He gazed at her with his head tipped down. “I have no job, sister of mine. No means of paying my rent next month. Where would we live, me and this lady to whom I want to give the world on a silver platter?”
“Has she no money?”
“She was as happy as I to receive her wages at the end of the week.” He waved Sara’s eagerness off. She’d chosen the worst possible moment to start being impractical. “Clary is independent. I’m not sure she’d considered marriage. To anyone.” That thought made him want to smash the table and chairs in front of him into a thousand pieces. Of course another man would come along who’d want her. Woo her. Another man who’d be able to offer the kind of life Gabe couldn’t.
He clenched his fists and glared out the window toward Ruthven’s. How long until some other gentleman caught her eye? A clever man, well bred, with lined pockets and manners that didn’t slip when irritation stoked his ire.
“What will you do, Gabe? You’ve backed yourself into a corner.”
He thought long and hard, of items he could sell, money he could borrow and from whom, skills he might barter.
“There’s a way out.” He lifted the crumpled note from Rigg out of his inner coat pocket. “A hundred pounds for one fight.”
Sara snatched the paper from his hand, reading the message quickly. “No, Gabe.” She shook her head emphatically. “Don’t even think of going back to ’im.” She tore Rigg’s message in two, and then in halves again, and again, just as Clary had torn his rejection letter and stuffed the tattered pieces in his pocket before pressing her palm against his chest. A twinge of pain and a rush of heat warmed the spot as he remembered her teasing grin. “I won’t let you go back there,” Sara said as she let the pieces rain down on the tabletop like grungy bits of snow.
“It’s now or never, Sara. This will get Rigg off my back and put money in my pocket. Then I can start again, find a job on my own merit.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Maybe then I can deserve her.”
Clary signed the invoice a clerk had placed before her. “You know where these books go?” she asked the young man.
“Yes, miss. Been expecting this shipment for months.”
“Good.” She handed him the signed document. But rather than leave Gabriel’s office, he waited with his hands crossed in front of him. When he caught her eye, he jerked his head toward the shelf of ledgers behind her head.
“Boss usually notes the bill number, date, item, and amount in the blue book, miss.”
After retrieving the heavy ledger, she opened the book to where a thin strip of grosgrain, no wider than a shoelace, had been used to mark the last entry. Gabriel’s immaculate script stared back at her, and a little catch pinched her throat.
“Thank you,” she said to the young clerk as she entered the details. “I wouldn’t want to ruin his records before he returns.”
The young man shot both brows up in surprise. “Is he returning, miss?”
“I certainly hope so.”
When the clerk had gone, she replaced the ledger, ran a finger gently over the others to align them, and sagged into Gabriel’s chair. She placed her palms carefully on the armrests, aligning her hands where his would have laid. Where are you?
Kit had departed in the morning, and the rest of the day had stretched on, feeling like one of the longest of her life. Not because she was stuck behind a desk. She rather liked the busyness of attending to all of the many matters that would have come before Gabriel in a given day. She’d been so busy during the lunch period that Daughtry had brought her a sack lunch and a cup of tea from the shop down the street. Of course, she’d taken special care not to spill crumbs or leave a ring of tea on Gabriel’s blotter.
She was ever aware that the space was his. Now, sitting in his chair, she understood the satisfaction of the orderliness he’d created for himself. There was a comfort in knowing where each item she needed was and replacing them to that exact spot when she was finished with them. The single day wouldn’t transform her into a tidy person, but she understood the allure of tidiness better than ever before.
The allure of Gabriel’s scent was one she’d always recognized, and he permeated the room. The scent was somehow greater now that he was gone. She’d press a hand to the chair’s leather, and the smell of his sandalwood shaving soap would come wafting up. Or she’d reach for a document in his vertical cabinet and catch a whiff of his clean-laundered smell.
“Good evening to you, miss,” Daughtry said as he entered to place a piece of paper at the edge of the desk. “The daily.” He pointed a wrinkled finger at the document. “Boss required me to provide a daily tally of who attended work, timeliness, productivity, and the progress of various projects under way.”
