“Oh, I don’t administer the school, nor did I start the enterprise. I was recruited as a volunteer and patron by one of my friends at college.” She turned and called over her shoulder. “Helen?”
A tall, spindly-limbed young woman stepped forward, assessing Gabe over the top of metal-rimmed glasses. “I heard Clary call you Mr. Adamson. Thank you for scaring Mr. Keene away. He’s a menace we’re glad to see the back of.” She offered him her hand in greeting.
“Welcome to Fisk Academy. As you can see, our young ladies keep busy here. Most attend for the day, though two are parentless and lodge at the school. They’re also the oldest and will be graduating soon. We’ll miss them.” She cast him a sad glance, as if expecting him to offer sympathy. “Oh goodness, I almost forgot to say, I’m Helen Fisk.” The lady spoke in a rapid-fire patter, as if she needed to impart as much information as quickly as she could. When she finally stopped, her breath whooshed out in a gust and color splotched her cheeks.
As he examined the schoolroom, he sensed her gaze on him. He turned back to find her watching him, as most women did. With a glint of interest in her pale green eyes.
Most women, that is, aside from Clarissa Ruthven.
“The school seems to be . . . thriving,” he said, attempting politeness, despite the chaos around him.
Unlike the dusty, unadorned rooms of the ragged school where he’d taken lessons as a child, Fisk Academy sported a riot of colors. There was far too much noise in the overcrowded room. Even the tables were oddly arranged, some pressed close together, others set apart, as if they’d been placed at students’ whims. Several girls bent over desks, but a cluster of others stood in a corner, working at canvases, applying seemingly random washes of paint. In another corner, three girls sat with their backs to him, carefully printing letters in cursive script. Another trio crouched at a low table with test tubes, a tiny gas burner, and a boiling liquid that smelled of metal and rotting sewage. They all chattered to each other as they worked.
He appreciated the efforts of Miss Ruthven, Miss Fisk, and other charitable ladies of their ilk. However, they desperately needed the input of someone with a sense of structure and efficiency to impose a bit of order.
“We ensure the girls are kept busy and challenged with a variety of tasks throughout the day.” Miss Fisk beamed beside him as she took in the disorganized mess. “I teach mathematics and composition. Miss Ruthven guides the girls in art.” She pointed merrily to the trio concocting God knew what over an open flame. “And sometimes chemistry.”
“Every lesson at once, apparently.” He cast her a dubious glance. “Why not one task at a time and then the next? In an orderly fashion.”
She frowned, and her glasses scooted up to meet the line of her brow. “Every student has her own unique aptitudes, Mr. Adamson. Not every task suits every girl.”
Gabe nearly choked on the chuckle tickling in his throat. Miss Fisk’s sincerity was almost as amusing as her naïveté.
He preferred to deal in reality, not fantasy.
“If you’ll excuse me, Miss Fisk, I have a prior engagement in the city.” He’d had enough. Of chaotic spaces. Of prim ladies and their charitable urges. Of rotting wood and the potent memories lurking around every corner.
Miss Fisk looked worried she might have caused offense, and Gabe sketched a gentlemanly bow to assuage her feelings. She managed a tight smile before he spun on his heel and headed for the door.
Being in Whitechapel again reminded him of how hard he’d worked to escape. To embrace a new life. One day he’d marry, have a home and business venture of his own. One day he’d forget the pit he’d dragged himself out of.
Halfway to the door, Clarissa Ruthven stopped him in his tracks. “I’m heading back too, Mr. Adamson. Shall we share a cab and save on fare?”
Her voice sent a strange shudder of awareness down his spine. She was, as the sister of his employer, a young lady he could not deny. Yet every instinct told him being near her would bring no end of trouble his way.
Turning back, he forced down the ire that came naturally and practiced the polite civility he’d spent years struggling to master.
“Very well, Miss Ruthven.” He lifted his arm as he’d been taught a gentleman should when escorting ladies. “Shall we set off?”
She raised her chin, eschewed his gesture, and swept past, as if determined to show him that a woman could and should lead the way.
