Rules for a Proper Governess
Page 93
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Bertie stirred, her eyes fluttering open. Her first puzzled look slowly dissolved, and a little smile moved her lips. Sinclair smiled back.
Bertie’s eyes widened, and she sat up straight. Her hand went to his forehead, then his face, then lightly landed on his chest. “You all right? How do you feel?”
“Bloody awful.” Sinclair winced at the croak that was his voice. “What about you? Throwing fireballs and breaking through walls, like a warrior woman. I’ll wager Boadicea is an ancestor of yours. Though I wager she was never as pretty.”
Bertie’s cheeks went red. “You’re a charmer, ain’t you? Bet you won’t be so charming while I’m changing your bandage.” Bertie sat up, reaching for a pile of cloth on the bedside table.
Sinclair rumbled a laugh. “I was never a good patient, lass, but I won’t promise not to seduce you while you’re nursing me. With the understanding that I can’t carry out anything I suggest until I can move again.” Sinclair’s breath went out of him as he twitched the wrong way. “Bloody hell.”
“You lie still.” Bertie grabbed the bandages and hurried around the bed. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”
She started for the basin in the corner, then halted, her back quivering, and swung around again. “Blast it all, I thought I’d lose you for sure.” Tears trickled down her cheeks as she rushed back to him, leaned over him in the bed, and wrapped her arms carefully around him.
Warm goodness. Sinclair lifted his stronger hand and threaded it through her hair, gently pulling her head back so he could kiss her. This he could do—kissing—without pain . . . as long as he didn’t move too much.
Bertie eased away and touched his face. “Thank you for staying alive.”
Sinclair tried a smile, though in his heart he was thanking God, Bertie, and his stubborn constitution for not letting him slip away. “Just wait until I’m better, vixen,” he said. “I’ll show you what I’ve been dreaming about all night, what I’d do right now if I wasn’t in debilitating pain.”
“Yeah?” Bertie’s word was soft, but her eyes danced with laughter. “Well, maybe I’ll show you what I’ve been dreaming about you.”
Sinclair’s heart beat faster, heat creeping into his body, which had been cold too long. “Then we’ll plan an assignation.” Sinclair caressed Bertie’s face, loving her soft skin, her smile, the beautiful eyes that had snapped Sinclair out of his prison of grief weeks ago and set him on the path to the world again.
Bertie grinned at him. “Too right,” she said. “I look forward to it.”
Chapter 28
After a week, Sinclair was able to rise from his bed and move about, regaining more of his strength. Bertie watched him anxiously, and so did his children—not to mention Mrs. Hill, Macaulay, the maids, Peter, the cook, and the coachman. Sinclair began to growl that he didn’t need to be mollycoddled, but they refused to leave him be.
Inspector Fellows and his sergeant paid Sinclair a visit in the second week, and Sinclair invited Bertie to stay and listen to what Fellows had to say. Sergeant Pierce looked uncertain about her being there, but Sinclair knew she’d played an integral part in bringing James down. She deserved to be in the room. Besides, Sinclair simply liked her near.
“James Maloney survived your shot,” the inspector said, his voice as dry as ever. “A resilient man, he is. But he has much ill will from those in the East End—a number of witnesses have come forward to claim they saw him pursuing you, stabbing you, tackling you, and numerous other things. Some went into flights of fancy of things he couldn’t possibly have done. The word has gone out, apparently, that Maloney is to fall, and East End dwellers are required to speak up.”
“Devlin, possibly,” Bertie said. “He doesn’t like me or my father, but he hates outsiders even more, especially ones who get him into trouble. He must have decided James’s money wasn’t worth it, and turned against him instead.”
“Bertie has many friends, as well,” Sinclair said.
“True,” Fellows said. “We can bang up Maloney for assault, attempted kidnapping, paying a known criminal, coercion, and numerous other things. Possibly also for causing you anguish through the letters, though we might have a devil of a time proving that. However, with the things Miss Frasier happened to . . . find . . . inside Mr. Maloney’s coat, we can tie him to other confidence games and blackmail. Seems he had several identities, and papers connecting him to victims in France, England, and Prussia. I’m enjoying going through them.” Fellows smiled one of his rare smiles. He did love catching a crook.
“Make sure he stays put this time,” Sinclair said in his deep rumble. “I don’t want him turning up again, trying to make my life and my family’s lives a misery.”
“No fear,” Fellows said. “My case will be very solid against him, and I’ll use my influence to get the best prosecutor there is. I’m sorry that barrister can’t be you, but you’ll make a very good witness.”
“That will indeed be a pleasure,” Sinclair said. “As long as my late wife’s name, and Bertie’s, stay out of it.”
“Since I don’t have hard evidence that he sent the letters,” Fellows said, “that won’t come up. Trust me, he’s done plenty else to fix himself. He’s a charmer, but juries don’t like tricksters—they’ll all have been fooled at one time or another, or know someone who has, and I’m sure they’ll see to it that this one, at least, gets his just deserts.”
