Rules for a Proper Governess

“No need to swear, though I suppose it’s the Scots way.” Monty sat back in his chair, lifting his hand in dismissal. “You think on what I’ve said, McBride. If you want to move up in the world, don’t sneer at your betters and their advice.”

The lackey understood the cues. He set down the sherry goblet and moved to the door to open it for Sinclair.

Sinclair got himself to his feet and swung around to go, making himself say nothing in response.

He seemed to hear Bertie’s voice ringing in his head. Silly old man, she’d say when Sinclair told her about it. He’s like a spider, inn’t he? Waiting in his web for someone to come along so he can bully him. And she’d laugh.

Not until Sinclair was halfway back to his chambers, his stride swift, did he realize that he’d pictured sitting down with Bertie and confiding all to her without giving it a second thought.

Jeffrey Mitchell had sulked in the pub until late into the night, and this morning, he was paying for it. His head pounded and his eyes ached, and he wasn’t happy that the winter day was so bright. Sunshine leaked through even the close-set buildings of Whitechapel to stab at him.

He didn’t want to be home, not alone in his tiny lodgings. He didn’t want to go all the way to Hackney to see the woman who called herself Sylvie, pretending to be French, even if she was a good ride. She wasn’t no more French than Jeffrey was, but she’d been a whore, and caught more flats with her fake accent and name.

Jeffrey didn’t want her, though. He wanted Bertie.

Bertie usually told Jeffrey to go to the devil, but her eyes sparkled when she said it. She laughed a lot—she was a great girl for laughing, was Bertie. She could scold too, but Jeffrey would teach her not to when they married.

And he’d marry her. Didn’t matter that she’d run off to be the tart of some rich gent. That couldn’t last, and she’d be back. Jeffrey would forgive her, after he pounded her for leaving him. She’d learn not to do that. She’d learn that Jeffrey would take care of her and none other.

A carriage came down the narrow lane. Jeffrey moved close to the wall, hugging it so the big horses and conveyance could move through. When the coach was abreast of him, a man called out the open window. “You. Come here.”

Wasn’t many back here but Jeffrey, so it was obvious who he meant. Jeffrey moved a cautious step forward. Gentry coves passing through sometimes asked the denizens of the streets to run errands for them, and the denizens, usually needing extra coin, complied. But sometimes gents wanted more than that, especially the ones with unnatural appetites.

“Yes, you,” the man went on, leaning out the window. “You’ll want to speak to me, because I can tell you exactly what you want to know about Basher McBride.”

Jeffrey’s caution deserted him. “That bloody Scots barrister? What about him?”

The man beckoned Jeffrey over, and Jeffrey stepped to the coach and peered inside. He tried to see what the man looked like, but the gent had a hat pulled over his eyes. He dressed like any other rich cove—heavy coat against the cold, gloves, walking stick he rested his hand on. The carriage was shining and fine, with a beefy coachman on the box.

“He’s got your woman,” the man said. “The little pickpocket. She’s yours, isn’t she?”

Bertie. Jeffrey’s heart beat faster. “Yeah, she’s mine. Where is she?”

The man opened the door of the carriage. “Come inside,” he said. “And I’ll tell you all about it.”

Bertie settled herself on a bench in Hyde Park and let Cat and Andrew play, keeping a sharp eye on Andrew. Andrew’s idea of playing meant running around like a mad thing, chasing birds, yelling, and pointing out things to Bertie at the top of his voice. He’d brought a little boat, which he’d sail in the nearest pond whenever he calmed down. Bertie had learned to let him run first and do more complicated things later.

Cat, on the other hand, spread out a little blanket near the bench, sat her doll down next to her, and proceeded to hand out a pretend tea. Every movement was solemn, no smiling, the ritual rehearsed.

Bertie watched her speculatively. There was something wrong with Cat, something beyond grief for her mother, but she didn’t know what. The girl should be rushing after Andrew, or skipping rope, or pushing a hoop, or other things little rich girls in parks liked to do. Instead, she sat very quietly, pouring imaginary tea without showing any real enjoyment. Every morning, the maid Aoife dressed Cat as though she were a doll herself, Cat taking no interest in the proceedings. That was wrong. Every girl, rich or poor, young or old, liked to primp herself. Cat took very good care not to tear her clothes or soil them—unlike Andrew who was determined to ruin a fine suit every day—but that was as far as her interest went.

Cat finished her tea-pouring ritual, as though it had been a chore she needed to get through, then she reached into her bag for a notebook—the one she let no one else see. Her pencil began moving, Cat staring at the pages, but again showing no real interest.

The bench moved as someone plopped down beside Bertie, too close to her. She looked up, and all the breath went out of her.

“Bertie-girl,” Jeffrey said as he sent her an evil grin. “There you are.”

Chapter 10

Bertie cast a swift glance around her. Andrew was still running, flapping his arms as though trying to fly, and Cat had her head down over her notebook. The kids were safe, she saw with relief, but the mild winter day suddenly became colder.