Rules for a Proper Governess

Bertie was drawn into helping fold paper mums that would shower down during the Christmas ball. Bertie saw that the Mackenzie and McBride wives, as lofty as they were, didn’t shove the work onto the servants while they took their ease. They rolled up their sleeves and got on with it.

Lady Isabella, whom Bertie had not met before, had glorious red hair, like her sister Louisa, as well as a lovely figure and keen green eyes. Isabella sat down opposite Bertie to help make the flowers, and treated Bertie to her assessing gaze.

“Your gown suits you,” Lady Isabella said. “I see Mrs. Hill’s hand in it. Sedate but not dowdy. I’d prefer to see you in something blue, though. It will bring out your eyes.”

“Leave her be, Izzy,” Louisa said, pausing from wherever she was rushing to, an open notebook at her ample abdomen. “My apologies, Miss Frasier. My sister can’t meet a woman without re-dressing her.”

“Because I have exceptional taste,” Isabella said without false modesty. “My sisters-in-law were in sad shape before I took them in hand. Do let me take you in hand, Miss Frasier. I enjoy it.”

Her determination was a bit alarming, but charming at the same time. “I’m a governess,” Bertie said, her voice faint.

“Nonsense. When you’re teaching the children, yes, you’re their governess. On your days out, you’re a young lady who deserves a treat.”

“But I’m not exactly . . .”

Isabella waved her quiet. “We know all about you. Eleanor told us.”

“She did, did she?” Bertie asked, worried.

“It’s settled then. You’ll come to my room before the ball, and I’ll dress you. Everyone is invited to the Christmas ball, and you’ll need something besides governess gray.” Isabella rose, taking her finished flowers and giving Bertie a warm smile. “Don’t worry; I’ll fix you up.”

She flowed away. Bertie swallowed and kept folding flowers with fingers that had chilled.

“You’ll grow used to Isabella,” Ian’s wife, Beth, said, sliding in to take Isabella’s place. “She loves to direct us all, but she has a kind heart. She provided a way for Ian and I to find each other, and I’m very grateful to her.”

“Good on her,” Bertie said. But Isabella was a lady, an earl’s daughter, and Beth was a lady as well. They all were. Bertie was . . . Bertie.

She liked them, though, she decided. The wives talked openly, inviting everyone into the conversation—maids and Bertie, guests and footmen—all were included. A big, loving family, they were, the kind Bertie had always longed for. If nothing else came from her time with Sinclair, she was going to enjoy this Christmas, and treasure it forever.

She knew things couldn’t go on as they were, not for always. Even Cat knew that. At the moment, Bertie existed in a bubble of happiness, where her love for Sinclair and his little ones were the only things that mattered. The rest of the world and its sordidness was outside the bubble. Bertie knew it would come crashing in soon—sharing a bed with Sinclair would have all kinds of consequences, and she wasn’t stupid about what they could be—but for now, she determined to let herself enjoy the moments of sweetness.

“I’d like you to let someone else look at the letters,” Inspector Fellows said.

He and Sinclair were alone at the windows of the long upstairs hall, while Cam and Mac Mackenzie and Steven and Elliot McBride talked and smoked heavily scented cigars in the sitting area at the other end. Sinclair had never taken to cigars, and Fellows, while he would partake, had little enthusiasm for them, and the two had moved off together.

Sinclair was happy to see Elliot out and enjoying conversation, listening to the others and laughing. He knew Elliot still had episodes from his ordeal in prison—who wouldn’t?—but the darkness that had surrounded him every day had dissipated.

Sinclair had lightened too, and he knew exactly why.

“At the moment, I don’t care about the be-damned letters,” Sinclair said.

“I know, but my copper’s mind never shuts down.” Fellows gave him the ghost of a smile. “I looked through the list of men and women you’ve prosecuted over the years, and it’s a good long one. Any of them could be hounding you. So I’d like to narrow that down by looking at the letters themselves.”

Sinclair’s fingers went stiff around his glass of whiskey. “Why? You’ve already looked at them. The paper and envelopes are ordinary, sold at any shop, we concluded.”

“Ordinary to you and me, yes,” Fellows said. “The letters printed so we can’t recognize handwriting. But the man following you hasn’t figured on one weapon in our arsenal—Ian Mackenzie.”

Sinclair’s unease was erased by surprise. “I know Ian has an extraordinary mind—I’ve seen what he can do with mathematics, his memory, music. But these papers are blanks, mass-produced. The only significant thing about them are the vile messages.”

“Let’s let him have a look, though, shall we?” Fellows asked. “You never know, with Ian.”

Sinclair shrugged and took a sip of whiskey. “I’m willing. Where is Ian now?”

“In secret negotiation with Daniel, preparing something for the younger generation for tomorrow,” Fellows said. He gave Sinclair a dark look. “Yes, we should be worried about that. We can try to run Ian to ground tonight, once the festivities start.”

Sinclair gave a dry laugh. “You’re optimistic. If we are not present and correct at the supper ball, the ladies will track us down with more ruthlessness than any hardened criminal.”