Rules for a Proper Governess

“It’s all right.” Bertie dipped her hand into her pocket and passed out pennies. “They don’t mean no harm. He’s not my protector.” Bertie gestured to Sinclair, who’d climbed down beside her. “You lot leave him alone.”

She started through the press of boys to the door of her old lodgings, and Sinclair came directly behind her, not letting her get more than one step ahead of him. The pugilist followed as far as the doorway, then turned around and faced the street, blocking the lads from following them in.

“Why are you coming with me?” Bertie asked Sinclair as they went up the stairs. “What happened to you not showing your face where it’s dangerous?”

“I’m not letting you in here alone,” Sinclair growled. “You have no idea what or who is waiting for you.”

“I thought you’d at least stay in the coach,” Bertie said, throwing him a glare.

Sinclair scowled back. “Then you were wrong.”

Maddening man. The door to the rooms on the third floor was locked, but Bertie still had her key. She opened the door and walked inside. “It’s me,” she called.

Mrs. Lang, a plump woman with dyed black hair and a perpetually red face came out of Gerry’s bedroom. “Bertie,” she said, smiling a genuine smile. “How grand to see you.”

She opened her arms and folded Bertie into a well-cushioned hug. Mrs. Lang always smelled a bit of whiskey, which she liked, and a faint scent that was the fancy soap she saved her pennies for.

“How is he?” Bertie asked when Mrs. Lang released her.

“Not well. He wants to speak to you. Is this him?” She looked around Bertie at Sinclair.

“This is Mr. McBride,” Bertie said, a bit stiffly. “My employer.”

Mrs. Lang looked Sinclair up and down, her scrutiny admiring. “Well, you’re a fine one, ain’t you? Very handsome, in that way a Scottish bloke can be. Better wait out here, duckie. Old Gerry might get upset at the sight of you.”

Sinclair didn’t look happy, but he nodded as he took off his hat. “I’ll be right here, Bertie. Shout if you need me.” He gave her a look that told her she’d better. He might barge right in if she lingered longer than he liked, in any case.

Bertie gave him a nod, squared her shoulders, and followed Mrs. Lang into the bedroom.

“Well, look at the cat who swallowed the cream.” Gerry Frasier, his face grayer than Bertie had ever seen it, gazed at her over the bedcovers. His face was also lined and haggard, but he wasn’t hung over. This was true illness.

“How are you, Dad?” Bertie said. She pulled off her gloves and went to the bedside, holding out her hand.

Her father clasped her fingers with his hard ones. “Dying. So nice for me own daughter to bother to come and see me.”

“I was in Scotland. I know Mrs. Lang wouldn’t a’ sent for me if it weren’t bad.”

“It’s bad.” The hand that pressed Bertie’s was strong, though. “That flash bastard you’ve taken up with out there? I heard a voice.”

“Yeah, he’s here. Making sure you didn’t set me up.”

Gerry looked hurt, but he didn’t let go of her hand. “As if I would. I’ve always been good to you, Bertie-girl, haven’t I?”

“No, of course, you haven’t. You made me steal for you and smacked me when I didn’t do it quick enough. You’re an old brute, and I’m well rid of you.” She patted his hand, softening the words.

Gerry’s eyes moistened. “Well, that’s true. But I always looked after you, you know that. Your mum asked me to, before she went. Never let anyone else touch you, did I?”

“No, Dad. You’re a regular knight-errant.”

Gerry squeezed her hand, looking genuinely remorseful. “I’m sorry about Jeffrey. I never meant him to go after you, with a shooter, no less. If I’d known that, I would have had me mates sit on him until he saw reason. I’d have throttled him meself after, if he hadn’t got himself dragged off to chokey.”

Bertie believed him. For all Gerry had been hard on her, he’d also been extremely protective. Bertie had no doubt that had Jeffrey not been afraid of her father, he’d have dragged Bertie off to his bed long ago, whether she wanted to or not.

Gerry tugged her closer. “I need to tell you something else, love. I didn’t just ask you to come so you could watch your old dad push off. I need to warn you.”

Mrs. Lang looked worried, and Bertie felt a qualm. “Yeah? About what?”

“There’s villains after you, Bertie. High-end villains.”

Bertie studied her father’s face. He could be a liar, and a good one, but this time, he had true fear in his watery blue eyes. She glanced at Mrs. Lang for confirmation, and Mrs. Lang nodded.

“What do you mean, high-end?” Bertie asked. “Posh gents who have turned to crime, or villains who’ve come up in the world?”

“The second,” Gerry said. “Like Frank Devlin.”

Bertie started. “What’s someone like Devlin want with me?” Frank Devlin was a very bad man, made a lot of money running housebreakers and street girls, plus a couple of bawdy houses for well-paying customers. He’d never bothered much with Bertie and her dad—they were too low-grade for him, and Gerry had taught Bertie to stay well clear of him.

Mrs. Lang answered. “We don’t know. But he’s working for someone, and word is that he wants you brought to him. That’s why we asked you to come here and see us. Couldn’t trust a messenger, not with news like that.”