Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(30)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

Jeffrey’s expression grew less certain, but he scowled at her. “Look at you in your fancy gear, watching after brats in velvet collars. I bet his suit and her dress would fetch us enough to live on for a year, not to mention what you’ve got on your back. You start feeding us the goods, Bertie, or I’ll let on to your barrister all about you and what you get up to.”

Bertie jerked away to her feet. “He already knows about me. I told him.”

Jeffrey gave her a look of disbelief. “You told Basher McBride you were a thief? Couldn’t have, or I’d be talking to you in Newgate.”

“I did tell him. I didn’t rob him the other night—he gave me the sovereign to take home. He’s kindhearted.”

“And then asked you to look after his get?”

“Yes.” Bertie clenched her hands in her new gloves, which were soft leather and not out at the seams.

Jeffrey stared at her, then his face flushed, and he got off the bench to tower over her. “You’re getting on your knees for him, ain’t ya? You’re kicking your feet to the ceiling—and you’re trying to tell me you’re respectable. You’re whoring for him.”

“No!” Bertie said. “I’d never . . .” Her face went hot, because she knew she’d bloody well kick her feet up for Sinclair if ever he said the word. Last night, he’d done nothing but suckle her fingers, but he might as well have been at her breast or some other intimate part.

“No,” she repeated, making her voice firm. “What do you take me for? Why can’t you believe I have a proper job?”

“Because no gent would let the likes of you into his house or near his brats without you paying for it. If he ain’t done you, it just means he ain’t done you yet.” Jeffrey grabbed her wrist, the same one Sinclair had held so tightly the night before. “But you’re my girl, Bertie, and you’re coming home with me now.”

Sinclair left his chambers earlier than usual, another letter Henry delivered to him in the afternoon changing the entire day. This one wasn’t anonymous—Daisy’s brother had signed it, proud to throw threats at Sinclair and his family. The trouble was, the threats had teeth. Sinclair wasn’t in court this afternoon, thank God, so he packed up his valise and called for his carriage.

When he’d arrived this morning, Sinclair had been contemplating hiding in chambers, sleeping there, anything to stay away from Bertie. Now he knew he never could. After reading his brother-in-law’s letter, Sinclair wanted to be home, to surround himself with his children, to reassure himself that they were all right, to reassure them that he’d protect them at all costs.

Add to that the thought of Bertie there, and his home beckoned like a refuge. Sinclair wanted to see her, hungered for it. Even if he could only look upon her, listen to her no-nonsense voice and cheeky words, everything would be better. He had enough self-control to keep himself from ravishing his children’s governess, didn’t he? Sinclair was famous for his self-control, at least these days. His brothers teased him about it.

He reached home, the drive today seeming extraordinarily long. Afternoon sunshine slanted through the windows of the house as Sinclair tossed his greatcoat, hat, and gloves at Peter. The winter day had been mild, as winter in London could sometimes be—blue skies, crisp air, sun shining almost too brightly—but Sinclair was chilled.

The house was quiet, Bertie and his children safely tucked in the nursery, he assumed. Sinclair knew if he went straight to them, he’d alarm Cat and Andrew, who were sensitive to his moods and easily upset. He’d calm himself then go up to the nursery to be a cheerful father coming home from the office to visit his brood.

“I’ll be in my study,” he told Peter. “Not to be disturbed.”

“Yes, sir.” Peter smoothed the rumpled greatcoat in his arms and peered at Sinclair. “Anything I can get you, sir?”

“No.” Sinclair heard his abrupt tone and strove to soften it. “Thank you.”

“Right, sir.”

Sinclair took the stairs two at a time, barely out of breath when he reached the second landing. He had whiskey in his study, and plenty of it. Ever since Sinclair’s sister had married into the Mackenzie family, Sinclair had a standing order of the best Mackenzie malt, and Macaulay always kept the decanter stocked.

Sinclair strode into the room and slammed the door, making straight for the amber liquid. He sloshed a large measure into a glass, thumped the decanter back down with a clatter, and plunked himself onto the sofa under the tall front windows.

“Hiya,” Bertie said next to him.

Sinclair was on his feet as swiftly as he’d sat down, the whiskey slopping out of the glass. Bertie huddled against the end of the sofa, her feet tucked under her, her gray dress rumpled, as though she’d been napping.

Sinclair opened his mouth to demand to know what she was doing in here, then noticed her face. Bertie regarded him without a smile, her expression so sad his heart missed a beat.

He sat back down, thrusting the whiskey glass to a table beside him, his fingers sticky. “Bertie, what is it?”

Tears stood in her blue eyes, not only of sorrow but deep anger. “I have something to tell you,” she said. “Something that happened today.”

“To the children?” Sinclair asked, alarmed. But no, Peter had been tranquil, even cheerful, and Macaulay hadn’t met him at the door to break bad news.

“No, no,” Bertie said quickly. “They’re fine. Went to sleep already—worn out from the late night last night and a long play in the park today.”

“Then what?” Sinclair demanded. Bertie looked morose, very unlike herself. “Your father didn’t come making trouble, did he?”

“No, no. Dad’s a lazy lout, if nothing else. Traveling across the city is too much for him. It’s Jeffrey.”

Sinclair scowled. “Jeffrey? Who the devil is Jeffrey?”

“Thinks he’s in love with me. But he just wants my dad to let me marry him so he can have someone to wash his socks.”

“Bertie.” Sinclair took a deep breath. “Tell me what the hell you are talking about.”

Bertie sat up, pushing back a lock of hair that had come out of its braid. “I’m talking about Jeffrey and what he said to me today. He’s a villain, a bad one. He boasts a lot, but the trouble is, he’s not always just telling porkies for fun. He’s dangerous.”