what other pickings I had? To bring your friends here and show them the choicest bits? They’ll be disappointed. I make a good living, but I’m not a duke. No priceless paintings or silver plate in my house.”

  The young woman’s flush deepened. “I’m not a robber, Mr. Bloody Arrogant McBride.”

  “Yes, you are. You picked my pocket then led me straight into the arms of thugs ready to beat me down and steal everything you hadn’t already.”

  She twined her hands together. “I know, but . . .”

  Sinclair stepped to her, standing right in front of her, his best courtroom sternness in his voice. She didn’t back down but stared up at him, nervous though not afraid.

  “What am I to think?” Sinclair asked. “I see a pickpocket in my house, with my children, for God’s sake, when I don’t remember giving her my address. And she’s never given me her name.”

  “It’s Bertie.” More flushing. “I mean, Roberta. Frasier. Miss. I ain’t married.”

  “Bertie.” The name was pert, like her. It went with her laughing eyes, tip-tilted nose, and wide mouth better than the more dignified Roberta.

  “That’s me,” Bertie said. “And I didn’t come to rob you. I’m inside by accident.”

  “Oh, ye tripped and found yourself falling through my front door, did ye?”

  “Mr. Macaulay told me I’d better stay. And when I tried to leave, your kids . . . whew, they can make a noise, can’t they? They’ve taken a shine to me, but I must seem funny after that stuffed goose, Miss Evans. She couldn’t enjoy herself if someone tied her down and tickled her with a dozen feathers.”

  This depiction of Miss Evans, the prim and proper governess from the best agency in London, made Sinclair want to burst out laughing.

  What was the matter with him? She was a pickpocket, with a father who beat her when she didn’t steal and ruffian friends to deal with those who tried to catch her. Sinclair faced women like her in the dock all the time. Most were driven to thieving and prostitution—they didn’t know any other way, couldn’t even imagine it. Bertie wasn’t a game girl, but she was a thief. A charming one, but a thief all the same.

  “I know you don’t believe me,” she was saying. “I wouldn’t, if I was you. But someone needed to watch your son and daughter at that moment. Those two can get themselves in a right lot of trouble, can’t they? Now they’re asleep, as I say, so I’ll be going home. If you just step aside so I can get around you, you’ll see the back of me forever. Promise.”

  Sinclair couldn’t move. “Don’t be stupid,” he heard himself say. “You can’t go now. It’s too late for you to be waltzing through the streets alone.”

  Bertie blinked in surprise. “What are you talking about? I walk around at night all the time. But if you’re so worried, you can call up that fancy carriage of yours. I wouldn’t mind riding back to Whitechapel like a princess.”

  Sinclair shook his head. “My coachman’s gone to bed. You’ll stay here tonight and go in the morning. No wait—you’ll go when I’ve found another blasted governess. If Cat and Andrew like you, then you can watch them until I bring home the next victim.”

  Bertie raised her brows at the word victim, but Sinclair wouldn’t take it back. That was exactly what these poor women were. Sinclair couldn’t handle his own children, and everyone knew it.

  “And how long will that be?” she asked.

  “Damn it all, I don’t know. Macaulay will go to the agency tomorrow. I can’t. Too many cases to review.” Sinclair glanced at his desk piled high with paper.

  “Make up your mind,” Bertie said, planting her hands on her hips. “You think I came here to rob you, so you want me out. When I say, fine, I’ll go, you say, no, stay and look after me children. I will tell you something Mr. Basher McBride.” She moved closer to him, her finger lifted in admonishment. “I don’t work for nothing. I get paid an honest wage when I do an honest job. I’ll stay and make sure the mites are all right, but you have to make it worth me while. A crown I’ll have for it. And you won’t charge me for breakfast.”

  “A crown—?”

  She looked uncertain. “Too much, you think? All right, a half crown then, but nothing less.”

  “Good God.”

  What the hell was he doing? Sinclair should wake up Richards, never mind the coachman’s sleep, and tell him to haul this young woman back to the gutter from whence she came.

  But something told him to do anything to keep her around, to keep her smiling like this at him. Her presence was a warmth in the coldness, light breaking through the ponderous dark.

  She was speaking again. “If you hold looking after your children so cheaply, it’s not a wonder you got a governess who ran away at the first sign of trouble.”

  “What are you talking about, woman? I pay my governesses fifty pounds a year. Do you want the position or not?”

  Bertie’s mouth dropped open, her eyes round. “Fifty pounds? Good Lord, I’d put up with the devil himself for that much. Miss Evans is a perfect fool.” She blinked again. “A moment, are you offering me a job?”

  “I told you, yes, until a new governess can be sorted out. Wages and board, and an allowance for clothes.” Her worn frock would have to go—she’d have to look the part. Mrs. Hill would throw a fit, but then she’d rise to the occasion, as she always did. Macaulay, a thoroughly egalitarian man, would shrug and nod, seeing nothing wrong with an East End working-class girl taking care of the McBride children, as long as she could do it.

