Rules for a Proper Governess
Page 85
Bertie understood, but she was too agitated to answer. Sinclair turned aside from the crowd, pulling the man with him. Sinclair’s face had gone hard, eyes glittering.
“Now tell me what you’re doing here,” Sinclair was saying when Bertie and the pugilist reached them. Sinclair held the man by the collar of his coat. “Why are you even in England?”
“What did you think?” The man had a broad Irish accent. “That I’d let you take my Daisy, and that would be the end of it?”
Bertie stared in shock. Daisy? Was this the man, James, whom Sinclair’s wife had eloped with all those years ago? Things clicked together, and Bertie stepped forward. “You’ve been sending the letters, haven’t you?” she demanded. “Those bloody awful letters.”
“Bertie,” Sinclair said, his voice low but firm. “Go back to the carriage.”
“Not likely,” Bertie said. “Nasty piece of work, aren’t you?”
Sinclair shot the pugilist a glare, and the man put his beefy hand on Bertie’s shoulder. “Best come with me, miss.”
Bertie ducked out from under him. “Should be him you’re taking hold of, and giving him to the coppers.”
“Letters?” James gave Sinclair a beatific smile. “No idea what she’s talking about.” His eyes were innocent, but Bertie was good at seeing through lies, and so was Sinclair. James was handsome enough, with charm in his smile. No surprise Sinclair’s wife had fallen for the scoundrel, but she’d soon learned her mistake, hadn’t she? “D’ye think I’m foolish enough to leave anything behind to connect me with any letters?” James asked.
Not if he were a good confidence trickster, he wouldn’t. Confidence men always traveled light, ready to throw their worldly goods into a small bag and dash away, leaving no trace of themselves behind.
But then, he might have kept something . . .
“Miss,” the pugilist said. His hand landed on her shoulder again.
Bertie twisted away. This time she pretended to trip, and landed hard against James. As he started and tried to push her away, her hands went to work.
Bertie spun away, ran a few paces, and turned back, dangling a handkerchief, a slim wallet, a card case, and a watch from her hands.
“I wonder what I’ll find in all this?” Bertie asked.
Sinclair looked grim, but also as though he understood why she’d done it. James’s smooth smile vanished, then he snarled and started after her.
Sinclair grabbed for him but James leapt away, sliding from his grasp as skillfully as Bertie could have. He rushed at Bertie, and Bertie turned and fled.
She made for the coach, which was sitting a little way down from them, jammed in by traffic. Richards was standing up, looking for them. Before Bertie got halfway to it, James seized her by her coat, hauling her back. Her hat slipped, sagging by its pins over her eye.
Bertie knew the pugilist and Sinclair were steps away, but still she felt a qualm of fear as James pulled her around with unkind hands, shoving her into a noisome passage. Confidence men preferred to fight with their tongues, but when they were put to it, they could be very dangerous, violently so.
James blocked her way out to the busier street where the coach and freedom lay. “Give them back, ye bloody little whore.” He thrust his hands inside Bertie’s coat, but she’d already secreted her takings in inner pockets. She knew exactly how to stash gear quickly, all the better to run from the constables.
Where was Sinclair? There was a press of traffic and people at the entrance to the passage, but this little artery could be another world—and quiet.
Fear made her act. Maloney might have a weapon on him, and she had no doubt he’d be happy to pluck his things from her dead body.
She kicked him hard, her pointed-toed, high-heeled boot making a formidable weapon. When James bellowed, Bertie followed it up by grabbing him by the hair and pulling him hard to the wall behind her.
While he shouted and scrambled to right himself, Bertie was away.
James recovered swiftly enough to get between her and the street, but such things wouldn’t slow down Bertie. She’d been born and bred in these alleyways, and she knew better than anyone how to snake around, losing pursuit, and finding her way to where she needed to go.
She ran, dodging into another passage, jumping over filmy puddles and patches of stinking mud. She kept her hand on her hat as she sprinted. Bertie loved this hat, the gift from Eleanor, and she vowed not to lose it to the grimy streets of London.
She heard James come behind her, his fine shoes grating in the muck. He could run almost as well as Bertie could, unfortunately. Of course, he’d likely become fast from evading the police all his life. Those who learned to move swiftly at an early age survived the longest.
On the other hand, Bertie figured she knew these streets better than any Irish stranger. Sinclair would be coming, and she could lead James to where he’d be caught, unable to get away.
She turned from Whitechapel and plunged south into the warren of lanes and courtyards, heading toward the river. “Lads,” she shouted as she raced along. “I’m bringing one in!”
Word would pass ahead of her. Bertie ran as she hadn’t run in a long time, though her new boots pinched her feet. Posh shoes weren’t made for this kind of flight.
