Rules for a Proper Governess
Page 10
No . . . The efficient man inside Sinclair who was able to gather, store, and understand facts in lightning succession began to sort things through. His rapid thinking and spot-on conclusions were what made him feared in the courtroom, won the grudging respect of judges, and terrified suspects in the dock.
The young woman had said she was a friend of Ruth Baxter, for whom Sinclair, or at least his junior clerk, Henry, had all the particulars. Miss Baxter would know who the young woman was, where she lived, and what her circumstances were. Sinclair could track her down within the day and . . .
What?
Thank her for the kiss? Give her more money? Advise her how to get away from her brute of a father?
Did the woman have a job, or was picking pockets her main source of income? Had she lied to grab Sinclair’s sympathy when she’d said her father sent her out to steal? Or was it the truth—because, of course, pickpockets were the most honest people on the streets.
At the very least, Sinclair could make certain her father left her alone. The young woman was of age—the plump firmness of her body, the tiny lines that feathered the corners of her eyes, and the worldly look in those eyes told him that. She was innocent of carnality, but that didn’t mean she was a child. She should have real employment, or someone looking after her. Something.
The heady wash of the kiss erased Sinclair’s common sense for a moment, and when his lust cleared again, he laughed at himself.
He’d never be able to track down the girl. Ruth would not give her friend over to a barrister of all people, no matter how grateful she was to Sinclair for setting her free. The girl with the violet-blue eyes would disappear into the endless drive of London. Sinclair would go back to his chambers to look over briefs, prepare for his next session in court, and try to push aside the pain that accompanied his life every day.
That, and . . .
“Papa!” A cannonball landed on his bed, one with small arms and legs, tow-colored hair, big gray eyes, and a wide smile.
Sinclair succumbed to his son’s enthusiastic hug then pushed him back. “It’s the middle of the bloody night, Andrew,” he rumbled.
Andrew shook his head in enthusiasm. “No it isn’t. It’s five o’clock in the morning, and our new governess smells funny.”
Chapter 4
“No, she—” Sinclair stopped. He couldn’t deny that he got a whiff of cod-liver oil every time Miss Evans walked by him. “It doesn’t matter. Miss Evans is your governess. No tormenting her, no toads in her bed.”
“No toads,” Andrew said in perfect agreement. Andrew had the sunniest disposition of anyone Sinclair knew, and also could cause more trouble than the most hardened criminals Sinclair had ever faced. “It’s too cold for toads,” Andrew went on. “But I found some beetles in the cellar.”
Sinclair gave him a stern look. “No beetles, no roaches, no spiders. No insects or arachnids of any kind. Understand?”
Andrew didn’t look contrite. “Yes, sir.”
Sinclair remained wary. He knew if he didn’t catalog specifically what Andrew shouldn’t do, the boy would come back to him later. But you didn’t say no goldfish!
Sinclair found matches on the bedside table and lit the lamp. His son, eight years old, already had the leggy, raw-boned look of the tall Scotsman he’d become. He had fair hair and gray eyes, a pure McBride.
The lamplight also fell on the photograph of Maggie McBride—Daisy—with her dark hair and laughing eyes, the blue of them obscured by the sepia photograph. Sinclair’s daughter, Caitriona, had the same eyes.
Andrew climbed over his father, picked up the photograph, and gave it a kiss. “’Morning, Mum,” he said, and put it back down.
He flopped onto the mattress, ready to snuggle in and continue his sleep. Sinclair knew bloody well Andrew had sneaked out of the nursery, so there would be uproar when he was found missing, but Sinclair didn’t have the heart to send him back. Andrew closed his eyes and made a good impression of a loud snore.
Sinclair lifted a handkerchief and wiped Andrew’s wet kiss from the photograph. He’d had to replace the glass in the frame a few times because of Andrew’s enthusiasm, but it didn’t matter.
The thing is, Daisy, Sinclair said silently, setting down the photograph and tucking the covers around his son, I think you would have liked her.
She was out in the city somewhere. One in hundreds of thousands of souls, a young woman with violet eyes and a warm smile, who kissed like fire. Sinclair would probably never see her again.
Bertie watched Mr. McBride emerge from his house on Upper Brook Street, a posh address, and no mistake. She munched the hot chestnuts she’d bought from a vendor, keeping her fingers and mouth warm as Mr. McBride turned to say something to a broad-shouldered Scotsman who’d followed him out.
The two men were about the same size, but the second one had flame red hair and wore a Scottish kilt and the coat of a slavey—maybe he was what they called a gentleman’s gentleman, a Scottish version of one. Ruthie had told Bertie that valets could be so haughty and correct you’d think they were the duke or baron. This one wasn’t so haughty—he looked more like a fighting man stuffed into a suit and not liking it. He growled something at Mr. McBride, and Mr. McBride growled right back. Good for him.