  “Clothes.” Bertie looked down at the wool dress, the skirt stained with mud from London streets and rent in several places, including her backside, as though she’d sat on something rough. “What sort of clothes?”

  “Ones that don’t look as though you’ve been wrestling dogs in them.”

  Her smile beamed out like bright sunshine. “I haven’t been wrestling dogs. Only your kids.”

  Did Sinclair want to know what had caused Miss Evans, a haughty woman, to run off and leave Andrew and Cat with Bertie? Or was it best that the adventure never came to his ears?

  He made himself step out of the way of the door. “Mrs. Hill, my housekeeper, will sort you out. You’ll take breakfast in the nursery. The governess’s bedroom is next to it.”

  Right above this one, in fact. Bertie looked at the ceiling, already knowing that. Sinclair would be in this study all night, poring over
the briefs, knowing that right above his head she was lying in bed, stripped to her smalls, her face flushed with sleep. His hands clenched to hard fists.

  “You can go now,” he said sternly.

  She sent him a narrow look. “You say every different sort of thing at once, don’t you? You want me to stay? Or leave?”

  “Stay. But not in here.”

  Bertie looked around the room, taking in the wreck of the desk, the overflowing bookcases, books piled on the desk and the floor, and now the smashed whiskey glass and amber stain on the carpet. “You have a passel of servants downstairs—don’t they clean up the place for you?”

  “No. That is, yes. They’re not allowed to touch anything in here. I might mislay something crucial.”

  Bertie moved toward the desk, her curiosity apparent. “Some note that tells you a maid with blood on her apron ain’t a cold-blooded killer? Amazing how you twigged Jacko did it.”

  “Wasn’t much to it. I’ve learned to recognize the differences between a violent criminal and an innocent woman.”

  “Still, it was a bloody miracle, and I thank you for it.” Bertie reached to straighten a paper that had come out of one of the briefs, and Sinclair realized it was the anonymous letter.

  He caught her wrist. “Don’t touch anything.”

  He found warm, firm flesh beneath her sleeve. Bertie glanced at his hand, then up at his face, her eyes holding wariness but also a softness that called to him. “It’s all right,” she said, her voice quiet, as though she calmed a frightened animal. “I wouldn’t hurt nothing.”

  Sinclair grunted. What the sound was doing in his throat, he didn’t know, but it came out. “Go to bed.”

  “Will, as soon as you turn me loose.”

  Sinclair told his fingers to release her, but instead, he pulled her closer, bending her arm until her wrist and his hand were just below her chin. “If I find out you’ve been playing me,” he said, trying to sound severe, “if you’ve come to take what you want, I won’t stop until the weight of the law comes down on you.”

  The most hardened villains the Scots Machine said that to cringed and mumbled that they’d behave, promise. Bertie only sent him another grin.

  “Wouldn’t be hospitable, would it? I’m not a robber, Mr. McBride. Not anymore. The watch was a one-off, and I was put up to it.”

  Bertie spoke with sincerity, innocence in her eyes, but Sinclair knew better than to let down his guard and trust her. If she could keep Cat and Andrew amused for a day or so while he tracked down yet another governess, well and good. The moment she wasn’t useful anymore, she’d be gone.

  Sinclair abruptly released her. “Upstairs with ye then.” His throat dried out as he said the words, and he ended on a cough.

  Bertie laughed. Sparkles and sunshine was that laughter. She spun around and walked away from him, heading for the door. Relief.

  Before opening the door, however, she turned and came back to him. God, no. Stay away from me. Sinclair was so hard he knew he’d never sleep—maybe not for days.

  Bertie’s smile was wide as she held out a handkerchief to him—his, damn it. Plus two loose coins he’d had in his frock coat’s outer pocket.

  “You’re too easy a mark,” she said. “I’ll have to teach you better.”

  Bertie pressed the handkerchief and coins into his big hand while he stood, stunned. Then she turned around again, her skirts swishing, and headed out the door. The swinging skirts let him see ankles in lace-up boots and a hint of pale stocking before the skirt fell again, and she was out the door. Gone.

  All the air in the room seemed to leave with her.

  Mr. McBride went off to work the next morning while Bertie took breakfast with the little ones in the nursery and told them the news that she was to be their governess for a little while. Andrew rejoiced loudly until Bertie had to remind him to sit down and eat the breakfast the maid had brought up on a tray.

  Fancy that, maids carrying hot, tasty breakfasts to the likes of Bertie Frasier. The maid had flashed her a sideways glance, clearly wondering at her master’s senses, but she was polite as could be as she set down the tray, and friendly with Cat and Andrew.

  Breakfast was tea and toast, bacon and poached eggs, with a bit of sauce in a sauceboat to go over it all. The sauceboat was heavy silver and worth a bob. If Bertie had been Andrew’s age, when she’d still thought her father walked on water, she’d have alerted him that here was a house where they used expensive dishes for everyday meals—in the nursery, no less.

