“I can’t,” Bertie said. “I’ve got a proper job now. For real wages.”
“You don’t unless I say you have,” her father said with a snarl.
Bertie jerked away, picked up the case, and marched toward the door. Her dad came after her. Gerry could be clumsy and slow after a night of gin, but today she was unlucky. He got between her and the door.
“You running away from me to be some man’s fancy piece?” Gerry seized her arm again, and this time his grip bit down hard. “The hell you are. You start my breakfast, or I’ll beat you black and blue.”
“No, you’ll let me go!”
Gerry was strong, always had been. But Bertie had learned, long ago, that if she fought back, and fought hard, she could usually get away. She would run off and hide in her sanctuary until her father calmed down and got into one of his good moods. Wasn’t no one more generous than Bertie’s dad when he was feeling good. Problem was, she could never be sure when he’d be in a sunny temper, and his good mood always wore off.
“Need any help, miss?” a gravelly voice asked.
The duke’s coachman had opened the door—he was a big, brawny man with broad shoulders, a flat face, and giant hands. He looked like a prizefighter and had a powerful voice to match.
“Is this him?” Gerry asked. “Your fancy man?”
Bertie rolled her eyes. “You’ve got a wild imagination, you have.”
The coachman peeled Gerry away from her. He didn’t jerk or punch, he just pulled Bertie’s father back with one large hand on his shoulder, and Gerry had no choice but to move.
Bertie gave the coachman a grateful look. “Go easy on him, all right? He’s always in a bad way after he’s had too much gin.”
The prizefighter bent his thick neck in a nod but continued to hold her father in place with the strength of a stolid bull.
“Bertie-girl,” Gerry yelled as Bertie slipped around them and out the door. He sounded pathetic and lost, as he usually did when coming off a hangover. “You can’t leave me. Who’s gonna look after me?”
Bertie glanced back from the stairwell. Her father peered at her around the coachman’s large arm, his face stark with fear. He really was a hopeless old sot, when it came down to it.
“I’ll send Mrs. Lang to look in on you. You know you like her.” Mrs. Lang was a publican’s widow and worked as a barmaid at Bertie’s dad’s local. She was one of the few people who could handle Gerry Frasier and his moods.
Bertie made herself turn and head down the stairs, resolutely shutting off the sight of her father and the sound of his pleas.
A street lad was holding the horses when Bertie came out, and interested neighbors had come out to watch. Franklin helped Bertie into the coach under their stares, both curious and belligerent.
Not many minutes later, the coachman emerged from the house, not looking any the worse for wear. Bertie asked if he could stop the coach at the pub down the lane, and he nodded in his taciturn way and climbed to his perch.
Bertie settled into the seat as Franklin slammed the door, and hugged her valise to her, her fingers cold in her gloves. The ducal coach crunched forward through the squalid streets of her childhood, taking her away.
The house filled up with people before Sinclair could stop them. He studied the crowd from the double doorway of his ground-floor drawing room, wondering what the devil all of them were doing in London. English society was supposed to be off in the country shooting things or preparing for a country Christmas, but both his front and back parlors, the large doors open between them, were stuffed full of guests.
Sinclair’s newest sister-in-law, Rose, had been a duchess—briefly—and Sinclair’s sister, Ainsley, had once been a lady-in-waiting to the queen. Between the pair of them, they knew everyone in London, and Juliana, who’d married Sinclair’s wild brother, Elliot, was amazingly fond of organizing.
When Sinclair had let slip a few weeks before that he was thinking of inviting people for a gathering before he left for Scotland, the three ladies had become a whirlwind. Tonight, Sinclair barely recognized his own house, which was festooned with ribbons and greenery for QC Sinclair McBride’s London Christmas soiree.
The children were upstairs, with Bertie. Sinclair hadn’t seen much of his pickpocket these past few days, ever since the night he’d asked her to stay. Many cases were being tried at the Old Bailey this week, the courts hurrying to have them done before they adjourned for the holidays. Sinclair was in court long hours every day, then back in his chambers preparing for more trials well into each night.
