Rules for a Proper Governess

by Jennifer Ashley

  “My dad’s got them all over,” Andrew informed her. “He asks for what he wants, and Macaulay goes round every so often and pays up.”

  Bertie reached for a cake and slid it onto a plate, which she gave to Cat. She was pleased that Andrew didn’t simply snatch the sweets, but waited for Bertie to hand them out. When all had plenty of cakes, with cream smeared over everything, Bertie lifted her fork.

  “Macaulay,” she said. “What did you call him? A ghillie? What is that?”

  Caitriona answered. “A ghillie is like a gamekeeper, but Macaulay isn’t just a ghillie. He looks after Papa. Minds the house, and the house in Scotland. More like a steward.”

  “Macaulay does everything,” Andrew said. “He’s Papa’s nanny. At least, that’s what I call him.”

  Bertie thought of the big Scotsman and his growls as he loaded Mr. McBride into the carriage. “I shouldn’t like to call him a nanny to his face.”

  “He doesn’t mind,” Andrew said. “He thinks it’s funny.”

  Bertie couldn’t imagine Macaulay laughing, but maybe he had a soft spot for Andrew. It would be easy to form a soft spot for the boy, Bertie thought as she ate. Andrew had a warm spirit in spite of his antics, an open friendliness. Even the waiter gave him an indulgent look.

  Caitriona, on the other hand, ate primly, with minimal movements. After her initial explanation about Macaulay, she remained silent. She did say please and thank you, but so faintly Bertie barely heard the words.

  It wasn’t shyness, Bertie thought. It was more not wanting to put the effort into talking. Not that Cat could have gotten a word in edgewise with Andrew’s chatter, so maybe she’d learned to remain quiet while her brother rattled on.

  In all the time they’d been on the scaffolding and here in the shop, Cat had never once let go of the doll. She didn’t give the doll its own chair, nor did she pretend to feed it cake and tea as other girls might. Cat kept her arm firmly around the doll but didn’t even look at it as she downed every bite of cake on her plate and sip of tea in her cup.

  “She’s pretty,” Bertie said at one point, nodding at the doll. “What’s her name?”

  Caitriona laid down her fork and put both arms around the doll. “She’s Daisy. My mother gave her to me.”

  The mother who had died, leaving the misery Bertie had seen in Mr. McBride’s eyes. Bertie wiped crumbs from her fingers and pulled a locket on a chain from behind her collar.

  “My mum gave me this,” she said. The silver was slightly tarnished, as much as Bertie strove to keep it clean, and the chain was worn. She opened the locket to show Cat the tiny picture of her mother as a pretty young woman on one side of it, and a thin braid of dark hair on the other. “My mum passed too, so this is very special to me, like your doll is to you.”

  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.

  Your dear departed wife wasn’t so sweet and innocent, was she? What part of her dossier would you like me to post to your fellows in chambers, the judges on the bench?

  The letter had been printed in angular capitals, like the others. Sinclair had folded it aside to take home, a bad taste in his mouth.

  The letters had started coming a year ago, just after Christmas. He’d shown them to Chief Inspector Fellows, his sister’s brother-in-law, keeping it all in the family. Fellows was one of the best detectives in Scotland Yard, and he had a quality Sinclair valued—discretion. Fellows had started an investigation but so far had found nothing. The letter writer, as much as he or she threatened, had never followed up on the threats, nor had demanded any compensation for silence.

  A lunatic, Sinclair told himself. One who knows nothing.

  He knew he shouldn’t worry, but it rankled. Sinclair had dutifully taken all the letters he’d received to Inspector Fellows, as per Fellows’s instruction, all except ones like these. The ones that mentioned Daisy specifically he put into a box at home. They were no different from the others, except in subject matter, and he’d already given Fellows plenty to work with.

  He didn’t have time to rush to pay Fellows a visit anyway. Sinclair hadn’t slept much in the last nights, and tonight he had three more briefs to read. He’d be in his study going over them while the house slept and he didn’t.

  Just as well. If he went to bed, Sinclair would lie awake thinking of the chance encounter with the blue-eyed pickpocket, or he’d drift off and dream of it.

  The dreams took him far beyond the kisses they’d shared. In the dreams, Sinclair would lay her back on her makeshift sofa, the lamps burning softly around them, and unbutton the rather prim dress she’d been wearing.

  Underneath she’d be bare, soft and sweet, smelling of warmth and the night. He’d kiss her throat and her bosom as she ran her fingers through his hair.

  He’d move down her body, trailing kisses as he went, pushing aside fabric until he found the heat between her legs. In the dreams, he could taste the nectar of her, take in her beautiful scent. She’d groan and shift as he drank her, her movements languid. Once Sinclair was finished, he’d rise over her and slide himself inside.

  At that wonderful point, the dream always dissolved, and Sinclair would wake up, half groaning, ramrod stiff, fists balled. He needed release—he’d held himself in too long.

  Sinclair had learned after the first few years alone that he could sate himself physically with a woman without engaging his emotions. It had been a relief to discover that—he could calm his libidinous needs without feeling he’d betrayed the woman he’d loved with all his heart.

  A week before he’d met the pickpocket, Sinclair’s brother Steven and his new wife had introduced Sinclair to a widow his age, Mrs. Thomalin, who’d been charming, pretty, intelligent, and hadn’t minded Sinclair kissing her in a private corner of the ballroom where they’d been dancing. He should offer to take her out to a restaurant or some such, and they could return here afterward for a private evening. His servants would never say a word. They were loyal to him—Macaulay and the housekeeper, Mrs. Hill, and the under-servants never told tales about Mr. McBride. Their discretion could be counted on while their master relieved his pent-up desires.