  But Bertie knew her father better now. She didn’t want to be like him, and she’d never, ever again steal anything from Mr. Sinclair McBride. Taking his handkerchief and coins last night had been a bit of fun, and she hadn’t been wrong—he was too easy. She’d only done it to prove a point, that he needed to be more careful.

  While she and the mites breakfasted, she heard Sinclair downstairs, shouting for Macaulay, banging doors. Mr. McBride had a voice that could rattle the ceiling, and even Macaulay couldn’t match it. No wonder everyone in court bent before him like reeds in a wind. It was only when Mr. McBride stopped banging about that the emptiness came through.

  Bertie found herself listening hard to him, disappointment trickling through her when the front door opened and closed, his voice receding as he got into his coach. Cat and Andrew left the table and headed for the window to watch him go. Hooves clip-clopped as the carriage went away, taking him off to another day at his chambers.

  Andrew waved frantically, as though his dad could see him up there. Caitriona merely looked after the carriage, her doll firmly in the crook of her arm.

  The maid returned for the tray, still polite, even with the master gone. No sitting down for a chat, no impertinence to Bertie because she wasn’t a real governess. She simply collected the breakfast things, said a thank you to Andrew when he fetched a spoon that had fallen to the floor for her, and walked out again.

  “Well then,” Bertie said, rubbing her hands. “What do ya want to do now?”

  “Play soldiers in the park!” Andrew shouted.

  “We’re supposed to have lessons,” Caitriona said, but wistfully, as though playing soldiers was more appealing to her too.

  “Tell ya what.” Bertie sat down at the cleared table, which was next to a filled bookcase. “Let’s have a story out of one of these books, then we’ll go out to the park. I’m supposed to be your governess, and your dad would be angry at me if I didn’t have you learn something, right?”

  The book Bertie chose was big, heavy, and full of illustrations and tiny, cramped text. Bertie could read just fine, though she had to strain her eyes to do it with this book. The chapter Andrew wanted to hear was about a battle long, long ago in East Anglia, with a woman called Boadicea leading an army against Roman soldiers. Bertie read with interest—it was the first she’d ever heard of it.

  “It’s a bit like a play, innit?” Bertie asked when they’d read the dramatic end of Boadicea. “With villains and heroes and swordfights—like in a Christmas panto.”

  “A Christmas what?” Andrew asked, wrinkling his nose.

  “Panto—a pantomime.” Bertie stared at their blank faces in amazement. “Haven’t you ever seen a panto? It’s a play, with fighting and mean old villains, a girl in breeches and a man dressed up as a lady, and lots of amazing tricks . . .” She trailed off as both children blinked at her, clearly having no clue what she meant.

  Bertie closed the book. “I’m going to have to teach you a lot, looks like. But you’ll be teaching me in return, I wager.”

  Caitriona frowned. “Teach you what?”

  “How to be a proper governess. I don’t know how to be one, do I?” Bertie winked at them. “I have to rely on you completely.”

  Andrew grinned. “A governess gives us heaps and heaps of cake and lets us play in the park all day.”

  “I said a pr
oper governess, Andrew, not a proper fool.” Bertie softened the words by ruffling his hair. “Now, then, can I trust you two to behave yourselves while I run off home a minute? I’ll be wanting my things.”

  More puzzlement from both of them. “You can send for your things,” Cat said. “Like Miss Evans will send here for hers.”

  “Send to who? I’ve only got a few friends I’d trust not to help themselves to what I have, and besides, I don’t want to put them out. I didn’t get home last night, and my dear old dad will be frantic about me and wanting his breakfast.”

  “But it’s ten o’clock,” Cat said. “Our father leaves for work every day at eight.”

  Bertie grinned. “That’s because your dad is a respectable barrister at a respectable office. My dad works for a builder, and sometimes there’s work, and sometimes not. Either way, he stays out all night with his friends and staggers in when he pleases. By now, he’ll be in a right state.”

  The two children listened in fascination. “Take us with you,” Andrew said, his voice rising.

  Bertie felt a qualm. Cat and Andrew, all brushed and combed, were like dainty cakes in a sweetshop window. Cat wore a light blue dress whose little bustle was topped with a big bow that matched the blue bow in her hair. Andrew wore knickers, a pristine white shirt, a jacket, and a little cravat. He’d already managed to rumple everything, being Andrew, but no one could mistake him for anything but a rich and pampered little boy. The street toughs where Bertie lived would eat them both alive.

  “No, you stay here and read or something,” Bertie said quickly. “I won’t be long. I’ll go while you’re having your lunch.”

  “We don’t have luncheon,” Cat said. “We have dinner at one o’clock.”

  Bertie winked at her. “Well you enjoy your fancy dinner then, and I’ll nip home.”

  Andrew’s voice went up in volume. “You shouldn’t leave us alone.”