“She’s gone, then?” Gabe took up his assistant’s report, keeping his gaze trained on the words and numbers.
“Aye, sir. Just stepped out the front door.” Daughtry didn’t leave after delivering his report. He mumbled to himself, shuffling his feet, as he always did when he had news he did not wish to convey.
“What is it?”
“Not sure I should say.” His eyes went wistful behind his spectacles. “Wouldn’t want to get the lass into any sort of trouble.”
“She’s not a child, Daughtry.” Gabe rolled his hand in the air. “Out with it, man.”
After a maddening period of indecision, he blurted, “Say she’s going to the East End this evening, sir. Some charity school there she’s keen on supporting.”
Bloody rotting hell. He lifted the master key from his desk and tossed the bit of metal at his assistant. “Lock up.” Bursting out of Ruthven’s front door, he stopped and scanned the pavement to the east and west. Half a mile away, he spotted her striding toward a lane of hansom cabs. Racing toward her, he sidestepped around a gaggle of ladies fussing over a pram and nearly knocked a top-hatted gentleman to the ground.
“Miss Ruthven!” The shout emerged so loud he captured the attention of half the Londoners making their evening journey home.
“You’re not thinking of stopping me, are you, Mr. Adamson?” Her eyes glowed with determination, and her shoulders quivered like a bird on the verge of taking flight.
“Your brother is concerned about your ventures to the East End. And I take it you don’t plan to heed my advice not to return to Whitechapel.”
“I’m aware of Kit’s worries, and I do recall your warning, but I can see after myself.” She turned away from him and lifted a hand to catch the notice of a cabbie.
“Only fools are fearless, Miss Ruthven.” The lady was so bloody blithe, so sure of herself when she had no real notion of the city’s dangers. Beyond her youth, there was a freshness about her, an innocence that irked him. She was optimistic and full of possibility.
She was everything he’d never been.
And she was undeniably a fool. She wore her impulsivity and recklessness like a badge of honor. He’d thought perhaps her years away at a ladies’ college would have curbed her foolhardy tendencies and taught her a bit of poise and polish. If anything, her education had emboldened her. She carried herself with confidence now, as if she relished her uniqueness and would never bow to anyone’s expectations or to society’s rules.
“You’re naïve,” he told her.
Shards of violet stabbed at him when she turned her gaze his way. “I’ve been to Fisk Academy dozens of times.”
It only took once. One attack, one strike of a knife, one man determined to cause a woman misery.
“No harm has ever befallen me in Whitechapel.”
Gabe arched a brow.
“Mr. Keene was emboldened by drink. He’d never caused any real trouble before, and I’m sure he won’t again.”
Ah, yes, because angry, frustrated men rarely turned to the bottle twice. If he was a gambler, Gabe would put money on the rotter returning and doing much worse. Wounded male pride led to every brand of malfeasance.
The cab she’d hailed took on a passenger and rolled away. She moved farther down the pavement to seek another.
Letting her go was the easiest option. But Gabe was caught, as he’d been so many times, between self-interest and doing a noble deed. For most of his life he’d chosen selfishness and survival, and he yearned to do so now. He needed to get home and check on Sara. Clarissa Ruthven was a grown woman and damnably determined to make her own choices. No matter how reckless.
He started back toward the corner where he caught the omnibus each night. Let the little fool go to her charity school. What she did with her free time was none of his concern. Yet even as he reasoned with himself, some damnable magnetic force drew him back. Turning on his heel, he covered the pavement he’d just traversed with long, burning strides.
Gabe sized her up as he would an opponent in the ring, considering how she would defend herself, what danger she might pose to an assailant. She was petite, many inches shorter than his six feet, and amply curved. Overpowering her would not be difficult for any fiend wishing to do her harm, but with speed and skill, her size could become an asset.
“Come with me,” he said when he reached her side.
“I’m not going anywhere with you, Mr. Adamson.”
“Over there.” Gabe pointed to a narrow alley that led to a mews behind the row of buildings.
