Rules for a Proper Governess

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.”

“Porkies?” Sinclair tried to focus on what she was saying, and not the fact that the wisps of hair straggling about her face made her even more beautiful. “Lies? About what?”

“About things he’s going to do, or wants to do. Sometimes it’s idle threats but sometimes it ain’t.”

Bertie trailed off and wet her lips, making them red and moist. Sinclair’s body went tight. “Bertie, will you please come to the point?”

“I’m trying to. Jeffrey.” Her face was too pale, her eyes dark in the dim light. “He told me if I didn’t go home to him he’d come back with his friends to rob you blind or take your children and hold them to ransom—though I warned him he’d have a bit more than he bargained for if he tried that with Andrew. I got Jeffrey to leave me today, though I think it was more the sight of the nice constable strolling by that persuaded him, but he’ll be back. I’m scared about what he’ll do.”

Sinclair’s temper mounted. “He won’t do anything. I won’t let him. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Don’t dismiss him. He came all the way to Hyde Park, where I was alone with Cat and Andrew. I’m grateful he didn’t try anything then, but he likes strength in numbers. He’ll do what he said.”

“Unless you go back to him?” Sinclair’s rage wound higher. “The hell you will. He won’t be grateful for it—he’ll keep bullying you, threatening worse if you try to leave him again.” He came to his feet, unable to sit still any longer. “Bullies never stop, Bertie. They keep at you and at you, unless you face them and spit at them.” Sinclair punctuated his words with sharp jabs of his finger. Bertie blinked at him, but she didn’t look afraid. Not of him. “I bloody well won’t let you go running off back to him if he’s that much of a danger to you. You stay here, and help me with what I need you to, and be damned to those who don’t like it!”

The world started rocking, the air leaving it. Bertie came to her feet next to him, her skirts making a pleasant rustling sound. “Something else has happened, hasn’t it?” she asked in concern. “You’re as upset as I am, but not about Jeffrey. We’re talking about different things, ain’t we?”

“I’m talking about my ass of a brother-in-law, damn him. Oh, God, Bertie, what if he’s right, and he takes them away from me?”

Sinclair struggled for breath. He’d been like this since childhood—when something bad enough happened, an iron band would wrap around his chest and compress his lungs until he couldn’t breathe. He’d learned to hide the malady, especially in the army, teaching himself exercises to suppress it. The first year Daisy had gone, Sinclair had barely been able to breathe normally for any stretch of time. He’d painfully taught himself control again, and the incidents had mostly stopped. Until recently—since he’d met Bertie, in fact.

Bertie reached for his hand, her warm fingers wrapping his ice-cold ones. Her touch broke through the constriction, and Sinclair dragged grating air into his lungs.

“You all right?” Bertie led him one step back to the sofa. “Sit with me. Tell me what happened. What brother-in-law? You mean the lord with the horses?”

“What?” Sinclair made himself suck in another breath as they sank to the couch. “No, not Cameron. My wife’s brother, Edward. He wrote me a letter.” He touched his breast pocket, the paper inside crackling. He had to wait until he could breathe enough to speak in clear sentences. “A bloody awful letter. Edward never liked me. He blames me for taking Daisy away from him. I met Daisy in Rome, when I was on leave—we were married by the end of the second week we knew each other. Edward never forgave her, or me, especially me. He’s pursuing legal means to become Cat and Andrew’s guardian. He says he knows it will be difficult, but it’s the least he can do for poor Maggie’s son and daughter.”