Or perhaps he was simply avoiding going home. Thinking of Bertie laughing with his children in the nursery or asleep in the bedroom above his office kept him restless and randy.
Mrs. Hill had promised that either she or Macaulay would return to the agency and bring back a list of potential governesses, but strangely, neither the housekeeper nor Macaulay had found time to do it. Sinclair thought he understood their procrastination. Andrew and Cat had been astonishingly well behaved—for them—ever since Miss Frasier had arrived. The consensus in the house was that, no matter how unconventional Miss Frasier might be, it was worth their sanity to have her here.
Their sanity might be safe, Sinclair thought darkly, but his own was in jeopardy.
Sinclair spied his brother Elliot near the windows and made for him.
“I understand Juliana being here,” Sinclair said, scooping champagne from a footman’s tray as he neared Elliot. “But you, little brother? You don’t like crowds. Or fuss. Or Englishmen.” Sinclair took a deep drink of the champagne and tried not to make a face. Whiskey, unfortunately, was nowhere in sight. Juliana, Rose, and Ainsley said that champagne was the thing for a London soiree.
Elliot drank nothing—he simply stood and watched the cream of society talking at length about very little at the tops of their voices. “I could go off into a dark corner and brood, if it would make you feel better,” he said.
Sinclair answered with a laugh, happy his brother could joke again. Elliot’s scarred face no longer bore the lines of exhaustion he’d worn for years, and the darkness in his eyes had lightened. Elliot had experienced hell as the captive of a particularly brutal tribe in the mountains north of the Punjab, and the McBrides had feared him dead for many months. It would take a long time for Elliot to fully heal, Sinclair knew, but Elliot’s episodes of darkness had lessened considerably since his marriage. The fact that Elliot could stand next to Sinclair and smile at his own joke was the greatest gift Juliana had given the McBrides.
“For a time I thought one of us would have to shoot you,” Sinclair said, taking another sip of overly sweet champagne. “I’m happy we didn’t. Of course, if I drink more of this treacle, I might ask you to drag me off and end my misery.”
Elliot answered with a laugh, which warmed Sinclair’s heart. “If you want to know, I’m here for her.” Elliot nodded in the direction of a pretty, smiling, red-headed young woman who was at the moment working to sweeten a dour judge who’d been invited to bolster Sinclair’s career. Elliot’s gray eyes softened. “I like to watch my Juliana shine.”
The simple statement made Sinclair’s gratitude to his sister-in-law surge.
Elliot’s attention was caught by something behind Sinclair. “Careful,” he said. “Matchmaking ladies on your blind side.”
Sinclair turned as Eleanor, Duchess of Kilmorgan, and Rose, now Mrs. Steven McBride, approached, the two ladies flanking a third woman.
She was Mrs. Thomalin—whom he’d kissed and planned to take to dinner when he had the chance. Mrs. Thomalin was in her early thirties and curvaceous of figure, with a mass of golden hair meticulously braided and curled. Her face held beauty, and her eyes were blue, her smile inviting.
Sinclair also noted, with his barrister’s scrutiny, that everything about her dress and hair was done with the utmost attention to the most recent sty
le, though not fussily so. Clara Thomalin had taken care to present a pleasing picture to the world, but she didn’t ruin it by constantly patting her hair or clothes to make sure all was well. She was poised and sure of herself.
Sinclair couldn’t help himself assessing people—he’d learned to take stock of every facet of a person in the dock and witness box, every reaction, every twitch, every way they carried themselves. He learned them, and then drilled through them to get at the truth.
Therefore, Sinclair saw, penetrating Mrs. Thomalin’s smile and polite handshake, that she fully intended to share Sinclair’s bed this night.
Bertie watched from the landing between the upper floors as the last of the guests flowed out the door and into the night. Andrew and Cat had sat on the stairs with her for much of the evening, looking down at the throng below. Andrew had laughed at everyone, but Cat only watched quietly, saying nothing.
When the two children began to droop, Bertie took them back to the nursery and tucked them up in bed. Then she’d returned, moving down the stairs as far as she dared before settling in to watch once more.
