“Bertie, fetch Macaulay and tell him to see that Mrs. Thomalin gets home. I’ll lend her my carriage.” Sinclair made a bow to Clara. “Good night, madam.”
Clara returned the nod politely, as though they were still fully dressed in the reception room filled with people below. “Of course. Good night, Mr. McBride.”
Bertie, again pretending not to notice her, moved past Sinclair and through the door, her skirts holding her heat as they flowed past Sinclair’s legs. Sinclair followed her out, carrying Andrew up through the darkness to the bright warmth of the nursery.
By the time Bertie returned from fetching Macaulay and closed the door, Sinclair was tucking Andrew into his bed, the planned night with Clara Thomalin dissolving into nothing.
Bertie sat nearby, mending Andrew’s shirt—Andrew ripped his clothes every day, so there was always mending—listening while Sinclair told his son and daughter stories about his travels in the army.
He’d been to Egypt and the Sudan, had seen the wonders of the pyramids and tombs of civilizations long gone. The two children laughed or shivered, depending on the story, hanging on every word their father said. He really had a way with them, Bertie observed as she stitched. Pity he had to shut himself up with his dry papers and his stuffed-shirt fellow barristers all the day long.
After a while, eyes grew heavy and both Cat and Andrew began to yawn. Sinclair kissed Andrew’s forehead, then carried Cat, who’d come to Andrew’s bed to listen to the stories, back across to her own bed. He laid her in it and tucked the covers around her, making sure to include her doll.
When Sinclair turned to Bertie, however, the fatherliness fled and the sternness of the barrister returned. He beckoned for her to follow him out into the hall and firmly shut the nursery door.
“Andrew wanted to see you,” Bertie said quickly, before Sinclair could speak. “You can’t blame him.”
“I don’t. I blame you.” Sinclair folded his arms and fixed her with a severe look.
A delectable picture he made, to be sure. His shirt stretched across his wide shoulders, cuffs straining over thick wrists. His waistcoat hugged his tight torso, and his open shirt gave her a tantalizing glimpse of brown throat.
“I can’t chain him to the bed.” Bertie clenched her hands. “Or sleep stretched across the door. Wouldn’t matter—Andrew would just climb down the drainpipe. Letting him open the bedroom door himself is safer.”
Sinclair’s brows drew down, his frown unfortunately making him even more handsome. “I’m paying you to watch them.”“Only until you hire a new governess, you said.” Bertie shook her head. “You ain’t really angry because I wasn’t watching Andrew. You’re angry because you wanted to get into that woman’s knickers, and I stopped you. A mercy I did, wasn’t it? Imagine, you taking her all cooing and sighing into your bedroom and dropping her right down on top of Andrew.” She broke off with a laugh. “That would have been something to see.”
Sinclair took a step closer and unfolded one arm to point his finger at Bertie’s face. His cuff rode up his wrist, revealing a round, puckered scar. “You work for me. That means what I get up to in my own house is my business, and nothing for you to speculate on. ‘That woman,’ as you call her, is a friend to my sisters-in-law.”
“I saw them bring her in.” Bertie cocked her head, studying the tip of his finger. “A tart is still a tart—don’t matter that she’s in thick with duchesses. I saved you some bother, you know. She’d have found some way to twist you into marrying her so she could get her hands on your money. I’ve seen her sort before.”
Sinclair’s mouth tightened. “Mrs. Thomalin is a widow with plenty of money—” He broke off, as though realizing he had no idea of her financial situation. “And I have no intention of marrying—” His words cut off as he drew a long breath. “Anyone.”
“In that case, she truly is a tart,” Bertie said. And here’s me, pretending I’m all virtuous when I’d give anything to take her place.
Sinclair’s broad forefinger jabbed at Bertie again. “You have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Yes, I do. I mean, it doesn’t matter if she’s upper crust. People are people, ain’t they? She wants your body, but she’ll take your money too, if she can get it.”
“Stop.”
“I’m only saying what I see.” Bertie made herself shrug. “So you missed taking some time with her. Serves you right for never coming home, and being so grumpy when you do.”
Sinclair’s face went deep red. Bertie knew she’d gone too far, but the hurt that clenched her insides wouldn’t cease. Let him sling her out into the street—Bertie had survived before, and she would again.
With a great empty hole in her heart.
Sinclair took another step toward her, and Bertie moved back, until she found herself pressed into the wall. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture on this landing, just bare walls and one gas lamp between the two rooms.
Sinclair hemmed her in, his warmth driving away all chill. She could see nothing but him, hear nothing but his voice, the rest of the world receding into a vague blur.
He was speaking again, saying something-or-other, his broad finger an inch from her nose. He kept his nails nicely trimmed and clean, though his blunt hand was more suited to holding a sword than a pen. “Bertie, you—”