Rules for a Proper Governess by Jennifer Ashley

voice, conscious of the footman at the door listening as hard as he could. “They’ll steal the gilt off the wheels there, and the horses from the harness, before you know where you are.”
    “That’s settled then. Franklin, fetch his grace’s coachman,” the duchess called to the footman. “He’ll be driving Miss Frasier to Whitechapel.” She moved her attention back to Bertie. “Or, if you’d like, I can have Franklin go collect your things for you. Save you the bother, and you can stay with Cat and Andrew—Andrew,
what
did I say about the railings?”
    “He likes to climb things,” Bertie said faintly.
    “Doesn’t he just. One day, he’ll be a famous acrobat and put out his tongue at all of us. Shall you stay and have tea with me, Miss Frasier? Go on, Franklin, there isn’t much time.”
    Much time for what? “No, I’ll go,” Bertie said, at last withdrawing her hand from the duchess’s rather formidable grip. “I’ll know what to get. And if my dad’s there . . . well, it’s best if it’s me.”
    Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “Hmm. Well, I’ll send Franklin with you anyway. He’s a rather good boxer, though he’s such a slim young man. If you need him, you shout for him. But you’d best set off if you’re going, before . . . oh, dear. Too late.”
    Franklin had darted out the front door. As it swung closed, Bertie heard a loud growl, and then a giant of a man shoved the door open again and walked inside. He stopped, greatcoat in hand, and looked around with a stare like an eagle’s. He had the most golden eyes Bertie had ever seen, which made him seem all the more eaglelike.
    “Hello, my dear,” Eleanor said warmly. “This is Miss Bertie Frasier, new governess to Andrew and Caitriona. She’s going off to fetch her things, and I of course said she must ride in the coach—Franklin has gone for it. I take from the look on your face that your meeting did
not
go well, but fortunately there is plenty of whiskey upstairs and some nice cakes Cook made for you. Cat and Andrew are staying for tea, so do be kind, Hart, and don’t frighten anyone, at least for ten minutes.”
    Throughout the rapid speech, the Duke of Kilmorgan simply stared at Bertie, pinning her in place as his wife had done. He was a handsome man, no doubt—with dark red hair, a strong face, a solid body, and fine clothes—but a frightening one.
    Bertie decided she preferred Mr. McBride, with his sudden smiles and flashes of temper, his bearlike voice, and warmth in his gray eyes. One could be comfortable in Mr. McBride’s presence. Bask in it. With the duke, Bertie would have to be on her guard all the time. Not comfortable at all. And yet, Eleanor regarded him with vast fondness even as she babbled at him.
    “Uncle Hart!” a voice screeched from above. “Catch me!”
    The duke looked up in alarm as a missile dropped at him from the railing half a flight up. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” the duke roared, even as he opened his arms and caught Andrew. Andrew, instead of being alarmed, threw his arms around the formidable man’s neck, and laughed.
    Eleanor made shooing motions at Bertie. Franklin had popped back inside, stiff no longer, and waved at her to follow. Bertie cast a worried look at Andrew, but Eleanor shook her head, smiling, and kept flapping her hands, driving Bertie away.
    Bertie fled. “Whew,” she said to Franklin as he opened the door of a black polished coach. “Are they always like that?”
    Franklin smiled politely. “It’s a lively house, but they’re good people. Won’t hear a word against ’em. In you go, miss.”

    Bertie was right about the reception of the duke’s coach in her father’s street. It was a fine carriage, right enough; a landau, with lovely horses and a coachman in a red coat and high hat to drive it.
    Bertie had never lived anywhere so nice as the inside of that coach. The seats were leather, soft and supple, the walls polished wood, the curtains