Rules for a Proper Governess by Jennifer Ashley Page B

boy’s name.”
    Caitriona answered for her. “Her name is Roberta, but her mates call her Bertie,” she said, proud of the knowledge.
    “I can be your mate,” Andrew said eagerly to Bertie. “So I’ll call you Bertie too.” He stuck out a grubby hand. “I’m Andrew McBride. This is my sister, Cat.”
    “Caitriona,”
Cat said.
    Bertie shook Andrew’s hand. “Nice to meet ya.”
    “Come on,” Andrew said. “I want lots of cake.”
    Bertie barely stopped him from swinging onto the scaffolding below him and climbing down the way he’d come up. There was an easier way down at the ends of the boards, where the scaffolding crisscrossed like a ladder. Bertie led the children that way and climbed down ahead of them. She halted at each level and hung on to Andrew and Cat in turn as they climbed after her, not letting them go on until they’d steadied themselves. At last they reached the lowest board, six feet above the street, with the ladder leaning against it.
    Andrew and Cat climbed down the ladder, but Bertie held on to the pole she’d used to scramble up and swung out and to the ground. Her landing was a bit harder than she’d have liked, but she pasted on a smile, shook out her aching feet, and held out her hands to the children.
    “We’re going to have tea and cakes,” Bertie said to Miss Evans, whose face was nearly purple, her hat still hanging over one ear. “Where’s the closest shop?”
    Miss Evans’s mouth puckered up, as though she had something nasty trapped inside her. If she didn’t let it out, she might burst. “Tea and cakes?” she repeated in a frosty tone.
    “Yeah, that’s right,” Bertie said. The woman ought to show some gratitude. After all, Bertie had succeeded in coaxing the two children off the scaffolding, making sure they didn’t break their necks along the way.
    Miss Evans sniffed and righted her hat. “Mind you get them back before their father returns home, or he’ll summon the police. They live at 22 Upper Brook Street. Good day.”
    Bertie’s eyes widened. “Where do you think
you’re
going?”
    “To my agency, to tell them to strike Mr. Sinclair McBride off their books forever. Thirty-one years I’ve been a governess, with some of the best families in England. But
they
are not children.” She pointed at Andrew with a long, black-gloved finger. “They’re
fiends.
I’ll not stay another day in that house. Mark my words, young woman, you’ll be running for your life. But take them back home first so you don’t swing for losing the children of a Queen’s Counsel.”
    With that, Miss Evans turned her back and walked swiftly away. Bertie opened her mouth to call after her, then closed it again. Andrew and Cat were clinging tightly to Bertie’s hands, Andrew swaying against her grip.
    “Are you our new governess then?” he asked, widening his gray eyes at her. “I like you better than Miss Evans.” He leaned into Bertie’s coat and sniffed. “You don’t smell of cod-liver oil.”
    “Is that what that was?” Bertie asked, watching Miss Evans’s long coat swirl as she strode down the street, dodging past carts and carriages. She could certainly set a brisk pace. “Bit rank, wasn’t she?”

    The closest tea shop was on Mount Street. The delicate interior had tables with white cloths, fine porcelain china, and heavy silver. The waiter who let them in looked askance at Bertie, but recognized the two children who lived nearby. He put them at a table in the back and brought them teapots and cups, along with a bowl of sugar and a wide-mouthed pot of cream. Bertie asked for cakes and buns, and the man disappeared to fetch them.
    Bertie knew the proper way to serve tea. One of the many women who’d come and gone in her father’s life after her mum had died had been somewhat refined. This lady—Sophie—had shown Bertie how to wear hats, walk into rooms, shake hands properly, choose her clothes, and pour tea and hand it around. A little deportment never