Bertie dashed through frozen filth, the usual detritus of broken glass, stones, splinters of wood, and other trash crushing under her feet. The darkness increased between the close-set houses, mist clinging to her as though it had weight.
“Now tell me what you’re doing here,” Sinclair was saying when Bertie and the pugilist reached them. Sinclair held the man by the collar of his coat. “Why are you even in England?”
“What did you think?” The man had a broad Irish accent. “That I’d let you take my Daisy, and that would be the end of it?”
Bertie stared in shock. Daisy? Was this the man, James, whom Sinclair’s wife had eloped with all those years ago? Things clicked together, and Bertie stepped forward. “You’ve been sending the letters, haven’t you?” she demanded. “Those bloody awful letters.”
“Bertie,” Sinclair said, his voice low but firm. “Go back to the carriage.”
“Not likely,” Bertie said. “Nasty piece of work, aren’t you?”
Sinclair shot the pugilist a glare, and the man put his beefy hand on Bertie’s shoulder. “Best come with me, miss.”
Bertie ducked out from under him. “Should be him you’re taking hold of, and giving him to the coppers.”
“Letters?” James gave Sinclair a beatific smile. “No idea what she’s talking about.” His eyes were innocent, but Bertie was good at seeing through lies, and so was Sinclair. James was handsome enough, with charm in his smile. No surprise Sinclair’s wife had fallen for the scoundrel, but she’d soon learned her mistake, hadn’t she? “D’ye think I’m foolish enough to leave anything behind to connect me with any letters?” James asked.
Not if he were a good confidence trickster, he wouldn’t. Confidence men always traveled light, ready to throw their worldly goods into a small bag and dash away, leaving no trace of themselves behind.
But then, he might have kept something . . .
“Miss,” the pugilist said. His hand landed on her shoulder again.
Bertie twisted away. This time she pretended to trip, and landed hard against James. As he started and tried to push her away, her hands went to work.
Bertie spun away, ran a few paces, and turned back, dangling a handkerchief, a slim wallet, a card case, and a watch from her hands.
“I wonder what I’ll find in all this?” Bertie asked.
Sinclair looked grim, but also as though he understood why she’d done it. James’s smooth smile vanished, then he snarled and started after her.
Sinclair grabbed for him but James leapt away, sliding from his grasp as skillfully as Bertie could have. He rushed at Bertie, and Bertie turned and fled.
She made for the coach, which was sitting a little way down from them, jammed in by traffic. Richards was standing up, looking for them. Before Bertie got halfway to it, James seized her by her coat, hauling her back. Her hat slipped, sagging by its pins over her eye.
Bertie knew the pugilist and Sinclair were steps away, but still she felt a qualm of fear as James pulled her around with unkind hands, shoving her into a noisome passage. Confidence men preferred to fight with their tongues, but when they were put to it, they could be very dangerous, violently so.
James blocked her way out to the busier street where the coach and freedom lay. “Give them back, ye bloody little whore.” He thrust his hands inside Bertie’s coat, but she’d already secreted her takings in inner pockets. She knew exactly how to stash gear quickly, all the better to run from the constables.
Where was Sinclair? There was a press of traffic and people at the entrance to the passage, but this little artery could be another world—and quiet.
Fear made her act. Maloney might have a weapon on him, and she had no doubt he’d be happy to pluck his things from her dead body.
She kicked him hard, her pointed-toed, high-heeled boot making a formidable weapon. When James bellowed, Bertie followed it up by grabbing him by the hair and pulling him hard to the wall behind her.
While he shouted and scrambled to right himself, Bertie was away.
James recovered swiftly enough to get between her and the street, but such things wouldn’t slow down Bertie. She’d been born and bred in these alleyways, and she knew better than anyone how to snake around, losing pursuit, and finding her way to where she needed to go.
She ran, dodging into another passage, jumping over filmy puddles and patches of stinking mud. She kept her hand on her hat as she sprinted. Bertie loved this hat, the gift from Eleanor, and she vowed not to lose it to the grimy streets of London.
She heard James come behind her, his fine shoes grating in the muck. He could run almost as well as Bertie could, unfortunately. Of course, he’d likely become fast from evading the police all his life. Those who learned to move swiftly at an early age survived the longest.
On the other hand, Bertie figured she knew these streets better than any Irish stranger. Sinclair would be coming, and she could lead James to where he’d be caught, unable to get away.
She turned from Whitechapel and plunged south into the warren of lanes and courtyards, heading toward the river. “Lads,” she shouted as she raced along. “I’m bringing one in!”
Word would pass ahead of her. Bertie ran as she hadn’t run in a long time, though her new boots pinched her feet. Posh shoes weren’t made for this kind of flight.
Bertie dashed through frozen filth, the usual detritus of broken glass, stones, splinters of wood, and other trash crushing under her feet. The darkness increased between the close-set houses, mist clinging to her as though it had weight.
