Rules for a Proper Governess Read Online Free Page A

the remains of an old stove, and with lanterns of the men and boys who liked to gather here.
    The Trap was to be used in dire emergency, when a pursuer became too keen or bullies from another neighborhood strayed too close. The men and boys who made The Trap their haven were usually armed, usually drunk, and always ready to have a go at whoever was mad enough to come through the door.
    Bertie fled through the lot, which was strewn with stones and broken bottles, skirting the pile of old rubbish in the middle. A smaller door led out the other side to another passage, where Bertie could slip away and go home.
    She turned around to take one last look at her handsome Mr. McBride, to glimpse him again before he sensibly fled.
    Except, he wasn’t sensibly fleeing. Mr. McBride came on inside, firelight shining on his light-colored hair, his hat gone who knew where. He showed no fear about the toughs who were converging on him, and when he spotted Bertie on the other side of the lot, he roared, with a voice that rang like a warrior’s, “Stop her!”
    The toughs blinked, not used to victims who didn’t scramble away from them in terror. Mr. McBride started around them, straight for Bertie. The lads came out of their shocked state by the time McBride was halfway past the mound of junk, then they struck.
    “Aw, bloody
hell
!” McBride’s rich Scots rang out, and he grabbed a rusted iron bar from the pile. Before Bertie’s stunned eyes, Mr. McBride turned to face the onslaught and started fighting back.
    The youths and men charging him had knives, clubs, or coshes. Mr. McBride parried their blows, thrusting and beating at them as they beat on him. Iron rang against steel, and one of the youths cursed as his knife went flying. Mr. McBride had the advantage against the knives, having chosen a bar long enough to keep them back. When they figured out how to get under Mr. McBride’s reach, however . . .
    They were going to kill him.
    These toughs were thieves, murderers, or the sons of such. They’d killed before, wrapping up a body and tipping it into the Thames, with the police none the wiser. Never mind that Mr. McBride was obviously a toff in his fine clothes—they’d kill him, strip him, divide up the spoils, and go for a gin.
    Why the devil didn’t he just
run
?
    Bertie came pounding back to him. She dove around the flailing bars, earning her curses from the youths yelling at her to get out of the way, and closed her hands around Mr. McBride’s arm. She found beneath the expensive cloth strength that matched the iron bar he wielded. Mr. McBride started to shake her off, but Bertie dug deeper.
    “This way,” she shouted. “Run!”
    “Get out of it, girl!” one of the toughs yelled. “Fair game.”
    “No, you leave him be! Come
on
.”
    She jerked at Mr. McBride, who finally saw wisdom and came with her. The lads, enraged she was depriving them of their fun, poured after them. Bertie ran out the narrow door on the far side, jumping over the sill to the street. Mr. McBride had to turn and fight at the last moment, buffeting back two lads who’d grabbed his coat. The coat tore, but stayed on, and McBride swung away and followed Bertie.
    Bertie slammed the door. She grabbed the iron bar from Mr. McBride’s hands and wedged the door shut, though she knew it wouldn’t hold for long, and the lads could always go around the other side.
    She seized him by the sleeve and started running. McBride ran with her, his strides strong.
    It wasn’t long before Bertie heard the youths coming. A few would give up, losing interest, but some would be determined. Jeffrey’s mates loved a good fight, and they’d want to divide up the spoils they found on Mr. McBride.
    “This way,” Bertie urged as she dove around a corner.
    There was one place in all of London Bertie could go. No one else knew about it but her—not her dad, not Jeffrey, not her own mates. Taking Mr. McBride there was a risk—he could have the constables raid it