The duchess, Eleanor, had spied Bertie on the landing and given her a friendly wave. Bertie raised her hand in return, expecting the lady to point her out, or come up and try to talk to her. But Eleanor only turned away with her formidable husband, leaving Bertie safe.
Bertie decided she quite liked the blond Ainsley, Sinclair’s sister, who was much like him in her restless movements, her sudden smiles and flashes of frowns. Changeable, that was a good word for Sinclair. His brothers Elliot and Steven had the same changeability, though Elliot’s was more subdued. He’d been broken at some time, Bertie knew—Mrs. Hill had told Bertie much about the McBrides and their history. For all Mrs. Hill’s puckered expressions, she was a ready font of gossip, and all of it interesting.
Bertie did not like the woman with her hair all primped who’d been hanging on to Sinclair’s arm the latter half of the night. She’d been with him every time he drifted toward the drawing room doorway or into the hall to say good-bye to departing guests. The woman was pretty and dressed like a fashion plate, an upper-class lady, elegant, even regal. A friend of Steven’s wife, Bertie gleaned, which meant she was sanctioned by family.
Bertie’s heart burned when the footman Peter closed the door on the final guests, but Sinclair and the woman—Clara, Bertie had heard her called—remained in the hall together, arm in arm.
“Go to bed, Peter,” Sinclair said. “You’ve done a good night’s work. I’ll see to Mrs. Thomalin.”
Oh, he’d see to her, all right. Bertie’s eyes narrowed. From the sparkle in the woman’s eyes, she was looking forward to being seen to.
Peter faded discreetly toward the back stairs, leaving Sinclair and Mrs. Thomalin alone. Mrs. Thomalin turned her face up to Sinclair’s, and Sinclair leaned down and kissed her.
Bertie stood frozen on the landing, unable to pull back into the shadows. She couldn’t move, fixed in place to watch them kiss—lengthy, experienced kisses, none of the blundering Bertie had done.
Clara lifted her head and gave Sinclair a tender look. Sinclair rested his hand on Clara’s chest, much of it bared by her low neckline, and Bertie’s heart bled anew.
They were going to share a bed, the one on the floor below hers. Sinclair would strip off his clothes to reveal his fine and handsome body, and he would kiss the shameless Mrs. Thomalin as he undressed her. Mrs. Thomalin would be privileged to see his smile in the dark, to watch his gray eyes lose their bleakness as he laid himself on top of her.
Bertie held on to the railing, as though the floor undulated beneath her feet. She felt a hotness in her eyes and realized she was about to cry. Bertie rarely cried, not even when her dad was at his most brutal. She’d learned to hold it in. But at the moment, her shaking limbs and tight chest told her tears were coming.
Sinclair and Mrs. Thomalin broke off from each other long enough to start for the stairs. Bertie gathered the skirts of her new, gray cashmere dress, and sped silently up the rest of the staircase. She shot into her bedroom, her breath hurting, and closed the door without making a noise.
She stood for a long time in the middle of her bedchamber, her throat working, eyes stinging, fists clenching and unclenching. Her body was so stiff her legs ached.
What was she doing here? In this house, in Mayfair at all? Bertie had allowed herself to be persuaded that she could live here as though she belonged here. But she knew she didn’t.
She knew why she’d ignored common sense and stayed—not for the salary or new clothes or the soft bed and warm rooms. Bertie had stayed to be close to Sinclair McBride. She’d wanted to see him every day, to hear his voice and be near him, even if she couldn’t have him.
Foolish girl. Living here meant Bertie would have to bear it when a pretty lady like Mrs. Thomalin decided to latch on to him. Sinclair was a man, after all. Most men, in Bertie’s experience, didn’t remain celibate for long. And what happened if Sinclair decided to marry and give his children a new mum? No woman would want a governess who’d thrown herself at and kissed her husband to go on looking after his children.
Bertie made a move toward her valise. Her worn-out green dress had gone, snatched away by Aoife and quickly sold to a rag and bone man by Mrs. Hill. Bertie had three new dresses now, two gray and one dark blue-and-green plaid. The plaid one was for special occasions, Mrs. Hill had said. But the gowns weren’t really hers, and Bertie knew it. Sinclair had paid for them.