She planted a hand on one hip. “You want me to follow you into a dark lane?”
“Just for a moment. Trust me.” He started toward the mouth of the alley, doubting she’d follow. But then he heard her boot heels clicking a path toward him.
Positioning herself a few feet away, she crossed her arms and sighed. She was still too far away, too visible to pedestrians passing by, for Gabe’s taste. But it would have to do.
“Hit me,” he told her.
She tipped her head and stared at him as if debating whether madness had overtaken him. Then laughter bubbled up, a lush throaty sound, far deeper than the titter she’d treated Daughtry to earlier. Hearing her amusement made his chest tickle. Other parts of him responded to the sound too.
“Come, Miss Ruthven. I don’t have all night. Make as if you’re going to strike.”
All at once, she seemed to recognize his intention. She squared her shoulders, loosened her stance, and balled her hand.
“Your thumb is sticking up,” he instructed. “Let it rest on your clenched fingers.”
Following his direction, she bent her thumb and lunged toward him. But before she swung out to strike, she wound back too far. Gabe arched away, and she stumbled forward. He caught her arm to steady her.
“Rounding back gives your opponent more time to avoid your swing. A closer jab is more effective.”
Quick as a flash, she raised her free arm and jerked a fist toward his face. Gabe caught the force of her punch against his palm.
“Good speed,” he praised. “But you lack control.”
At that she emitted a little growl of frustration and stepped away from him. After rubbing a hand over the spot where he’d caught her arm, she unbuttoned her cuffs and rolled up the sleeves of her shirtwaist. “What else?” Hands on her hips, she blew a strand of hair from her face. “Teach me.”
“Come closer and I will.”
She closed most of the distance between them. “Did my brother put you up to this?”
“No.” If her brother knew he’d put his hands on her, Ruthven would have his head on a spike.
“Knowing how to defend yourself and having the opportunity to do so are two different things.” And a Whitechapel thug would never give a lady time to get her fists up.
“My goodness, you’re as pessimistic as my brother.”
“Realistic.” He lifted a hand to her. “A little closer.”
She obeyed but warily, her steps short and hesitant. “Why?”
“As you demonstrated with Keene, certain parts of the body are vulnerable. But there are other spots. Higher. Easier to reach.” He raised his thumb, folding the rest of his fingers back. “The eyes.” He reached up and made a hooking motion near her eye.
She blinked, a quick fan of thick lashes, but she didn’t pull away. In fact, she studied him closely, her breath feathering heat against his face as he dropped his gaze to her neck. She’d undone the top buttons of her shirtwaist, and the long stretch of smooth skin beyond made his mouth water. He knew how she’d taste. Like the flowery scent he could smell wafting off her skin. He reminded himself that he hated flowers.
“The throat,” he said huskily.
“How would I strike a man’s throat?” She lifted a loosely clenched fist, pushing it to the knot of his tie. “You gentleman have the protection of your haberdasheries.” Gaze fixed on his necktie, she bit her lip. “Unless I got a good hold.” She slipped a warm finger
between the fabric of his shirt collar and the skin of his throat.
The contact sent a ribbon of heat down his body, straight to the base of his spine. Warmth spilled through his blood.
“No.” Gabe grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand free. “Never get snagged on your assailant. Your objective is to get free.”
She stared at the place where he held her. Without realizing, he’d begun stroking his thumb across her soft skin. Her gaze locked on his. Her lips parted, breath quickening. Inch by inch, the even curves of her mouth tilted in a grin.
The little hellion was enjoying this. But it wasn’t a game. The skills he could teach her might mean the difference between life and death.
One lunging step, and he drew close to her. Gripping her shoulders, he spun her away from him, then lashed an arm across her chest. He held her lightly but far too close.
“Try to free yourself.” He could feel her hair against his cheek. Feel her heartbeat under his arm. Feel the energy—that wild, frenetic voltage she exuded—pulsing through her.
“Truly?” She turned her head, and her mouth came dangerously close to his. “I don’t wish to injure you.”
