Free Rules for a Proper Governess by Jennifer Ashley Page B

to it. The young woman halted, her eyes widening.
    “You are nae going anywhere.” Sinclair dimly wondered why he didn’t take her by the arm and march her out into the street—she couldn’t be up to any good here—but his body and mouth had taken over. “You are going to tell me how ye got here and why you’re upstairs in my nursery telling stories to my children.”
    Her expression softened again. “You know, I like when your voice goes like that. All rich and lilting.”
    Dear God. The smile, the warmth in her eyes, was killing him. He was going to grab her any moment, drag her into his arms, and kiss her until he couldn’t feel anything. Sinclair had to get her out of here. Had to.
    He pressed his back to the door. “You will answer my question.”
    “Now you sound like you did in that courtroom.” She gave him an exaggerated nod. “If your lordship pleases.”
    Or maybe he’d simply fall down dead. Her laughing mimicry of a barrister bowing to a judge made Sinclair’s need for her soar. He was achingly stiff, his throat dry, and cold sweat trickled down his spine.
    “You’re good at evasion, I’ll give you that,” he managed to say. “How did you find my house?”
    Color flooded her face, and she shrugged. “Happened to be strolling by.”
    “I see. You happened to stroll out of the East End all the way to Upper Brook Street, did ye? What was the idea, to see what other pickings I had? To bring your friends here and show them the choicest bits? They’ll be disappointed. I make a good living, but I’m not a duke. No priceless paintings or silver plate in my house.”
    The young woman’s flush deepened. “I’m not a robber, Mr. Bloody Arrogant McBride.”
    “Yes, you are. You picked my pocket then led me straight into the arms of thugs ready to beat me down and steal everything you hadn’t already.”
    She twined her hands together. “I know, but . . .”
    Sinclair stepped to her, standing right in front of her, his best courtroom sternness in his voice. She didn’t back down but stared up at him, nervous though not afraid.
    “What am I to think?” Sinclair asked. “I see a pickpocket in my house, with my children, for God’s sake, when I don’t remember giving her my address. And she’s never given me her name.”
    “It’s Bertie.” More flushing. “I mean, Roberta. Frasier. Miss. I ain’t married.”
    “Bertie.” The name was pert, like her. It went with her laughing eyes, tip-tilted nose, and wide mouth better than the more dignified
Roberta
.
    “That’s me,” Bertie said. “And I didn’t come to rob you. I’m inside by accident.”
    “Oh, ye tripped and found yourself falling through my front door, did ye?”
    “Mr. Macaulay told me I’d better stay. And when I tried to leave, your kids . . . whew, they can make a noise, can’t they? They’ve taken a shine to me, but I must seem funny after that stuffed goose, Miss Evans.
She
couldn’t enjoy herself if someone tied her down and tickled her with a dozen feathers.”
    This depiction of Miss Evans, the prim and proper governess from the best agency in London, made Sinclair want to burst out laughing.
    What was the matter with him? She was a
pickpocket
, with a father who beat her when she didn’t steal and ruffian friends to deal with those who tried to catch her. Sinclair faced women like her in the dock all the time. Most were driven to thieving and prostitution—they didn’t know any other way, couldn’t even imagine it. Bertie wasn’t a game girl, but she was a thief. A charming one, but a thief all the same.
    “I know you don’t believe me,” she was saying. “I wouldn’t, if I was you. But someone needed to watch your son and daughter at that moment. Those two can get themselves in a right lot of trouble, can’t they? Now they’re asleep, as I say, so I’ll be going home. If you just step aside so I can get around you, you’ll see the back of me forever. Promise.”
    Sinclair couldn’t