Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(20)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

“Really?” Eleanor didn’t release Bertie’s hand. “Andrew, please don’t climb on the railing. You know what Uncle Hart said when you fell off last month. Pardon me for saying so, Miss Frasier, but you don’t look much like a governess.”

“Well,” Bertie said, wetting her lips. “Maybe I’ve just started.”

“I see.” Eleanor peered at her harder, as though she could read every thought in Bertie’s head. A frightening woman, this, despite the fact that she was pretty and smiling. “Caitriona, what say you?”

When Eleanor said the name, Caitriona, it rolled off her tongue with a hint of the broad Scots Mr. McBride had. Scots, the lot of them, the chambers clerk had said, shaking his head. The only Scotsmen Bertie had met in her life were those that came out of the backstreets of Glasgow to try their luck in London. Much of the time, Bertie couldn’t understand a word they said. Mr. McBride and Eleanor spoke more clearly, but with a lilt that proclaimed they certainly weren’t English.

Cat gave Eleanor an open look. “We want her to stay.”

Eleanor’s expression softened as she gazed down at Cat, compassion entering her eyes. “I see. Well, I’m sure that can be managed.” She switched her attention back to Bertie, still hanging on to Bertie’s hand. “You’re depositing them here to be looked after? Where are you going, exactly?”

The keen stare wouldn’t let Bertie lie. “Whitechapel. Little lane off it.”

Eleanor gave a decided nod. “Well, you can’t walk all the way. I’ll send for the coach.”

Bertie’s eyes widened. She imagined the reception of a duke’s carriage in the warrens off Whitechapel and St. Anne’s Street, where she lodged with her father.

“No, no, I’ll take an omnibus,” Bertie said quickly. She leaned forward and lowered her voice, conscious of the footman at the door listening as hard as he could. “They’ll steal the gilt off the wheels there, and the horses from the harness, before you know where you are.”

“That’s settled then. Franklin, fetch his grace’s coachman,” the duchess called to the footman. “He’ll be driving Miss Frasier to Whitechapel.” She moved her attention back to Bertie. “Or, if you’d like, I can have Franklin go collect your things for you. Save you the bother, and you can stay with Cat and Andrew—Andrew, what did I say about the railings?”

“He likes to climb things,” Bertie said faintly.

“Doesn’t he just. One day, he’ll be a famous acrobat and put out his tongue at all of us. Shall you stay and have tea with me, Miss Frasier? Go on, Franklin, there isn’t much time.”

Much time for what? “No, I’ll go,” Bertie said, at last withdrawing her hand from the duchess’s rather formidable grip. “I’ll know what to get. And if my dad’s there . . . well, it’s best if it’s me.”

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “Hmm. Well, I’ll send Franklin with you anyway. He’s a rather good boxer, though he’s such a slim young man. If you need him, you shout for him. But you’d best set off if you’re going, before . . . oh, dear. Too late.”

Franklin had darted out the front door. As it swung closed, Bertie heard a loud growl, and then a giant of a man shoved the door open again and walked inside. He stopped, greatcoat in hand, and looked around with a stare like an eagle’s. He had the most golden eyes Bertie had ever seen, which made him seem all the more eaglelike.

“Hello, my dear,” Eleanor said warmly. “This is Miss Bertie Frasier, new governess to Andrew and Caitriona. She’s going off to fetch her things, and I of course said she must ride in the coach—Franklin has gone for it. I take from the look on your face that your meeting did not go well, but fortunately there is plenty of whiskey upstairs and some nice cakes Cook made for you. Cat and Andrew are staying for tea, so do be kind, Hart, and don’t frighten anyone, at least for ten minutes.”

Throughout the rapid speech, the Duke of Kilmorgan simply stared at Bertie, pinning her in place as his wife had done. He was a handsome man, no doubt—with dark red hair, a strong face, a solid body, and fine clothes—but a frightening one.

Bertie decided she preferred Mr. McBride, with his sudden smiles and flashes of temper, his bearlike voice, and warmth in his gray eyes. One could be comfortable in Mr. McBride’s presence. Bask in it. With the duke, Bertie would have to be on her guard all the time. Not comfortable at all. And yet, Eleanor regarded him with vast fondness even as she babbled at him.

“Uncle Hart!” a voice screeched from above. “Catch me!”

The duke looked up in alarm as a missile dropped at him from the railing half a flight up. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” the duke roared, even as he opened his arms and caught Andrew. Andrew, instead of being alarmed, threw his arms around the formidable man’s neck, and laughed.

Eleanor made shooing motions at Bertie. Franklin had popped back inside, stiff no longer, and waved at her to follow. Bertie cast a worried look at Andrew, but Eleanor shook her head, smiling, and kept flapping her hands, driving Bertie away.

Bertie fled. “Whew,” she said to Franklin as he opened the door of a black polished coach. “Are they always like that?”

Franklin smiled politely. “It’s a lively house, but they’re good people. Won’t hear a word against ’em. In you go, miss.”

Bertie was right about the reception of the duke’s coach in her father’s street. It was a fine carriage, right enough; a landau, with lovely horses and a coachman in a red coat and high hat to drive it.

Bertie had never lived anywhere so nice as the inside of that coach. The seats were leather, soft and supple, the walls polished wood, the curtains velvet, and there was carpet on the floor. It was warm too, with boxes of hot coals to keep her feet toasty.

She hated to leave the landau’s confines for the chill of the East End street, but Franklin, who’d ridden up top with the coachman, opened the door as soon as the carriage stopped in front of the lodgings where Bertie lived with her father. Every person on the street stopped to stare as Bertie hopped from the coach’s step to the door of the house, the footman handing her down like a posh lady.

“Won’t be a tick,” Bertie said to Franklin, pretending to ignore her neighbors, and went into the house’s dim interior.

“Where the devil have you been?”