“What are you doing here?” Bertie asked in a low but fierce voice. “I’ve got a respectable job now. What do you want?”
“I wondered why you ran off from me,” Jeffrey said. “I was that riled at you, Bertie-girl. But now I’ve twigged to what you were doing. Clever, to get right into the man’s house. Send us the word, clear out of the house, and then we’ll clear it out.” He laughed, his ale-soaked breath washing over her.
“No, you won’t,” Bertie said furiously. “You won’t come anywhere near him or his house. I’m looking after his kids now, not setting up a mark for you.”
“Load of cobblers.” Jeffrey closed the few inches of space between them. “You can pretend all you want, but you ain’t respectable. Never will be. All I have to do is slip a nod to a magistrate that you’re a pickpocket, and he’ll haul you up before him quick as you please. I’ll make sure he knows about every bloke you done over and what you took. Bet those gents are still looking for their watches, or purses, or handkerchiefs.”
Bertie went even colder. “Yeah? Then you’ll have to tell about my dad, because he sold the stuff on. You think he’ll let you peach to a magistrate?”
Jeffrey’s expression grew less certain, but he scowled at her. “Look at you in your fancy gear, watching after brats in velvet collars. I bet his suit and her dress would fetch us enough to live on for a year, not to mention what you’ve got on your back. You start feeding us the goods, Bertie, or I’ll let on to your barrister all about you and what you get up to.”
Bertie jerked away to her feet. “He already knows about me. I told him.”
Jeffrey gave her a look of disbelief. “You told Basher McBride you were a thief? Couldn’t have, or I’d be talking to you in Newgate.”
“I did tell him. I didn’t rob him the other night—he gave me the sovereign to take home. He’s kindhearted.”
“And then asked you to look after his get?”
“Yes.” Bertie clenched her hands in her new gloves, which were soft leather and not out at the seams.
Jeffrey stared at her, then his face flushed, and he got off the bench to tower over her. “You’re getting on your knees for him, ain’t ya? You’re kicking your feet to the ceiling—and you’re trying to tell me you’re respectable. You’re whoring for him.”
“No!” Bertie said. “I’d never . . .” Her face went hot, because she knew she’d bloody well kick her feet up for Sinclair if ever he said the word. Last night, he’d done nothing but suckle her fingers, but he might as well have been at her breast or some other intimate part.
“No,” she repeated, making her voice firm. “What do you take me for? Why can’t you believe I have a proper job?”
“Because no gent would let the likes of you into his house or near his brats without you paying for it. If he ain’t done you, it just means he ain’t done you yet.” Jeffrey grabbed her wrist, the same one Sinclair had held so tightly the night before. “But you’re my girl, Bertie, and you’re coming home with me now.”
Sinclair left his chambers earlier than usual, another letter Henry delivered to him in the afternoon changing the entire day. This one wasn’t anonymous—Daisy’s brother had signed it, proud to throw threats at Sinclair and his family. The trouble was, the threats had teeth. Sinclair wasn’t in court this afternoon, thank God, so he packed up his valise and called for his carriage.
When he’d arrived this morning, Sinclair had been contemplating hiding in chambers, sleeping there, anything to stay away from Bertie. Now he knew he never could. After reading his brother-in-law’s letter, Sinclair wanted to be home, to surround himself with his children, to reassure himself that they were all right, to reassure them that he’d protect them at all costs.
Add to that the thought of Bertie there, and his home beckoned like a refuge. Sinclair wanted to see her, hungered for it. Even if he could only look upon her, listen to her no-nonsense voice and cheeky words, everything would be better. He had enough self-control to keep himself from ravishing his children’s governess, didn’t he? Sinclair was famous for his self-control, at least these days. His brothers teased him about it.
He reached home, the drive today seeming extraordinarily long. Afternoon sunshine slanted through the windows of the house as Sinclair tossed his greatcoat, hat, and gloves at Peter. The winter day had been mild, as winter in London could sometimes be—blue skies, crisp air, sun shining almost too brightly—but Sinclair was chilled.
The house was quiet, Bertie and his children safely tucked in the nursery, he assumed. Sinclair knew if he went straight to them, he’d alarm Cat and Andrew, who were sensitive to his moods and easily upset. He’d calm himself then go up to the nursery to be a cheerful father coming home from the office to visit his brood.
“I’ll be in my study,” he told Peter. “Not to be disturbed.”
“Yes, sir.” Peter smoothed the rumpled greatcoat in his arms and peered at Sinclair. “Anything I can get you, sir?”
“No.” Sinclair heard his abrupt tone and strove to soften it. “Thank you.”
“Right, sir.”
Sinclair took the stairs two at a time, barely out of breath when he reached the second landing. He had whiskey in his study, and plenty of it. Ever since Sinclair’s sister had married into the Mackenzie family, Sinclair had a standing order of the best Mackenzie malt, and Macaulay always kept the decanter stocked.
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?”
r />
“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.”
Bertie listened in alarm. “Can he do that?”
Sinclair felt his chest tighten again, but he made himself stop. He concentrated on exhaling, letting his lungs draw the air back in on their own. “It’s a possibility. A father has full say over his children, but if Edward can make a case that I’m incompetent, that the children would be better off if he and his wife took them in—dear God, Bertie, he could do it.”
“The law made me stay with my dad when my mum died,” Bertie said. “And he’s bloody awful.”
