Rules for a Proper Governess Read Online Free PDF Page A

rubbing her arms. She still wore the hat with the absurd violets, which was now hanging half over her right ear.
    “Give me the watch, and I’ll leave you be,” Sinclair said, trying to gentle his voice. “No constables, no dock, though you are a bloody little tea leaf.”
    She didn’t look impressed he knew rhyming cant:
Tea leaf—thief.
    “Why’d ya help Ruthie?” she asked.
    Sinclair had difficulty catching his breath. It was close down here, the biting wind shut out. It took him a moment to realize that by
Ruthie
she meant Ruth Baxter, the kitchen maid who’d stood in the dock at the Old Bailey not an hour ago. Already the details of the trial were fading, a trial that would be put down as a loss to him, but Sinclair didn’t care.
    “Miss Baxter was innocent,” he said. “Why should she go down for it?”
    “’Cause you’re a barrister, hand-in-glove with the judges.”
    This young woman had a lot to learn about the common courts. Old Monty and Sinclair had been butting heads since Sinclair had first put on a wig. “Miss Baxter couldn’t afford a defense. I knew she was innocent when I looked at her, and I knew Mr. Small was
guilty. What does this have to do with my watch?”
    “Well, Ruthie’s a pal of mine, ain’t she?” The young woman’s eyes were deep blue in the candlelight. “Thank you.”
    “So, you decided to show your gratitude by pinching my watch and leading me into the arms of your ruffian friends?” He made a noise of disbelief. “If that’s your method of thanking a man, I’d hate so see ye when you’re annoyed with him.”
    She didn’t smile. “I told ya, you were supposed to run. They’d have gutted you. What were you thinking? You should have just let it go.”
    His temper splintered. “Why the hell should I? It’s
my
watch
.
My wife gave it to me.”
    The young woman took a step back as Sinclair’s voice rose. “Yeah? You’re a rich bloke. Have her buy you another one.”
    “I cannae, can I?”
    “Why not?”
    “Because she’s
dead
!”
    The words rang against the low ceiling and the uncaring stones, and suddenly, Sinclair couldn’t breathe at all.
    He’d never, not even the day she’d slipped away, declared flatly that Daisy was dead. Sinclair shied from the word. He’d said
passed, left him, was gone.
Dead
meant too much finality, it meant dust and no return.
    Sinclair struggled for air. “She’s . . .”
    He felt wetness on his face. Bloody hell. He hadn’t wept either. Not really. To weep for her meant she was never coming back.
    “She’s . . .”
    The world rushed around him, spiraling down into a single point, stifling. Blackness filled his vision, a pressure in his ears grinding out his strength. His knees were bending, and a void opened to pull him inside . . .
    He blinked and found himself half lying, half sitting across the cushions piled on the floor. The young woman sat beside him, her hat gone to reveal rich dark hair, worry on her face.
    “You all right, mister?”
    This was the second time she’d asked him that tonight, as though sweetly concerned. She was a thief, had murdering friends, had brought him to this hole only God knew where to do God only knew what, and yet she asked with anxiety whether he was well. She’d dragged him to this sofa, he realized. Sinclair must have fallen nose-first on the floor, and she’d pulled him to the cushions and made sure he woke up.
    “Damn it, woman.” Sinclair put his arm behind his head and glared at her. “What am I to do with you?”
    She stared at him in wide-eyed contemplation for another second or two, then she leaned swiftly to him and kissed him on the mouth.



Chapter 3

    Sinclair’s breath went out of him again. He was surrounded by her lush warmth, her wool skirt falling over his legs and thighs, her bosom pressing his chest through his coat. The tip of her nose brushed his cheek, her lips soft on his mouth.
    The kiss was unpracticed, even clumsy, telling him far more