  The coach pulled to a halt. Sinclair came out of his stupor and gathered his papers, retrieving the ribbon and tying it around the thick stack. His valise was already full, so he thrust the papers at Macaulay, who’d opened the carriage door for him.

  Sinclair’s study was on the second floor above the ground floor, a large room in the front of the house. A double door opened from it into his bedchamber, though his bedroom could be entered from the hallway as well. Sinclair liked the private aerie where he could be alone with his thoughts—that is when things were quiet in the nursery above him.

  They were quiet tonight. Suspiciously so. Sinclair had left his coat, hat, and gloves downstairs with Peter, the footman, and now he thumped his valise onto his desk. Macaulay laid the armload of papers he’d carried up for Sinclair beside it.

  “Where are the urchins, Macaulay?” Sinclair asked him. “Or did Miss Evans give up and slip them a dose of laudanum? I’ll have to sack her if she did.”

  “They’re in bed.” Macaulay’s voice was gruffer than usual. “They had their supper and went to bed, and are now sleeping.”

  Sounded unlikely. “Don’t tell me she truly did give them laudanum.”

  “No, sir.” Macaulay moved uneasily.

  Sinclair stopped, and the papers he’d been straightening slipped through his fingers. “Why? Are they ill?” He lived in perpetual fear his children would fall ill again, as they had when their mother had passed. They’d been so very sick, especially Andrew, a baby then. They’d survived it; Daisy had not.

  “No, sir,” Macaulay said. “New governess. She . . . started today.”

  “New governess?” Sinclair blinked. “What the devil happened to Miss Evans? Or did Andrew manage to lock her in the cellar? And where did I obtain a new governess, for God’s sake? I know I’m not the best of fathers, but I can manage to remember when I do and don’t hire someone to look after my wee ones.”

  Macaulay opened and closed his big hands, saying nothing. Odd. Macaulay never had difficulty conveying his opinions on absolutely everything, usually in a loud Scottish growl.

  “What is it, man?” Sinclair asked. “I’ve never seen you at a loss for words before.”

  Macaulay let out his breath. “I think you’d better talk to her yourself.”

  “I agree.” Sinclair shoved the last stack of his papers into some kind of order. “If the children are tucked up and sleeping, send her down.”

  “Right.” Macaulay hurried off, looking relieved, slamming the door behind him.

  Sinclair gave up on his papers and moved to a little table near the window and the decanter of Scots whiskey on it that was always kept full for him. The table had an inlaid checkerboard pattern, and Andrew always begged his father to play chess or checkers with him on it. The last time Andrew had been down here, he’d tried to climb onto the table, and had smashed the whiskey decanter to the floor, sending shards of lead crystal and the best Mackenzie malt all over the carpet.

  Sinclair poured a measure of whiskey into a heavy glass and drank it in one go, trying to enjoy the sensation on his tongue. He heard Macaulay’s voice on the stairs, the man speaking to someone who wasn’t answering. Macaulay’s footsteps were firm, those of the governess hesitant, as though Macaulay was having to pull her down here.

  Sinclair turned around as Macaulay opened the door so swiftly that it banged into the wall. Macaulay’s kilt swung as he pulled the young woman he held by the wrist around him, her dark green wool skirts swirling in ahead of her.

  Sinclair dropped the glass. It made a resounding smash, almost as resonant as had the one when Andrew knocked over the decanter. Whiskey stained the carpet anew.

  Macaulay, having delivered the goods, turned and fled, slamming the door behind him. The big Scotsman was fearless in the wilds, marching miles alone and facing ferocious beasts without blinking. But when it came to handling governesses, he was apt to go pale, his freckles standing out on his face, and disappear as quickly as he could.

  Sinclair was exhausted, unsated, hoping to be drunk, and tired of the mad thoughts that had flooded his brain since the night his pocket had been picked.

  He was not prepared to face the pickpocket herself, who stood just beyond the whiskey spots on the car
pet of his study, staring up at him with her Mediterranean blue eyes. Her bare hands twined nervously, and her face was strained below dark hair straggling out of her coiffure, but she sent him a cocky grin, one that had kept him awake and hard for six nights in a row.

  “Now then, Mr. McBride,” she said. “Fancy meeting you here, eh?”

  Chapter 6

  Sinclair’s simmering Scots temper, fueled by fatigue, the be-damned letter, and his aching need, boiled up and exploded. He dragged in a breath and let out a shout that reverberated through the cluttered room.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing in my house?”

  The young woman blinked and took a step back. But she didn’t run, didn’t gasp and press her hand to her heart as young women who heard Sinclair shout were apt to. Officers and soldiers alike had blenched when Sinclair had wound up into one of his serious tempers, and scrambled to obey him.

  The pickpocket only stared, the red lips he’d kissed parting a little. “I was looking after your little ones, wasn’t I? I tried to leave after they went to sleep, but your man, Macaulay, bolted the door, and I couldn’t open it.”

  “Bollocks.” Sinclair’s body was tight and hot. “You scoot around the streets of London where you bloody well please—I can’t believe you couldn’t find your way out of a house. It’s why you’re in the house I want to know.”

  “Told ya. Looking after your children. Your governess did a bunk, leaving them to me, if you please. Couldn’t see her for the dust, she was running so fast. Did you want me to leave them in the street?”

  Sinclair scrubbed his hand over his face. “I have no idea what the devil you’re talking about. What are you doing here? In Mayfair? In my house?”

  Her brows drew together, which made her blue eyes and her round face even more fetching. “I did you a bit of a favor, bringing them home. And getting them into bed to stay. I understand that’s a chore.” Her little smile came back. “Don’t know why. They just wanted a bit of a story, and they dropped off, simple as that. But seeing as you’re home, I’ll be off.”