Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(72)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

He turned his back on the two and made his way out of the flat and down the stairs. Bertie waited for him in the carriage, the pugilist next to it.

“You took your time,” Bertie said as the pugilist opened the door.

Sinclair climbed inside and landed on the seat beside her, her body warm against his. It would be more proper to sit opposite her, but to hell with what was proper. “You don’t have to be afraid, Bertie,” he said. “Don’t let whatever he told you rattle you.”

Bertie brushed back her hat’s feather. “All I know is, I want out. My dad was good to warn me, but I bet Mrs. Lang made him do it. The old soak doesn’t want anything blowing back on him. Well, I’m finished with it all.”

“Pleased to hear it.” Sinclair tapped on the coach roof for Richards, once the pugilist had slammed the door. “Now, what did he warn you about?”

Bertie related the conversation, and Sinclair listened in growing unease. “I’ve heard of Devlin,” he said when she finished. “Your father’s not wrong—he’s dangerous. But don’t worry about him. I’ll have one of Inspector Fellows’s men . . .” Sinclair turned his head as he saw what he couldn’t believe he saw out of the landau’s fogged window. “Richards, stop!”

Sinclair was out of his seat, opening the door of the moving coach even as he heard Richards’s whoa.

“Here!” Bertie grabbed at Sinclair’s coat, her voice rising to a screech. “What are you doing?”

Sinclair shook off her grasp, then his boots hit the pavement just as Richards pulled the horses to a halt.

He’d seen a face up the street, one from his past, though it was not a face he expected. The man belonging to it wore a fine greatcoat and hat, very out of place in this area of workingman’s caps and rough jackets.

The man was walking rapidly away. Sinclair ran after him, never minding the swarm of people crowding between him and his mark. “Stop, blast you!” Sinclair yelled at the retreating back.

He heard the click of Bertie’s boots behind him, her calls to him. Sinclair didn’t respond. He sped his steps, reached the other man, and pulled him around to face him.

The man stared back at Sinclair, not in surprise or shock, but in stark anger. He knew Sinclair would be here, damn him, likely had been following him every step.

“James Maloney,” Sinclair said. “What the hell are you doing here, and why aren’t you rotting in prison?”

Bertie paused as she saw Sinclair confront the man. She didn’t recognize the gent, but he dressed well, and his face was soft, his body trim and not bent by hard work.

The pugilist behind her caught up, not happy. “Don’t like to leave the coach unguarded,” he growled.

Bertie understood, but she was too agitated to answer. Sinclair turned aside from the crowd, pulling the man with him. Sinclair’s face had gone hard, eyes glittering.

“Now tell me what you’re doing here,” Sinclair was saying when Bertie and the pugilist reached them. Sinclair held the man by the collar of his coat. “Why are you even in England?”

“What did you think?” The man had a broad Irish accent. “That I’d let you take my Daisy, and that would be the end of it?”

Bertie stared in shock. Daisy? Was this the man, James, whom Sinclair’s wife had eloped with all those years ago? Things clicked together, and Bertie stepped forward. “You’ve been sending the letters, haven’t you?” she demanded. “Those bloody awful letters.”

“Bertie,” Sinclair said, his voice low but firm. “Go back to the carriage.”

“Not likely,” Bertie said. “Nasty piece of work, aren’t you?”

Sinclair shot the pugilist a glare, and the man put his beefy hand on Bertie’s shoulder. “Best come with me, miss.”

Bertie ducked out from under him. “Should be him you’re taking hold of, and giving him to the coppers.”

“Letters?” James gave Sinclair a beatific smile. “No idea what she’s talking about.” His eyes were innocent, but Bertie was good at seeing through lies, and so was Sinclair. James was handsome enough, with charm in his smile. No surprise Sinclair’s wife had fallen for the scoundrel, but she’d soon learned her mistake, hadn’t she? “D’ye think I’m foolish enough to leave anything behind to connect me with any letters?” James asked.

Not if he were a good confidence trickster, he wouldn’t. Confidence men always traveled light, ready to throw their worldly goods into a small bag and dash away, leaving no trace of themselves behind.

But then, he might have kept something . . .

“Miss,” the pugilist said. His hand landed on her shoulder again.

Bertie twisted away. This time she pretended to trip, and landed hard against James. As he started and tried to push her away, her hands went to work.

Bertie spun away, ran a few paces, and turned back, dangling a handkerchief, a slim wallet, a card case, and a watch from her hands.

“I wonder what I’ll find in all this?” Bertie asked.

Sinclair looked grim, but also as though he understood why she’d done it. James’s smooth smile vanished, then he snarled and started after her.

Sinclair grabbed for him but James leapt away, sliding from his grasp as skillfully as Bertie could have. He rushed at Bertie, and Bertie turned and fled.

She made for the coach, which was sitting a little way down from them, jammed in by traffic. Richards was standing up, looking for them. Before Bertie got halfway to it, James seized her by her coat, hauling her back. Her hat slipped, sagging by its pins over her eye.

Bertie knew the pugilist and Sinclair were steps away, but still she felt a qualm of fear as James pulled her around with unkind hands, shoving her into a noisome passage. Confidence men preferred to fight with their tongues, but when they were put to it, they could be very dangerous, violently so.

James blocked her way out to the busier street where the coach and freedom lay. “Give them back, ye bloody little whore.” He thrust his hands inside Bertie’s coat, but she’d already secreted her takings in inner pockets. She knew exactly how to stash gear quickly, all the better to run from the constables.

Where was Sinclair? There was a press of traffic and people at the entrance to the passage, but this little artery could be another world—and quiet.

Fear made her act. Maloney might have a weapon on him, and she had no doubt he’d be happy to pluck his things from her dead body.