CHAPTER TWO
“There is nothing quite as an intoxicating as a man who sees a wallflower woman as she is, with all her merits and all her flaws, and smiles at her as if she’s the only one worth noticing in the world.”
—JOURNAL OF CLARY RUTHVEN
Clary’s foot bounced against the carriage floorboards as she watched Gabriel Adamson give directions to the hansom cab driver.
Ruthven Publishing’s office manager made her miserable.
Beyond exuding insufferable pomposity, the man never smiled. He was as stiff as a statue. Admittedly, a gorgeous statue. One with all the beautiful symmetry of a Greek god. Assuming the god in question had oak-plank shoulders and a chest as broad as a doorway.
No matter how well-tailored his clothing—and it always was—the fabric showcased his muscled frame.
Not that she’d spent an excessive amount of time studying the man or his muscles.
Only enough to know he disturbed her with his flawlessness. Perfect features, perfect hair, polished accent. Yet his cool blue eyes and ink-black lashes were too striking. And he was far too tall and definitely too bulky. Most disturbing of all, Mr. Adamson seemed to lack any joy.
Of course, he always noticed her imperfections. His displeasure was evident every time they met. When she spoke too quickly, he grimaced. When she laughed too readily, he turned away. When she unsettled some item on his spotless desk, he eyed her with disdain.
What on earth was the point of having a desk if one’s intention was to give the appearance that no one ever used it?
In the four and a half years she’d known Mr. Adamson, they’d only been forced into close quarters on a few occasions, during rare visits to her family’s publishing business on Southampton Row and the single awful time her brother invited him to a family Christmas party. After five courses of glaring at her, he’d made a ridiculous excuse and bolted the moment Phee suggested he and Clary partner for a dance.
In short, he was the last man she wished to accompany on a stop-and-start crawl in a cramped carriage through London’s crowded streets, but she needed time with him. It wouldn’t do for Kit to hear of her run-in with Mr. Keene. Her brother’s concern was already suffocating. The last thing he needed was fresh fuel to stoke his worry.
When Adamson turned toward the carriage, Clary scooted across the bench and plastered herself against the cab’s wall, wishing for narrower hips and slimmer thighs.
He climbed up and squeezed in next to her, taking care not to allow their bodies to collide in any but the most unintentional of ways. “Pardon me.”
His voice had a low, smoky quality that Clary never understood. She couldn’t imagine him partaking of anything as messy as a cigarette or pipe.
She tried to ignore his enticing scent underneath the starch of his clothing. She prayed she didn’t reek of the vinegar mix she’d used to clean one of the schoolrooms.
Every time the carriage took a turn, their arms and hips and thighs pressed together. Every place their bodies met, he was hard and warm.
“I hope you’ll make your engagement in time, Mr. Adamson.” If she was going to convince him to keep mum about her activities in Whitechapel, establishing a polite rapport seemed a good start. Never mind that they’d never managed this in all the years they’d been acquainted.
“As do I.”
Ah yes, she was used to that note of irritation in his voice.
“If you’re late, will you blame me for your tardiness?” She lightened her tone, though teasing Gabriel Adamson felt a bit like baiting a bear.
; “How could I, Miss Ruthven?” Sarcasm dripped from every syllable.
“You needn’t have stepped in, you know.”
“What should I have done? Watched as you bludgeoned a man to death with a croquet mallet?” He wrenched off his gloves, then assembled them, one on top of the other and every finger aligned with its mate, before slipping the pair inside his coat pocket. “I have no tolerance for men doing violence to ladies.”
“Nor do I.” Clary nibbled the edge of her lower lip. “Though I must admit, Mr. Keene never laid a finger on me. He tried, but before you happened upon us, I kneed him in the groin.”
“I know.” He cast her a quick glance, a single flash of his clear blue eyes. “No man could mistake that squawk of agony.”
Clary recalled the effectiveness of the defensive jab with her knee. “I’m not usually given to violence. I wished to banish the man from lurking outside the school, but I never intended any permanent damage.”
