Rules for a Proper Governess

“Are you sure your father only wanted to warn you?” Sinclair asked. “That he didn’t swallow his fear and take money from Devlin for bringing you to him?”

Bertie nodded. “I’m sure. Dad hates Devlin more than he can be angry at me, that’s for certain.”

“I’m sorry, Bertie.” Sinclair stroked the backs of her fingers. “I’ve dragged you straight into my troubles. It appears that James hired Devlin to try to find you to hurt me. I’d thought James safely in a prison somewhere long ago, or maybe dead and gone, but he must have persuaded the prison governors to let him out. The man always had a smooth tongue.”

“Confidence tricksters talk their way out of everything,” Bertie said. “They’re good at making people believe they can’t be that bad. Or that they’ve changed. They lie, every time.”

The handkerchief grew bright red with blood. There wasn’t quite as much blood as Bertie feared, but that didn’t mean the wound was trivial.

Sinclair needed to be examined and stitched up. But here they were, stuck down a hole, with men roaming the streets looking for them. Sinclair’s face was gray-white, his voice, as reassuring as he tried to make it, dry and growing faint. He might die down here before they could get out. Devlin might give up eventually—depended on how much he was being paid—but it might be too late for Sinclair.

Bertie pulled out her own handkerchief and pressed its pristine white fabric to the wound. Sinclair grunted, body moving. “Am I hurting you?” Bertie asked anxiously. “I’m trying not to.”

“You’re doing fine, love. Don’t be scared. We’ll get out of this.”

Bertie drew a breath, letting his warm Scottish voice flow over her. “You’re good at reassuring me, but I’d rather hear some plans for doing it.”

“I’m thinking. Don’t rush me.”

“Says the man who boasts about his soldiering days, surviving by a hairsbreadth in North Africa.”

“I don’t boast.” Sinclair contrived to look offended. “I tell Andrew stories.”

Bertie laughed shakily. “Sounds like boasting to me. All your courage in the face of danger.”

“It’s a relief that I made it home to have a son to tell the stories to.”

“Well, maybe you’ll be able to tell him this story,” Bertie said.

“I will.” Sinclair’s eyes slid closed, his hand going slack on hers.

She shook him. “No! Stay awake.”

Sinclair opened his eyes again, gray slits in the dim light. “I’m alive. Don’t worry.”

“But you can’t go to sleep. Keep talking to me.” Bertie’s small handkerchief was soon soaked. All she had left was the cloth she’d lifted from James. It was fine linen, expensive, handmade with initials stitched into the corners.

“Talking,” Sinclair said. “I’ve been doing that my entire life. As a child, as an officer, as a barrister. Too much bloody talking.”

“I like hearing you talk.” Bertie pressed James’s clean handkerchief over the bloody hole. “I like your accent, and the way your voice fills up the spaces. It’s the first thing I noticed about you, your voice. Standing in that courtroom, looking the judge in the eye, your words rumbling strong as you told him Ruthie didn’t kill that poor woman. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

Sinclair’s brows twitched upward. “You flatter me.”

“I thought you were wonderful. And handsome. And kind. You helped my friend, saved her life. But you looked so empty and sad afterward, not glad you’d been right. I wanted to know why—I wanted to know everything about you. That’s why I followed you home.”

His eyes went warm, the corners of his mouth twitching. “After stealing my watch. And kissing me, little wretch.”

“Couldn’t help meself, could I?” Bertie asked. “I had a handsome man hidden away with me. I should have been afraid of you, but I knew you were good inside, all the way through. So I kissed ya.” She grinned. “I was right. You are good all the way through.”

“No, I’m not.” Sinclair’s eyes drifted closed again. “I have a black heart, love.”

“You don’t.” Bertie pressed harder on the handkerchief. “You have a good heart, a caring one. Look at you with your kids, and helping people like Ruthie. And me.” He didn’t stir, and Bertie’s fears came pouring in on her.

“Don’t,” she said frantically. “Don’t die on me and leave me alone. Please.” She laid her head on his chest while she held the handkerchief to the wound, relieved to hear the slow beating of his heart. “I love you, Sinclair McBride. Don’t leave me before I can tell you that.”

Chapter 26

Sinclair’s head was buzzing, everything seeming far away and small. The only sharp points were the pain in his abdomen, and Bertie’s voice. I love you, Sinclair McBride.

Bertie. Sinclair felt her warm weight on him, tried to move his fingers to stroke her hair. I’m all right. I’ll be all right. You’re with me.

He didn’t hear the words come out of his mouth, which worried him. The knife hadn’t gone in that far, had it? The thick wool of his greatcoat and frock coat beneath had slowed the blade. Hell, the thing had had to penetrate five layers of cloth.

But the knife had been sharp, thin, precise. Sinclair could no longer feel his fingers.