Bertie’s eyes widened, and she sat up straight. Her hand went to his forehead, then his face, then lightly landed on his chest. “You all right? How do you feel?”
“Bloody awful.” Sinclair winced at the croak that was his voice. “What about you? Throwing fireballs and breaking through walls, like a warrior woman. I’ll wager Boadicea is an ancestor of yours. Though I wager she was never as pretty.”
Bertie’s cheeks went red. “You’re a charmer, ain’t you? Bet you won’t be so charming while I’m changing your bandage.” Bertie sat up, reaching for a pile of cloth on the bedside table.
Sinclair rumbled a laugh. “I was never a good patient, lass, but I won’t promise not to seduce you while you’re nursing me. With the understanding that I can’t carry out anything I suggest until I can move again.” Sinclair’s breath went out of him as he twitched the wrong way. “Bloody hell.”
“You lie still.” Bertie grabbed the bandages and hurried around the bed. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”
She started for the basin in the corner, then halted, her back quivering, and swung around again. “Blast it all, I thought I’d lose you for sure.” Tears trickled down her cheeks as she rushed back to him, leaned over him in the bed, and wrapped her arms carefully around him.
Warm goodness. Sinclair lifted his stronger hand and threaded it through her hair, gently pulling her head back so he could kiss her. This he could do—kissing—without pain . . . as long as he didn’t move too much.
Bertie eased away and touched his face. “Thank you for staying alive.”
Sinclair tried a smile, though in his heart he was thanking God, Bertie, and his stubborn constitution for not letting him slip away. “Just wait until I’m better, vixen,” he said. “I’ll show you what I’ve been dreaming about all night, what I’d do right now if I wasn’t in debilitating pain.”
“Yeah?” Bertie’s word was soft, but her eyes danced with laughter. “Well, maybe I’ll show you what I’ve been dreaming about you.”
Sinclair’s heart beat faster, heat creeping into his body, which had been cold too long. “Then we’ll plan an assignation.” Sinclair caressed Bertie’s face, loving her soft skin, her smile, the beautiful eyes that had snapped Sinclair out of his prison of grief weeks ago and set him on the path to the world again.
Bertie grinned at him. “Too right,” she said. “I look forward to it.”
Chapter 28
After a week, Sinclair was able to rise from his bed and move about, regaining more of his strength. Bertie watched him anxiously, and so did his children—not to mention Mrs. Hill, Macaulay, the maids, Peter, the cook, and the coachman. Sinclair began to growl that he didn’t need to be mollycoddled, but they refused to leave him be.
Inspector Fellows and his sergeant paid Sinclair a visit in the second week, and Sinclair invited Bertie to stay and listen to what Fellows had to say. Sergeant Pierce looked uncertain about her being there, but Sinclair knew she’d played an integral part in bringing James down. She deserved to be in the room. Besides, Sinclair simply liked her near.
“James Maloney survived your shot,” the inspector said, his voice as dry as ever. “A resilient man, he is. But he has much ill will from those in the East End—a number of witnesses have come forward to claim they saw him pursuing you, stabbing you, tackling you, and numerous other things. Some went into flights of fancy of things he couldn’t possibly have done. The word has gone out, apparently, that Maloney is to fall, and East End dwellers are required to speak up.”
“Devlin, possibly,” Bertie said. “He doesn’t like me or my father, but he hates outsiders even more, especially ones who get him into trouble. He must have decided James’s money wasn’t worth it, and turned against him instead.”
“Bertie has many friends, as well,” Sinclair said.
“True,” Fellows said. “We can bang up Maloney for assault, attempted kidnapping, paying a known criminal, coercion, and numerous other things. Possibly also for causing you anguish through the letters, though we might have a devil of a time proving that. However, with the things Miss Frasier happened to . . . find . . . inside Mr. Maloney’s coat, we can tie him to other confidence games and blackmail. Seems he had several identities, and papers connecting him to victims in France, England, and Prussia. I’m enjoying going through them.” Fellows smiled one of his rare smiles. He did love catching a crook.
“Make sure he stays put this time,” Sinclair said in his deep rumble. “I don’t want him turning up again, trying to make my life and my family’s lives a misery.”
“No fear,” Fellows said. “My case will be very solid against him, and I’ll use my influence to get the best prosecutor there is. I’m sorry that barrister can’t be you, but you’ll make a very good witness.”
“That will indeed be a pleasure,” Sinclair said. “As long as my late wife’s name, and Bertie’s, stay out of it.”
“Since I don’t have hard evidence that he sent the letters,” Fellows said, “that won’t come up. Trust me, he’s done plenty else to fix himself. He’s a charmer, but juries don’t like tricksters—they’ll all have been fooled at one time or another, or know someone who has, and I’m sure they’ll see to it that this one, at least, gets his just deserts.”
