Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(14)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

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.