“Thank you, Wilbur.” Clary collected the sheet and scanned the information, though her eyes began to blur with tears she refused to shed. Daughtry’s sympathetic gaze stayed on her, and she was tempted to crumble and confess her misery to the kindly old man. Tempted, but she wouldn’t let herself burden him or anyone else. “Good night to you, and convey a hello to Mrs. Daughtry.”
“Of course, miss.” He waited an extra moment, as if expecting, or hoping, she would come around and tell him the rest of the story. From Kit, he and all the rest of the workroom staff had heard a curt recitation of Gabriel’s letter and nothing more. Finally, when she said nothing, Wilbur Daughtry turned and started for the front door. As he headed out, he called back to her. “Young lady to see you, miss.”
Clary stood and peered through the open door. A young woman she’d never seen before stood just inside the workroom. Daughtry spoke quietly to her, even patted her on the arm, and then departed, locking the door behind him with a decided snick.
“Hello,” Clary called to the lady. The moment she came out from behind the desk to greet her, the young woman rushed forward. Clary gasped when she came into the gaslight of Gabriel’s office.
Cool blue eyes. Pitch-black hair.
“Sara?” Clary questioned as her heartbeat kicked into a canter. “Miss Adamson?”
“The name’s King, actually. Soon to be Tidwell, if I have my way.” Gabriel’s sister stepped close to greet Clary. “And you’re Miss Clarissa Ruthven. A real beauty, you are, and the cleverest girl in England, if my brother’s to be believed.”
That was a looming question for Clary. Was Gabriel Adamson to be believed?
“Please sit, Miss King.” Clary scooted one of the visitor chairs close to the other, turning the furnishings so that they almost faced each other. She didn’t wish to converse with the woman from behind Gabriel’s desk. “I wish I could offer you refreshment.”
The young woman planted a hand on her belly in the way she’d seen other women do when they were increasing with child. “A bit unsettled today. Wouldn’t take anything if you did.” Tall but much thinner than her brother, Miss King moved with much more frenetic energy, and she flitted around the office, submitting every inch to a thorough inspection before taking the seat Clary indicated. “Looks very much like Gabe, it does. Neat as a pin. He’s always hated dirt and muck and mess. Even when we were living in the midst of worst of it.”
“I’d like to know more about his upbringing,” Clary said as she settled beside Sara. She perched on her chair, turning to face the young woman who bore such a striking resemblance to her brother.
“Would you, indeed? I suspect you’ll have a fine time of it, trying to get more details from Gabe. As much as he hates mess, he loathes thinking about the old days more.” Sara waved at her. “If he’s told you anything at all, then he must adore you. Never speaks of what he’s been through to anyone.”
Clary had a sense his history was far darker than the horrors he’d confessed, though she found it difficult to imagine much worse than a child being caged.
“Would you mind if I’m blunt and sharp this afternoon, Miss Ruthven? There’s no time to waste.” She leaned forward, and Clary could see that her skin was pebbled with perspiration. “I’ve come to pl
ead with you. I think you’re the only one who can stop him.”
Clary shook her head. If only she had that power, he’d still be with her. He’d never have walked out of Kit and Phee’s front door and left her behind.
“Yes, miss,” Sara insisted. “Now hear me out. He’s gone to Whitechapel. I rue the day I ever mentioned our mother to him a few weeks ago. He went back to find her, when he hadn’t stepped foot in that godforsaken place for years.” She bowed her head to stare at the floor a moment before meeting Clary’s gaze again, her eyes beseeching. “Please, miss. You must help me stop him. He’s gone to fight for Rigg.”
Ice filled her veins, and Clary shivered. “No, he wouldn’t do that.” The shivering wouldn’t stop. From her feet to her forehead, she quivered as if she’d been dunked in the icy depths of the Thames. “He hates that man.”
“He hates the notion of losing you more.” Sara shook her head. “You see, he has nothing. He’s given us, my Thomas and me, all his savings for a dowry.”
“Congratulations,” Clary told her, still unable to make sense of what she’d been told. “But how could Gabe think of going back to fighting?”
“He needs to pay his rent, Miss Ruthven. Find employment, the honest way.” She shrugged and rubbed a hand over her belly. “Says he hopes to win you back some day.”
