Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(15)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

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 carpet 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.”

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.