He didn’t reply, but the lift of one perfectly shaped ebony brow spoke volumes.
“I don’t care if you believe me or not.” Clary lashed her arms over her chest, which proved impossible to do without brushing the side of his body. “May I rely on you to say nothing to my brother?”
“He doesn’t know you waste your time in Whitechapel?”
“Is charity a waste?” Clary swung to face him, pressing her knees into the muscled thickness of his thigh. “You speak like a man who’s never been charitable in his life.”
She sensed a tremor rippling through his body, felt the jump of his leg against hers. He clenched his fingers into a fist against his thigh. For a moment, she thought he might leap from the moving vehicle. Bolt, as he had the night of that dinner party months ago. Just to get away from her.
He turned his wintry gaze her way. “You know nothing of my life, Miss Ruthven,” he finally said, his voice tight and even. “Even when you’ve come of age and call yourself my master, you won’t be privy to my past.”
Clary’s breath caught in her throat. Despite the forced calm of his voice, fury sparked in his eyes. Not his usual ill humor but something fiercer. Pain? Fear? Sitting here, closer than they’d ever been to each other, Clary wanted to know why Gabriel Adamson seemed a man forever fighting for control.
What did he fear unleashing?
She told herself he was cold, unfeeling, but she’d glimpsed something more too. Only intermittent peeks. But now she saw it again. Sparks of fire beneath his icy facade. She couldn’t help but wish to break through.
They stared at each other so long that embarrassed laughter bubbled up Clary’s throat. She fought the impulse, but a sound escaped. Not quite a gasp, more like a gurgle. Mr. Adamson’s gaze dropped to her mouth, and her lips warmed under his scrutiny. Heat spread down her body, pouring across her belly like warm syrup, gathering at the center of her thighs. Her cheeks caught fire.
Then it was as if the rain battering the carriage roof had rushed in to douse all the fire in Mr. Adamson’s gaze. He turned away from her and retreated toward his side of the carriage.
Clary drew in long steadying breaths as all the heat between them chilled. Retorts stewed in her mind, from scathing to impolite. Instead, she tried on an imperious tone and informed him, “The when you speak of has arrived, Mr. Adamson.”
“Pardon?” His handsome face crumpled in confusion, and he frowned at her as if she’d gone completely dotty.
“Today is my twenty-first birthday. I may not be your master, but as of today, I am your employer.”
For a fleeting moment, she thought he might let his fearsome expression slip. That he might be jovial or kind. Offer her felicitations. Crack a smile.
But after a moment of dumbstruck confusion, his glower deepened, and he banged on the carriage roof. The vehicle immediately swerved before rattling to a stop.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.” He pushed the door open and stepped out. “Good day to you, Miss Ruthven.” Just like that, he escaped her presence, as he’d proven quite skilled at doing.
“I thought you had an appointment,” she shouted.
“I’ll walk.”
“You’ll be late.” One hand braced against the open door, Clary leaned out to urge him back. Rain poured down in a steady shower.
“Then I’ll walk quickly.”
“You’ll be drenched by the time you arrive.”
“It’s only a bit of mist now,” he insisted, contradicting her, as he liked to do almost as much as finding fault with her.
Why did it matter whether he appeared at his meeting sopping wet? Nothing about the man was her concern. She settled back in the carriage and was just on the point of knocking on the wall to urge the coachman into motion.
She leaned out and watched Mr. Adamson rushing away. Perhaps he was, in some sense, her concern. She was his employer now. Learning more about Ruthven’s was one of her goals. Getting along with the man who managed the whole enterprise seemed a logical first step.
“I’m happy to take you wherever you wish to go,” she called to him.
“No.” He turned back. “Be on your way, Miss Ruthven. The driver will take you wherever you wish to go.”
“I’m going to my brother’s townhouse in Bloomsbury Square.” Clary scrambled out of the narrow carriage door before the vehicle could depart. “Would you like to come with me?”
His face shuttered, wiped clean of emotion, and then one dark brow winged high.