Sinclair shook his head. “Edward has much money and influence, many connections. He wants more money still, which is another reason the bastard is after me. If he can mold and shape Andrew, he can go to Andrew with his hand out when Andrew comes into his inheritance.” Sinclair scrubbed his hands over his face, his breathing easier now, but bleakness lingered in his heart. “What if Edward’s right? Look at me. I’m a wreck of a man. What kind of father have I been? My children are little devils. I love them, but I’m not blind. If I’d paid more attention, Andrew wouldn’t be so wild, or Cat so . . . detached.”
He found Bertie sitting close to him, her warm skirts spilling over his thighs. “Now, you stop right there, Mr. McBride,” she said, her eyes sparkling with anger. “You’re a perfectly fine father. You don’t beat them, first of all. You give them a good house, and lots of things, and book-learning—at least you try with the book-learning. I didn’t have none of that. This Edward can’t say your kids are mistreated, because they ain’t. I can see that. You’re good at laws. You’ll best him, I know it.”
Her confidence was as warm as her touch. “I’m a barrister,” Sinclair said. “An advocate. Not a solicitor. The niceties are beyond me.”
“What are you talking about? You stand up in court and tell everyone what’s right and what’s not.”
Sinclair wanted to laugh. “Love, I’ve known barristers who’ve never cracked a law book in their lives. They take on pupils to do the legal research for them. To be a barrister you only need a firm resolve, a persuasive way about you, and a large pair of bollocks.”
Bertie rewarded him with a brief grin. Her unwavering faith made Sinclair feel a bit better. Gave him hope, let him breathe easier. If Edward wanted a fight, he’d have one.
Then Bertie’s smile dimmed. “If your brother-in-law gets wind that I’m not a proper governess, he’ll use that against you too, won’t he?”
Her gaze was shrewd. She was right, and she knew it.
Sinclair squeezed her hand. Hers was small, delicate yet strong. These fingers had dipped into his pocket, unhooked his watch, and taken it without him detecting it.
And yet, she had finely shaped hands, skin a bit rough from too much manual work, but he didn’t mind. Sinclair lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips. Last night he’d suckled these fingers. He’d been half-drunk, disgusted with himself, and he’d needed her. He’d craved to have something of her in his mouth, and he hadn’t been able to let go of her once he’d started.
“Then we’ll make sure he doesn’t find out,” Sinclair said. “Cat and Andrew need you, and I can’t do this without you.” He kissed her fingers again, tenderly. “Everything’s dark for me, Bertie. But there’s a little flicker of light, the tiniest one. It’s above me every night, in the nursery and you next to it.” He pressed her hand between both of his, drawing in her warmth once more. “Please don’t put that light out.”
Bertie looked at him for a long time, a swallow moving down her throat. Sinclair knew he asked a lot of her—had since he’d chased her through the dark streets of London, determined to wrench his watch back from her. This morning he’d virtuously thought he could let her go, to prevent himself taking what he shouldn’t want.
This evening, he knew his virtuousness was a lie. Sinclair wanted her here, needed her, couldn’t let her walk out of his life, no matter what tricks they had to play on the rest of the world.
At last, Bertie smiled. She wrapped her hands around Sinclair’s, her dark blue eyes meeting his gaze over their twined fingers. “All right,” she said. “You convinced me. We’ll draw up the battlements here, and I’ll become the best governess London has ever seen. We’ll face them together, yeah?”
Easier said than done, Bertie thought the next morning. She knew she had to appear to be a well-read, genteel young lady, fit to take on the task of educating the McBride children. Not the simplest task in the world for Bertie Frasier. She’d have to put her mind to how to go about it, but she was determined to. Nobody was going to take these children away from Mr. McBride, not if she had anything to say about it.
<
br /> Bertie had begun the habit of taking the children for a walk straight after breakfast, after they waved their father good-bye. She’d found they settled down better to reading and things afterward. The previous governesses had forced them to stay inside until they’d done a certain amount of work, and that hadn’t done well, had it?
That morning, in light of Jeffrey’s threats, Sinclair had ordered Macaulay to accompany them everywhere, which was fine with Bertie. Though Macaulay still made her nervous, she was sure even Jeffrey would balk at taking on a giant in a kilt.
Macaulay trailed behind them, his usual taciturn self, but Bertie couldn’t quite forget he was there. He had a presence, did Macaulay.
He kept his eagle eye on the kids as they played—Andrew running, Cat perched on the edge of a bench writing in the book again. Macaulay had been so silent the entire hour that when he cleared his throat, the sound rumbling up from the depths of his large body, it was as though a volcano had begun to bubble over in the quiet tranquility of the park.
Bertie jumped, but Macaulay only fixed a sharp gaze on her and began to speak.
“I won’t lie to ye, lass,” he said in his blunt way. “I saw Mr. McBride with you upstairs after his fancy supper night before last, a-kissing ye.”
Chapter 11
Bertie’s face went scalding hot. Macaulay only watched her, daring her to deny she’d been in Sinclair’s embrace, which, of course, she couldn’t.
“He weren’t kissing me—” Bertie broke off. Explaining what Sinclair had been doing would be much more delicate and somewhat embarrassing. “What if he was?”
Macaulay kept his eye on her, the man looking out of place in this tame, manicured park. He’d be more at home striding across sweeping hills, his kilt swinging, his hair ruffled by a wild Scottish wind.