Her words almost pulled a chuckle from him. With her backside riding his groin, and her hair tickling his chin, he was fairly certain whatever came next would be a relief. “Do your worst.”
She tipped her head farther, until she could look him in the eye. “Remember you said that.” In two swift moves, she jerked her right arm up, bent at the elbow, and thrust back against his midriff.
He grunted at the impact. But he’d already tensed his stomach muscles, anticipating her blow. “You’ve forgotten what I told you,” he whispered near her ear. “Vulnerable. Soft.”
Reaching the same arm up, she pressed a palm to the scruffy edge of his cheek, then slid her hand up until she reached his temple. Striking out a thumb, she tried for his eye. Gabe arched back but didn’t release her.
“Good,” he said when she lowered her arm and settled back against him.
He should have released her. But now that she was in his arms, he found himself stubbornly unwilling to let go.
“I could bite.” She placed both hands on his arm where he’d wrapped it across her upper chest, tucking her chin down as if looking for a tasty spot.
“Unless your attacker is bare, or you’re capable of chewing through layers of fabric, you wouldn’t do much damage.” He tapped his thumb against her arm where he held her. “Fingers are useful.”
“Are they?” She turned to look at him again, a frown pinching the skin between her brows. “Ah!” she exclaimed as she gripped his thumb and wrenched it backward at a painfully odd angle.
Proving his point, he edged away from her to break her hold. Despite the inches of distance he’d created, her heat and scent still clung to him.
She faced him, bouncing on her toes, smiling as if her horse had just won the Derby. “I did it,” she crowed.
If by “did it” she meant stirring him in ways he hadn’t been affected in years, yes. He was damnably aroused. And by the one woman he could never touch. So, of course, being the wrongheaded fool he was, he’d touched her. And he’d bloody enjoyed every minute.
“Lesson over.” He backed two steps away. Hiding himself in the alley’s darkness, he flicked a hand toward the cab stand. “Go and secure a hansom, Miss Ruthven.”
She marched up to him instead. “Thank you. That was a truly valuable lesson. I feel safer already.”
With the sliver of self-restraint he had left, Gabe managed not to roll his eyes. He’d taught her a fraction of what he knew. He’d meant to equip her, not make her feel more oblivious to danger.
“Watch your back in Whitechapel, Miss Ruthven. And if someone approaches, cross to the opposite pavement.”
“Even if they don’t look dangerous?” Her cheeks were flush with color, her eyes glowing in the dusk light. She was breathtakingly lovely and shockingly innocent.
Women, children, the elderly. Rigg had run them all, assigning them to do all manner of mischief at his direction. Clarissa Ruthven saw the potential in the girls at Fisk Academy. Gabe hoped she’d never see the uglier parts of the East End.
“Trust no one.” He revealed his cardinal rule.
Rather than acknowledge his advice, she seemed to take pity on him. Her gaze turned desperate, full of yearning. No doubt she planned to combat his pessimism and win him over to her bright-eyed view of the world.
“Nonsense,” she said softly. “I trusted you this evening, and you taught me how to defend myself.”
Here, in the dark, he wondered pointlessly if anyone had ever taught her how to kiss. Suddenly, it was all he could think of.
“Well, good night, Mr. Adamson.” She began to stride away, then turned back. “If I ask you to call me Clary, will you let me call you by your given name?”
He almost agreed, just to hear her say his name. But a remnant of rational thought broke through the haze of ridiculous longing she sparked in him. “I would prefer you didn’t.” Daughtry’s and every other clerk’s brows would merge with their hairlines, never mind her brother’s reaction, if they heard her referring to him so casually.
“Very well, Mr. Adamson. I’ll bid you a very good evening.” She pivoted on her heel and continued away from him.
He fought the urge to call her back. He hated how much he’d enjoyed her nearness. Her heat and energy.
Clarissa Ruthven wasn’t for him, and he sure as hell wasn’t for her.
