Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(9)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

“No toads,” Andrew said in perfect agreement. Andrew had the sunniest disposition of anyone Sinclair knew, and also could cause more trouble than the most hardened criminals Sinclair had ever faced. “It’s too cold for toads,” Andrew went on. “But I found some beetles in the cellar.”

Sinclair gave him a stern look. “No beetles, no roaches, no spiders. No insects or arachnids of any kind. Understand?”

Andrew didn’t look contrite. “Yes, sir.”

Sinclair remained wary. He knew if he didn’t catalog specifically what Andrew shouldn’t do, the boy would come back to him later. But you didn’t say no goldfish!

Sinclair found matches on the bedside table and lit the lamp. His son, eight years old, already had the leggy, raw-boned look of the tall Scotsman he’d become. He had fair hair and gray eyes, a pure McBride.

The lamplight also fell on the photograph of Maggie McBride—Daisy—with her dark hair and laughing eyes, the blue of them obscured by the sepia photograph. Sinclair’s daughter, Caitriona, had the same eyes.

Andrew climbed over his father, picked up the photograph, and gave it a kiss. “’Morning, Mum,” he said, and put it back down.

He flopped onto the mattress, ready to snuggle in and continue his sleep. Sinclair knew bloody well Andrew had sneaked out of the nursery, so there would be uproar when he was found missing, but Sinclair didn’t have the heart to send him back. Andrew closed his eyes and made a good impression of a loud snore.

Sinclair lifted a handkerchief and wiped Andrew’s wet kiss from the photograph. He’d had to replace the glass in the frame a few times because of Andrew’s enthusiasm, but it didn’t matter.

The thing is, Daisy, Sinclair said silently, setting down the photograph and tucking the covers around his son, I think you would have liked her.

She was out in the city somewhere. One in hundreds of thousands of souls, a young woman with violet eyes and a warm smile, who kissed like fire. Sinclair would probably never see her again.

Bertie watched Mr. McBride emerge from his house on Upper Brook Street, a posh address, and no mistake. She munched the hot chestnuts she’d bought from a vendor, keeping her fingers and mouth warm as Mr. McBride turned to say something to a broad-shouldered Scotsman who’d followed him out.

The two men were about the same size, but the second one had flame red hair and wore a Scottish kilt and the coat of a slavey—maybe he was what they called a gentleman’s gentleman, a Scottish version of one. Ruthie had told Bertie that valets could be so haughty and correct you’d think they were the duke or baron. This one wasn’t so haughty—he looked more like a fighting man stuffed into a suit and not liking it. He growled something at Mr. McBride, and Mr. McBride growled right back. Good for him.

The red-haired Scotsman stepped aside as a coach came rattling up. The red-haired man opened the door for Mr. McBride, still scowling mightily, and Mr. McBride tossed a case inside the carriage.

“Leave it, Macaulay,” Mr. McBride snapped and hauled himself up into the coach.

The door shut and the coach jerked forward. Mr. McBride settled back into his seat, not looking out the window. Except for his liveliness when he’d snarled at his servant, he’d taken on the awful blankness again.

Bertie watched the coach until it turned down Park Lane and was lost to sight. She knew where it was going—every day Mr. McBride climbed into his carriage with a valise of sorts and headed off to his chambers in Middle Temple, which was located near where the Strand became Fleet Street. The Middle and Inner Temples consisted of narrow lanes of rigid brick buildings, all with fine-painted doors and windows, all holding barristers and clerks working their hearts out to bang up criminals like Bertie, her father, and Jeffrey.

Mr. McBride’s chambers were in a little square called Essex Court, in an elegant building with a fanlighted door, which matched the style of his Mayfair home. Both chambers and house spoke of money, and lots of it. Maybe the whole McBride family was as toffy as he was, or else Basher made quite a few bob sending murderers to the noose.

Bertie had discovered where Mr. McBride worked and where he lived from careful research. The day after her encounter with him, she’d seen him come out of the Old Bailey after a morning in court, but this time he’d stepped directly into his smart-looking coach. Bertie had been on her own—no dad or Jeffrey to tell her to rob the man again—and she’d found herself walking after the coach, which crawled at a slow pace through London’s jammed streets. Easy for Bertie to keep it in sight.

The coach hadn’t gone far down Fleet Street before turning off toward the Temples, stopping to let out Mr. McBride on a narrow lane. Mr. McBride had walked from there, and Bertie had pattered behind him, not too close.

Mr. McBride had never seen her. He’d gone into the fine-looking building that housed his chambers, greeting another barrister and a harried-looking clerk on the doorstep.

The other barrister had slapped Mr. McBride on the shoulder and laughed. “The legend of the Scots Machine grinds on. The newspapers love you, old man. Standing up for the downtrodden, potting the true killer between the eyes, making old Percy Montague snarl at you—the ladies will love you even more now.”

The clerk wasn’t as informal, but he nodded and said, “Good on you, sir,” with much admiration. “Your new brief is on the mantelpiece, and you’ve got a conference at three.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Mr. McBride said, tipped his hat, and went on inside.

Bertie had ducked out of the way as the barrister and clerk walked on together. Other barristers were going in and out of the houses around her, and staring at her, these stiffest of stiff men in their black suits, coats, and hats. Bertie was out of place with her worn coat and scuffed boots, even if her hat was new.

Her father had been so happy with the sovereign Bertie had brought him that he’d given her a few half-crowns as a reward, telling her to enjoy herself. Bertie’s dad was always cheery when he was rich. He’d been chuffed enough to forget that Jacko Small was now in the Bow Street jail, waiting to be shuffled to Newgate to await trial. Jeffrey was still angry about it, though, so Bertie had avoided him and gone shopping.

Why she’d decided to leave the hat shop and make her way to the Old Bailey she wasn’t certain. She’d told herself she’d never got her half-pint yesterday, so she might as well go back to the pub there and treat herself and have some dinner, but once she’d caught sight of Mr. McBride, her feet simply followed his coach.