Bertie listened in alarm. “Can he do that?”
Sinclair felt his chest tighten again, but he made himself stop. He concentrated on exhaling, letting his lungs draw the air back in on their own. “It’s a possibility. A father has full say over his children, but if Edward can make a case that I’m incompetent, that the children would be better off if he and his wife took them in—dear God, Bertie, he could do it.”
“The law made me stay with my dad when my mum died,” Bertie said. “And he’s bloody awful.”
Sinclair shook his head. “Edward has much money and influence, many connections. He wants more money still, which is another reason the bastard is after me. If he can mold and shape Andrew, he can go to Andrew with his hand out when Andrew comes into his inheritance.” Sinclair scrubbed his hands over his face, his breathing easier now, but bleakness lingered in his heart. “What if Edward’s right? Look at me. I’m a wreck of a man. What kind of father have I been? My children are little devils. I love them, but I’m not blind. If I’d paid more attention, Andrew wouldn’t be so wild, or Cat so . . . detached.”
He found Bertie sitting close to him, her warm skirts spilling over his thighs. “Now, you stop right there, Mr. McBride,” she said, her eyes sparkling with anger. “You’re a perfectly fine father. You don’t beat them, first of all. You give them a good house, and lots of things, and book-learning—at least you try with the book-learning. I didn’t have none of that. This Edward can’t say your kids are mistreated, because they ain’t. I can see that. You’re good at laws. You’ll best him, I know it.”
Her confidence was as warm as her touch. “I’m a barrister,” Sinclair said. “An advocate. Not a solicitor. The niceties are beyond me.”
“What are you talking about? You stand up in court and tell everyone what’s right and what’s not.”
Sinclair wanted to laugh. “Love, I’ve known barristers who’ve never cracked a law book in their lives. They take on pupils to do the legal research for them. To be a barrister you only need a firm resolve, a persuasive way about you, and a large pair of bollocks.”
Bertie rewarded him with a brief grin. Her unwavering faith made Sinclair feel a bit better. Gave him hope, let him breathe easier. If Edward wanted a fight, he’d have one.
Then Bertie’s smile dimmed. “If your brother-in-law gets wind that I’m not a proper governess, he’ll use that against you too, won’t he?”Her gaze was shrewd. She was right, and she knew it.
Sinclair squeezed her hand. Hers was small, delicate yet strong. These fingers had dipped into his pocket, unhooked his watch, and taken it without him detecting it.
And yet, she had finely shaped hands, skin a bit rough from too much manual work, but he didn’t mind. Sinclair lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips. Last night he’d suckled these fingers. He’d been half-drunk, disgusted with himself, and he’d needed her. He’d craved to have something of her in his mouth, and he hadn’t been able to let go of her once he’d started.
“Then we’ll make sure he doesn’t find out,” Sinclair said. “Cat and Andrew need you, and I can’t do this without you.” He kissed her fingers again, tenderly. “Everything’s dark for me, Bertie. But there’s a little flicker of light, the tiniest one. It’s above me every night, in the nursery and you next to it.” He pressed her hand between both of his, drawing in her warmth once more. “Please don’t put that light out.”
Bertie looked at him for a long time, a swallow moving down her throat. Sinclair knew he asked a lot of her—had since he’d chased her through the dark streets of London, determined to wrench his watch back from her. This morning he’d virtuously thought he could let her go, to prevent himself taking what he shouldn’t want.
This evening, he knew his virtuousness was a lie. Sinclair wanted her here, needed her, couldn’t let her walk out of his life, no matter what tricks they had to play on the rest of the world.
At last, Bertie smiled. She wrapped her hands around Sinclair’s, her dark blue eyes meeting his gaze over their twined fingers. “All right,” she said. “You convinced me. We’ll draw up the battlements here, and I’ll become the best governess London has ever seen. We’ll face them together, yeah?”
Easier said than done, Bertie thought the next morning. She knew she had to appear to be a well-read, genteel young lady, fit to take on the task of educating the McBride children. Not the simplest task in the world for Bertie Frasier. She’d have to put her mind to how to go about it, but she was determined to. Nobody was going to take these children away from Mr. McBride, not if she had anything to say about it.
Bertie had begun the habit of taking the children for a walk straight after breakfast, after they waved their father good-bye. She’d found they settled down better to reading and things afterward. The previous governesses had forced them to stay inside until they’d done a certain amount of work, and that hadn’t done well, had it?
That morning, in light of Jeffrey’s threats, Sinclair had ordered Macaulay to accompany them everywhere, which was fine with Bertie. Though Macaulay still made her nervous, she was sure even Jeffrey would balk at taking on a giant in a kilt.
Macaulay trailed behind them, his usual taciturn self, but Bertie couldn’t quite forget he was there. He had a presence, did Macaulay.