So he waited in the shadows, yearning and frustrated, until she secured a cab and climbed inside. Then he started toward the corner to catch an omnibus home.
Nothing would serve better to remind him how far he was from an innocent like Clarissa than going home to deal with the specter of Malcolm Rigg.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Learning a great deal at the office. Typewriting, how our books are distributed to various shops, and how a single touch can feel warm enough to spark an inferno.”
—JOURNAL OF CLARY RUTHVEN
Four days after the strange twilight encounter with Gabriel Adamson, the man persisted in taking up far too much space in Clary’s thoughts.
She arrived at Ruthven’s early, letting herself in with the key Kit had given her, and wondered if Adamson was already in his office. At least he couldn’t glower at her for arriving early to use Daughtry’s typewriter anymore. He seemed content to let the old man personally oversee all her mentoring. Since there was a great deal more to learn than typewriting, Daughtry had encouraged her to come before the other clerks arrived for additional practice on the machine.
Despite her initial misgivings, she found herself eager to get to Ruthven’s each day. There was a unique satisfaction in working for her first bit of income. Publishing was a fascinating enterprise, and though Ruthven’s was a relatively small operation, each day presented new challenges and lessons to be learned.
Gabriel Adamson seemed loathe to teach her any of them. Only defensive maneuvers, apparently. Since that evening when he’d touched her, trained her, they’d barely spoken. Most days, he locked himself away in his office and barked at anyone who dared enter.
Yet she was always aware of him.
Vivid memories vexed her—the firm, warm wall of his body at her back, his fingers caressing her skin, the searing heat of his breath as he’d whispered in her ear. She tried not to think of that night. Of how he unsettled her and how oddly appealing his nearness had been.
Yet the experience presented a mystery she found hard to ignore.
She struggled to reconcile the man who’d held her with the one who was respected and feared by his employees in equal measure. The man who never smiled and ruled Ruthven’s with ruthless efficiency. The man whose white-knuckled hold on etiquette prevented him from calling her by her given name.
Clary did her best not to let the conundrum of Gabriel Adamson consume her thoughts. She worked hard at Ruthven’s each day, visited Fisk Academy every evening, a
nd had managed to attend one lecture at her ladies’ union during the midday lunch respite. Whether the man ever spoke to her again or not, her days were filled with purpose, and at the end of the week, she’d have funds of her own.
Heading straight for Daughtry’s typewriter, she laid the satchel she carried to work aside and planted herself in his chair. In just a few days, she’d learned to type with improved speed and accuracy. Pulling out her practice page, she inserted the paper and rolled up to the next available line.
Her keystrokes filled the empty office, echoing in the high-ceilinged workroom. She tipped a glance toward Adamson’s office, wondering if the noise would draw the angry bear from his cave, but he didn’t appear.
A few more letters, and she built a rhythm as she typed lines from favorite novels and poems she’d memorized over the years. Once she settled in, the keystrokes created a music that quieted her mind. Before she knew it, she’d run out of paper and yanked her type-covered sheet from the platen.
There was no blank paper on any of the clerks’ desks, and when she checked Daughtry’s drawer, she found none there either. Heading toward the storage room, she discovered her key to the front entrance didn’t fit the lock. She felt odd about searching any of the clerks’ drawers. Despite being co-owner of Ruthven’s and commandeering Daughtry’s typewriter, she’d come to know the young men who kept the business going, and they treated her as one of their own.
She knew one hid a penny dreadful in his drawer that he read surreptitiously during quiet periods. Another was a stargazer and kept an astronomic map in his desk. Rifling through their belongings seemed out of order.
Which meant—she looked toward Adamson’s office again—she’d have to risk being barked at by the ruler of Ruthven’s.
A soft knock brought no response. Still nothing when she tried a more strident rap. He could be running late, which seemed completely out of character, or he could be avoiding her. She drew her fingers over the letters of his name, printed on the frosted glass of his door, then slid her hand down to the latch. It gave way against her fingers, and the door creaked open.
How to Woo a Wallflower Page 7