She took the underclothing she’d brought from home out of the bureau, leaving the new set of smalls Mrs. Hill had given her behind. Sinclair knew her for a thief, but she refused to rob him as she went, refused to give him the satisfaction. She’d take only her own things, leaving the ribbons and the little brush and comb set Mrs. Hill had also provided. Mrs. Hill, as cold as she pretended to be, had proved to be quite thoughtful, underneath it all.
Bertie shut her valise with a snap, blinking back her tears. She’d go. She’d hurry down the stairs as soon as Sinclair was safely cuddling with Mrs. Thomalin, slip past Peter, and let herself out. Back to the cold darkness of a London winter.
In the next room, Caitriona cried out in her sleep.
Bertie found herself abandoning the valise and any thoughts of escape to hurry to the nursery. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t leave them alone, could she? Cat and Andrew needed her—that had been clear from the first day.
Cat was all right, sleeping peacefully by the time Bertie reached her bed. Whatever dream had disturbed her had gone. Cat’s eyes were closed, her breathing even, her arm snugly around her doll.
The doll stared up at Bertie in the light of the low-burning lamp, smiling as though to say all was well—she was standing guard. Bertie pressed a light kiss to Caitriona’s forehead and moved across the room to Andrew’s bed.
Which was empty. The sheets were rumpled, the pillow dented, and Andrew McBride was nowhere in sight.
Chapter 8
Satiation. That was key. When bodily needs overtook the senses, it was time to relieve them so one could concentrate. Even doctors said that.
Sinclair looked into Clara Thomalin’s eyes as he shut the door on his upstairs study, taking in her smile, her blue eyes, her pleasing curves. She was pretty, willing, and as lonely as he was. Nothing wrong with passing a night together. They were grown people, had both been married and could be discreet, knowing the way of the world.
So why did Sinclair feel so much reluctance? This was bodily passion alone—it was for Clara as well, he could see. They’d come together, soothe their desires, and return to everyday life.
Clara’s smile widened as Sinclair slid off his frock coat then came to her and put his hands on her shoulders. Her bodice was cut to expose much flesh—shoulders, upper arms, and breasts to just above her nipples. Clara’s skin was cool, not much heat in it, and its color was what ladies
called alabaster. Pure white, like a statue. A woman who hid herself from the sun.
Was the rest of her body as pale? Clara had very fair hair, true blond, no artifice. Which meant her hair elsewhere wouldn’t have much color either.
A contrast flashed through his mind—a young woman with dark hair, pink cheeks, and a mouth widening in delighted laughter. A Cockney accent and a teasing tone while she told him exactly what she thought of him.
Sinclair closed his eyes, shutting out the vision, as his lips met Clara’s cool ones. Clara knew exactly how to kiss—her answering pressure was demure enough to indicate she didn’t have this sort of liaison all the time, firm enough to tell him she’d shared a bed with a man before and liked it.
No unpracticed but enthusiastic kisses that meant she was excited to be kissing him. No shy smile when she drew back, no excited laughter.
Don’t think about it. Just get on with it.
Sinclair slid one arm around Clara and pulled her up to him. She wasn’t any warmer when closer.
He moved his hand to her breasts. Clara exhaled in satisfaction, but good Lord, this woman’s skin was cold. Perhaps he should summon a doctor—
Thump. Thump. “Mr. McBride?”
Sinclair ripped away from Clara, his heart banging. She stepped back, startled and flushing. “Who?” she mouthed.
Bertie. The name burst into Sinclair’s brain, but he said nothing.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. McBride.” Bertie’s voice was stiff and stilted, trying to mask the London backstreets in her words. “I need to come in.”
“The governess,” Sinclair said softly. He put a hand on Clara’s chilled shoulder. A shawl—that’s what the woman needed. It was December, for pity’s sake, and she’d bared a good portion of her body to the winter air. Astonishing she wasn’t sniffling with a head cold. “I’d better see to it.”