She’d probably come to regret it, but she couldn’t deny the value of ending the animosity between them. What if she offended him so thoroughly he quit? Kit would have no end of questions.
“My sister-in-law is planning a special dinner for my birthday. Would you care to join us?”
For a moment, she thought he might agree. The prospect set her pulse racing.
“No,” he finally said. “I have a prior engagement.”
Striding forward, he came close enough for her to see a scar she’d never noticed, a faded line running through his right brow. Then she spotted another, a tiny faint slash at the edge of his evenly shaped upper lip. How had she missed those flaws in his otherwise perfect face?
One more step, and they stood toe-to-toe. “May I offer you a piece of advice, Miss Ruthven?”
“If you must.” Clary braced her arms across her chest.
“Don’t go back to Whitechapel. It’s not fit for a lady such as yourself.” His accent changed, syllables spoken with different emphasis than his usual clipped tone. “Not sure the place is fit for any living creature.” He straightened, rolling his shoulders, and lifted two fingers to tug on the edge of his hat. “Good day to you.”
Without another word, he strode away.
“Like you, Mr. Adamson,” she called to him, “I am my own master and will go wherever I please.”
“As long as your brother doesn’t find out, of course.” The smirking glance he shot back at Clary pinned her in place, while he picked up his stride and carried on with his day.
Miserable, insufferable man.
His advice could be damned, along with his curt manner. He met the strict requirements of being polite without offering anything more.
Except for that flash of heat she’d seen in his gaze, the man was a devil to read. Had she truly offended him? Would he tell Kit he’d found her swinging a mallet at Mr. Keene? She wouldn’t put it past Gabriel Adamson to quit his job at Ruthven’s just to keep her from being his master, as he put it.
As she climbed back into the cab, Clary vowed that, in future, she’d exhibit more poise in her role as a freshly minted lady of business.
A pity, since she rather liked sparking a reaction stronger than cool civility from Mr. Adamson.
CHAPTER THREE
“Nothing?” Clary swallowed against the lump of disappointment lodged in her throat. “He left me nothing?”
Time slowed to the speed of treacle dripping from a teaspoon. Only Kit and Ophelia’s drawing-room mantel clock continued on
, ticking steadily as if nothing had changed. As if all her hopes and plans weren’t evaporating before her eyes.
“On the contrary, Miss Ruthven, your father provided a prodigious sum to secure your future.” The family solicitor, Mr. Whitaker, tapped a finger against the document in front of her. “Just there, second paragraph. Shall I read that portion again?”
“No, thank you.” Leaning closer, her eyes blurred as she skimmed the minuscule print, but the opaque legal language was shockingly clear.
Her father had left her no money of her own.
“As the will states,” Mr. Whitaker continued in his dry, no-nonsense drone, “the entire dowry will be paid once you marry.”
Once you marry. He might as well have said, “Once you climb Mount Kilimanjaro” or “Once you become the most feted debutante of the Season.” Neither of which was going to happen. Marriage wasn’t possible. At least not yet. Perhaps not ever. There was too much she wished to do.
A folded square of foolscap in Clary’s pocket contained a list of goals she wished to accomplish and causes she wished to promote. First of which was the Fisk Academy. The rest of her inheritance she’d planned to invest, so that she could preserve her independence, travel widely, and continue doing as she pleased into her dotage.
Among a thousand interests, she couldn’t bear the notion of confining herself to one singular pursuit.
Rather than mediocrity spread among many tasks, pursue excellence at a single undertaking.
The admonition, a line from one of her father’s etiquette books, stuck in her head but never altered her essential nature. Her brother and sister said she lacked patience. Perhaps they were right, but she never lacked energy. Or grand plans.
For too long she’d been a dabbler. A trifler. An armchair explorer. She read voraciously of fearless young ladies in novels, but she’d yet to make her own mark on the world.
“I don’t wish to be indelicate, Mr. Whitaker, but surely my father left me something. Are there no funds that come directly to me? To do with as I wish?”
How to Woo a Wallflower Page 2
