Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(37)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

Sinclair’s sharp gaze landed on Bertie. Last night, he’d been tender, smiling, holding Bertie in his strong arms. This morning, he was the barrister again, looking at her as though she were another fool in the dock. “Your idea?” he rumbled. “Your idea about what?”

“Making people believe I’m a governess. People like your brother-in-law.” Bertie twined her fingers together, suddenly nervous under the unwavering gray gaze. “I knew I’d never be able to read all the books in here myself and remember what was in them. I decided that if each person in the house read some of them, then they could come out with a piece of information at an opportune time, and pretend I taught it to them.”

Sinclair kept staring. He could knock a person over with that gaze. He was like a wolf with his eye on a poor rabbit who couldn’t get away.

“Pretend you taught it to them,” he repeated.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Mrs. Hill said. She’d risen to her feet, folding her hands at her waist and looking so very respectable. “It is not a bad plan. We’d not be obvious about it, of course. But the intent is to make Miss Frasier appear to be very, very clever. Then even if her origins are known, it can be argued she’s clever enough for that to be overlooked.”

Bertie knew Sinclair heard Mrs. Hill, because a muscle moved in his jaw, but he never looked away from Bertie.

“Aye,” Macaulay said, looking up from his book on animal husbandry. “I remember the fuss Mrs. McBride’s relations kicked up when you married her. Not only did you marry quick, but they hate Scots. We’re trying to keep them from kicking up another stink. Miss Caitriona and Master Andrew belong here, with us. We’re willing to do anything to make sure they stay.”

“I say bugger Uncle Edward!” Andrew shouted. “We love you, and Bertie!”

Chapter 13

“Master Andrew, such language,” Mrs. Hill said quickly, but she appeared to agree with Andrew.

Sinclair couldn’t wrench his gaze from Bertie. In her demure gray, every hair in place, but her eyes full of merriment, she was both a beauty and an erotic joy. Erotic because he knew what she looked like with the buttons loose at her throat, her hair coming down, her eyes closed in pleasure while she parted her lips for his kisses.

He clenched his hands, tamped down his rising hardness, and made himself look around the room. “Since you’re all settled in here, Andrew, you won’t want to go out with me then,” he said in a dry tone.

Andrew’s book flew into the air and came down on the floor with a clatter. “Yes, we do! Are we going to the pantomime? I’ve never been to a panto. Bertie calls it a panto.”

“Panto’s not until Christmas, Andrew,” Bertie said quickly. “Starting Boxing Day.”

“But we’ll be in Scotland then!” Andrew wailed.

Sinclair gave him a stern look. “Bertie, get them into their things and outside. Richards is on his way with the coach.”

He delivered his command and swung around out of the room, before he realized he’d called her “Bertie” and not “Miss Frasier,” to the great interest of the rest of his household.

The weather was cold today. Rain had come in the night, and though the morning had cleared, a thin sheet of ice lay on roadways. Sinclair watched Bertie settle with Andrew and Cat in the carriage seat opposite his, the glowing box on the floor giving the coach some warmth. Bertie kept Andrew from bouncing on the seat by pointing out interesting things about the coach itself as well as what they passed. Stopped Andrew bouncing a little bit, anyway.

Sinclair enjoyed himself watching her. Bertie regarded everything with lively interest—the most ordinary experience was something fascinating to explore. Sinclair had been dead for so long, he didn’t notice much anymore. But today, through Bertie, he saw anew the fine marquetry in his own carriage, the crispness of the bright day outside, and the luxury of the Georgian houses they passed. London could be a beautiful and vigorous place. Hadn’t Dr. Johnson said, When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life?

Bertie, raised in one of the grittiest parts of the city, looked as though she’d never be tired of London.

Richards took them down Park Lane, past its ponderous mansions with lavish gardens, to Hyde Park Corner and on into the park itself. The coach rolled up toward the Serpentine, and finally Richards halted near one of the walking paths. Sinclair alighted first, lifted down Cat and Andrew, then handed out Bertie.

Andrew danced and bounced on his feet, his energy incredible. Sinclair waved to Richards, and the coachman nodded and slowly drove off.

“Can I run now?” Andrew asked Bertie.

Bertie scanned the park around them, her gaze sharpening as she looked down every path, over every person she saw, checking for enemies. Sinclair had already been giving the place a once-over, and he knew Richards had too.

Finally Bertie, after a confirming look with Sinclair, gave Andrew a nod. “Off you go.”

Her eyes on Andrew, Bertie tugged a watch out of her pocket. Sinclair glanced at it, then looked again in surprise. Not a watch, but a chronograph, a device that could record the time of any event. Racehorse trainers used them to clock their horses’ speeds. They were highly expensive.

Andrew stopped his prancing, marked a line in the dirt with his toe, then crouched down. As Sinclair watched, mystified, Bertie shouted, “Go!”

Andrew bolted. Bertie had clicked a lever on the chronograph, and she eyed both it and Andrew as the boy hurtled himself along.

Andrew was running, flying. His legs weren’t very long yet, but they were long enough. He ran like a deer, sprinting over the ground, gracefully leaping over anything in his way. Cat watched him without expression, her arms around her doll.

Andrew ran past an indeterminate line, then he flung his arms out, his pace slowing. He did a long, running turn, then loped back toward them.

Bertie had clicked the chronograph as soon as Andrew slowed. “Look at that,” she said, shoving the watch in front of Sinclair.

Twenty seconds. Sinclair didn’t know the exact distance that his son had run, but it had been a bloody long way.

“He’s amazingly fast,” Bertie said. “You should put him into races.”

Sinclair frowned even as his pride at Andrew’s skill rose. “My son is not a horse.”

“Races for humans, silly. I knew a bloke who didn’t have two coins to rub together, but he could run like nothing you ever saw. A trainer took him up, and now he goes around the world, winning races and prizes. He lives like a king now.”