The red-haired Scotsman stepped aside as a coach came rattling up. The red-haired man opened the door for Mr. McBride, still scowling mightily, and Mr. McBride tossed a case inside the carriage.
The young woman had said she was a friend of Ruth Baxter, for whom Sinclair, or at least his junior clerk, Henry, had all the particulars. Miss Baxter would know who the young woman was, where she lived, and what her circumstances were. Sinclair could track her down within the day and . . .
What?
Thank her for the kiss? Give her more money? Advise her how to get away from her brute of a father?
Did the woman have a job, or was picking pockets her main source of income? Had she lied to grab Sinclair’s sympathy when she’d said her father sent her out to steal? Or was it the truth—because, of course, pickpockets were the most honest people on the streets.
At the very least, Sinclair could make certain her father left her alone. The young woman was of age—the plump firmness of her body, the tiny lines that feathered the corners of her eyes, and the worldly look in those eyes told him that. She was innocent of carnality, but that didn’t mean she was a child. She should have real employment, or someone looking after her. Something.
The heady wash of the kiss erased Sinclair’s common sense for a moment, and when his lust cleared again, he laughed at himself.
He’d never be able to track down the girl. Ruth would not give her friend over to a barrister of all people, no matter how grateful she was to Sinclair for setting her free. The girl with the violet-blue eyes would disappear into the endless drive of London. Sinclair would go back to his chambers to look over briefs, prepare for his next session in court, and try to push aside the pain that accompanied his life every day.
That, and . . .
“Papa!” A cannonball landed on his bed, one with small arms and legs, tow-colored hair, big gray eyes, and a wide smile.
Sinclair succumbed to his son’s enthusiastic hug then pushed him back. “It’s the middle of the bloody night, Andrew,” he rumbled.
Andrew shook his head in enthusiasm. “No it isn’t. It’s five o’clock in the morning, and our new governess smells funny.”
Chapter 4
“No, she—” Sinclair stopped. He couldn’t deny that he got a whiff of cod-liver oil every time Miss Evans walked by him. “It doesn’t matter. Miss Evans is your governess. No tormenting her, no toads in her bed.”
“No toads,” Andrew said in perfect agreement. Andrew had the sunniest disposition of anyone Sinclair knew, and also could cause more trouble than the most hardened criminals Sinclair had ever faced. “It’s too cold for toads,” Andrew went on. “But I found some beetles in the cellar.”
Sinclair gave him a stern look. “No beetles, no roaches, no spiders. No insects or arachnids of any kind. Understand?”
Andrew didn’t look contrite. “Yes, sir.”
Sinclair remained wary. He knew if he didn’t catalog specifically what Andrew shouldn’t do, the boy would come back to him later. But you didn’t say no goldfish!
Sinclair found matches on the bedside table and lit the lamp. His son, eight years old, already had the leggy, raw-boned look of the tall Scotsman he’d become. He had fair hair and gray eyes, a pure McBride.
The lamplight also fell on the photograph of Maggie McBride—Daisy—with her dark hair and laughing eyes, the blue of them obscured by the sepia photograph. Sinclair’s daughter, Caitriona, had the same eyes.
Andrew climbed over his father, picked up the photograph, and gave it a kiss. “’Morning, Mum,” he said, and put it back down.
He flopped onto the mattress, ready to snuggle in and continue his sleep. Sinclair knew bloody well Andrew had sneaked out of the nursery, so there would be uproar when he was found missing, but Sinclair didn’t have the heart to send him back. Andrew closed his eyes and made a good impression of a loud snore.
Sinclair lifted a handkerchief and wiped Andrew’s wet kiss from the photograph. He’d had to replace the glass in the frame a few times because of Andrew’s enthusiasm, but it didn’t matter.
The thing is, Daisy, Sinclair said silently, setting down the photograph and tucking the covers around his son, I think you would have liked her.
She was out in the city somewhere. One in hundreds of thousands of souls, a young woman with violet eyes and a warm smile, who kissed like fire. Sinclair would probably never see her again.
Bertie watched Mr. McBride emerge from his house on Upper Brook Street, a posh address, and no mistake. She munched the hot chestnuts she’d bought from a vendor, keeping her fingers and mouth warm as Mr. McBride turned to say something to a broad-shouldered Scotsman who’d followed him out.
The two men were about the same size, but the second one had flame red hair and wore a Scottish kilt and the coat of a slavey—maybe he was what they called a gentleman’s gentleman, a Scottish version of one. Ruthie had told Bertie that valets could be so haughty and correct you’d think they were the duke or baron. This one wasn’t so haughty—he looked more like a fighting man stuffed into a suit and not liking it. He growled something at Mr. McBride, and Mr. McBride growled right back. Good for him.
The red-haired Scotsman stepped aside as a coach came rattling up. The red-haired man opened the door for Mr. McBride, still scowling mightily, and Mr. McBride tossed a case inside the carriage.
