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

“I know it is.” In one swift move, Sinclair reached for the watch and yanked it from her grasp.

“Oi,” she said, indignant. “You . . .” She glared at him, outraged, but with fear behind her anger.

Sinclair let out his breath in relief at the weight of the watch in his palm. The watch was intact, all as it should be.

He believed her when she said her father would beat her if she didn’t bring something home to him. Men in this part of London often sent their sons and daughters out to steal for them, or their daughters to walk the streets. These children had nowhere to go and no one to turn to, and many of them thought it fine to go out and earn some dosh to help the family.

This young woman was a bit older than many of the game girls, but if she still lived at home with her father, taking care of him, he’d have the upper hand. Englishmen set such store on women having little power and money, living only to serve the males of the family. Sinclair could never understand why—he’d seen so much grief come of it.

He slid the watch into his waistcoat pocket, keeping a close eye on the young woman’s hands as he did so. She’d taken what she’d wanted when he’d been oblivious on the street, and there was nothing to say she wouldn’t try again.

Sinclair pulled out a coin and held it toward her. “Will this assuage your bastard of a father and make him spare the rod?”

The woman’s blue eyes went wide. Sinclair clasped a gold sovereign between his fingers, enough to pay for an East End family’s meals for a long while.

“You really are a madman,” she said in awe.

“Take it,” Sinclair said. “Before I change my mind.”

The young woman stared at the coin for a long moment, but she had no greed in her eyes. Amazement, yes, and wariness, but no greed. She knew she’d be handing over the sovereign to her father, keeping nothing for herself.

“What’s your name?” Sinclair asked her.

She gave him a sudden smile, one that lit up her eyes and made her beautiful. “Now that I don’t think I should tell you. Even if you were good to Ruthie an’ all.”

Fair enough. She reached for the coin, but Sinclair pulled it back. The young woman made a noise of protest, and Sinclair shook his head.

“This is also your fee for taking me out of here and leading me back to a street I can recognize. Can you do that?”

“’Course I can.” She looked proud. “No one knows London better than me.”

Sinclair believed her. She’d brought him across the city and into the East End without faltering, ducking around dark corners with complete confidence.

Sinclair took her hand in its worn glove and pressed the gold coin into it. “Show me, then.”

Another sunny grin, and she swung to her feet with energy, her wool skirts brushing his legs. Sinclair started to rise with her, still dizzy from the chase, her kiss, the closeness of the room, and whatever noxious gas was down here that had made him light-headed. This place really wasn’t safe for her.

The young woman steadied him on his feet, then blew out the lamps around the room, plunging them into gloom.

Before Sinclair could wonder whether she’d simply leave him there in the dark, ripe for the plucking, her warm hand found its way into his. “Come on, then,” she said.

Bertie pulled Mr. McBride out into the dark streets, the sun long gone behind the buildup of clouds. His hand remained in hers as she towed him along, and his warm strength came to her, making Bertie’s heart bang in a strange way.

Jeffrey Mitchell was supposed to be Bertie’s beau, the man she’d eventually marry, whenever Bertie’s dad decided he could let her go. When she’d been younger, Jeffrey’s rough charm had seemed exciting to her, but that had quickly faded as she’d grown old enough to know better. Certainly Jeffrey had never made Bertie’s heart go all achy and pounding. Bertie had never had the impulse to kiss Jeffrey more than a peck good-bye—not that Jeffrey would try more with Bertie’s dad next to him at all times.

Kissing Mr. McBride had been more than an impulse. A need had gripped her, and Bertie had launched herself at him, wanting to kiss the mouth that spoke those rich Scottish syllables.

She’d about fallen through the floor when he’d cupped her neck and pulled her closer to make the kiss deeper. She’d wanted to respond, to lay herself against him all the way and see what it felt like to be cradled by his hard body.

When he’d pulled back, Bertie feared she’d disgusted him, that he’d think her a game girl. She wasn’t, and she wanted him to know that. But for one wistful moment, Bertie had wished very much she had been a tart. Only for him, mind.

Bertie led him up another set of steps, the sounds of busier streets coming their way. It was foggy here, nearer the river, the lights of working London obscured by gray mist.

Her hand tightened on his. In a moment, Mr. McBride would snatch himself away and jog off, lost to the fog and Bertie forever. She wanted to hang on to him as long as she could.

She knew she had to let him go, though. Mr. McBride didn’t belong in this world. Bertie wagered he lived in a fancy house in some posh square, with a passel of slaveys to look after him. His fine clothes, neatly shorn hair, and polished boots told her that.

Bertie pulled him to a halt at the top of the stairs, in the shadow of a wall. “This street will take you to Fenchurch,” she said quietly. “See, there’s St. Paul’s.” She pointed to the ghostly dome outlined in the fog. “Think you can find your way from there?”

“Yes.” The word came with conviction. Mr. McBride was back in his own world now, arrogance and confidence flowing into him as it had when he’d stood up and looked the judge in the eye.

Mr. McBride ran a hand through his hair, the light from the main street glittering in droplets the mists had left. “My coachman must be driving up and down the lanes, searching frantically for me. He always thinks I’m going to top myself if he’s not right next to me.”

Bertie thought of the emptiness she’d seen inside Mr. McBride as he’d waited for the court to reconvene and again when he’d stood in the street outside the Old Bailey. She’d seen that bleak look before—in lads who knew there was nothing left in life for them, in girls who’d got themselves bellyful by men who didn’t want them. “Are you?” she asked anxiously. “Going to top yourself?”

Mr. McBride pulled his gaze from the bulk of St. Paul’s to look down at her. She loved his eyes—a smoky gray that sparkled like diamonds in this light.