Rules for a Proper Governess
Page 47

Margaret’s fate was sealed when she married you. The accusation resounded in his head. Sinclair remembered every detail of Helena saying it, the fix of her eyes, the movement of her mouth, the shrill tone of her voice. Helena had worked to take most of her northern Irish lilt out of her voice when she’d moved to England, trying desperately to distance herself from those Irish who wanted freedom from English rule. As a result, she always sounded wrong and stilted, her words overly pronounced.
Helena had made the same accusation she had today more baldly after Daisy’s death, in private—You killed her.
Edward had agreed with his wife, still did.
Tonight Sinclair had put out all the lights and pulled the drapes, so that darkness coated his bedroom, but he turned his head and gazed straight at Daisy’s photograph. He knew what he’d see if there’d been light enough—the dark eyes that had looked out at him from the photo had never been accusing, only loving.
She’s a cow, Bertie had said stoutly about Helena. Don’t listen to her.
Bertie had a way of putting things—straightforward, practical, never wavering. Sinclair’s first instinct had been to tuck Bertie and his children under his arms and rush them to Scotland then and there. They’d be away from Helena, away from Bertie’s vengeful Jeffrey, away from the noise and darkness of the city. Constant, constant noise. Though Sinclair had thought about London’s lively side today when they’d gone out, tonight he hated it. He wanted Scotland, his home.
Bertie, on the other hand, embraced London. She was a child of the city, laughing at its inconvenience, blithely walking through smoke, soot, and dirt as though it couldn’t cling to her. She was down-to-earth; Sinclair was lost in the fog.
In Scotland, he could be alone with her. No prying neighbors. No solicitors fighting one another to hand him their cases, no judges watching Sinclair to see whether he was worthy to be one of them. In Scotland, in his house beside the deep loch, Sinclair could be truly alone. With Bertie. He needed her. In Scotland, he’d bring her into his life, no matter what.
His thoughts turned to her teaching him about pickpocketing, and he wanted to laugh. Bertie had plucked Sinclair clean each time, showing him he was hopeless before her skills. Distraction indeed.
But he had skills of his own. He’d use them. His body warmed. Bertie would learn just what sort of skills Sinclair had, and what kind of distractions he could cause with them. With luck, they wouldn’t see the out-of-doors for days.
Sinclair let his eyes drift closed, ready to let his imagination show him what they’d do, step by slow step.
He opened them the next moment, coming alert.
He’d heard a tinkle of glass downstairs, and a few seconds after that, a muffled thump.
Chapter 14
Sinclair quietly rose, pulled on a dressing gown and slippers, and moved silently from his bedroom into his study. He wasn’t afraid—he knew in his blood and bones that there was a threat, but he also knew he could deal with it.
He made his way to his desk, unlocking and sliding out the drawer he always kept in good repair. Inside was a Webley pistol and a box of bullets. Fingers steady, Sinclair loaded the gun, tucked it into his dressing gown pocket, and left the room.
No one else hurried to see what the noise had been. Macaulay slept in a room off the kitchens downstairs, as did the cook and Peter, and they might not have heard. The maids and Mrs. Hill had comfortable rooms in the attics, likely too far away from the lower rooms to have been awakened by the soft sounds.
The house was dark, the stairwell lit by only one lamp, turned low, on each floor. Mrs. Hill liked to save on the gas, so most lights were extinguished when the household went to bed. If anyone got up in the night, rushed about, and tripped, that was their own fault, in Mrs. Hill’s opinion.
Sinclair had come to know the stairs well on his sleepless nights, and he traversed them without difficulty. He knew which stair creaked and which spindle on the railing was loose, and how to move past them like smoke.
Down, down, down to the ground floor. He heard no more thumps, but he did hear a clinking sound, coupled with low voices, coming from the dining room.
Sinclair put his hand on his pistol, lifted it from his pocket, and eased open the dining room door.
Bertie stood near the table, watching as a beefy young man filled a valise with silver pieces taken from the open breakfront. The tinkling he’d heard had come from the thief breaking the glass door of the cabinet, which was always kept locked—Mrs. Hill and Sinclair had the only keys. The thump must have been the stout valise being hoisted to the table. The windows on the far end of the room, overlooking the garden, were closed, whole, and unbroken. A kerosene lamp burned at the end of the table, giving a warm glow to the scene.
“I told you, I ain’t giving you any more,” Bertie said. “You take that and get out.”
“For this time,” the man said. “I’ll be back. You’ll have more for me if you know what’s good for you, Bertie-girl—and for them.”
“No, I won’t. You’ll get me sacked, and worse. You know my dad will beat you if my wages get taken away, and I tell him it’s your fault.”
“You listen here.” The man, who must be Jeffrey, abandoned the valise and went to Bertie. “You will rob this fool blind for us, and if you get caught, it’s you what gets to hang. Serves you right for abandoning us. You don’t belong here, and you know it, so stop pretending.”
“I ain’t pretending. The kids like me. I’m good at looking after them.”