“Win me back?” Clary stood and prayed her shaking body would keep her upright. “He left me, Miss King. Resigned his position here. He didn’t lose me. He left me.”
Sara stood too. “Men aren’t always easily understood, and what they call logic, we might call rubbish. But Gabe hasn’t stopped thinking of you for a single second, I vow that to you.” She laid a clammy hand on Clary’s arm. “The old devil’s offered Gabe as much as he’d earn in a year for one fight in the pit. Gabe thinks he needs that money to have you.”
Clary could recall the sodden feel of the messenger boy’s note in her hands. Gabe hadn’t even wanted her to read it. And he wouldn’t have gone back into that life of horrors willingly. Unless he felt trapped, with no other choices.
If he’d only come to her, they could have found a solution together.
“I’m hoping that fierce look in your lavender eyes means you’ll help me.”
Clary patted the young woman’s hand where she still had a hold on her arm. “Of course, I will.”
“Tell him the money means nothing to you,” Sara pleaded. “Even if it’s a lie. I know as well as most that money matters a great deal, but say anything you must to dissuade him from this terrible course.”
“The money doesn’t matter to me.” Her body stopped quivering, and Clary pressed a hand to where her heart was beginning to thump with something other than the misery she’d felt since parting from Gabe. “And I’m terrible at lying,” she told his sister, “but I do have another idea.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Gabe waited in the shadows, watching dusk turn to darkness over Whitechapel. He’d spent an hour in the Ten Bells, nursing a single pint of dreadful ale and confessing his misery to a man he’d never met before today. Just his luck that the man would turn out to be one of H Division’s wily plainclothes detectives.
Now he stood in the dark, awaiting the devil.
The behemoth appeared first. He lurched down the pavement, scanning for any mischief ahead. Then Rigg came along, with his other thug in tow, heading into one of his favored establishments, a whorehouse cum gambling den that none but his closest associates were allowed to enter via this alleyway entrance.
“Rigg,” Gabe called to the demon.
The behemoth and the other thug sprang into action, one palming a cudgel, the other raising the barrel of a pistol that gleamed in the moonlight.
“Go inside, boys,” the old man told them. “Tell ’em to prepare a spot for me at the table, while I conduct a nice tête-à-tête with my Ragin’ Boy.” After sweeping his beady gaze from one end of the alley to the other, as if he could see in the darkness, he smiled across at Gabe. “Got my message, did ye, boy?”
“An offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“Quite right too.” Rigg started toward him with a gangly strut, swinging his cane. “More where that came from, boy. Always more blunt to be ’ad.”
“I want the funds first. Then I’ll fight.”
The old man flashed him a snaggletooth smile. “That’s not ’ow it works, my son. Ye know that better than most.”
“The rules have changed,” Gabe told him, widening his stance, muscles tensed, keeping one eye peeled for more thugs. Rigg never traveled alone. “Blunt first. Fight second. Then I want a bounty if I win.”
A rusty sound emerged from Rigg, then higher, a seesawing cackle. He leaned on his cane and bent at the waist, guffawing out a wretched sound, like metal scraping metal. Then, in a flash, he straightened and pressed a blade to Gabe’s throat. “I make the rules ’ere, son. Always ’ave. Always will. Ye forgot yerself if you fink I’ll take me orders from a guttersnipe.”
Gabe held his hands up and considered how deep Rigg could slice him in the time it would take for Gabe to get his hands around the man’s scrawny neck.
“A hundred, in victory or defeat. That’s my offer, boy. Take it as it stands, or scarper off back to your high-kick girl.”
At the mention of Clary, Gabe’s vision clouded with crimson. He jerked up and arched back, knocking Rigg’s knife arm away. He grabbed the old man and spun him, lashing a forearm across his neck. He squeezed the arm that held the knife until the metal switchblade clattered to the ground.
“I’m stronger than you, old devil. I always have been. I should have killed you when I was in my prime.”
Rigg laughed again. “Kill me, and you won’t ever see yer hundred pounds,” he squawked past Gabe’s hold.
The old man was shockingly frail. Gabe could feel his bony body under the layers of soot-grimed clothes. One squeeze, and he had no doubt he could snap the devil’s neck and snuff out the life of one who’d caused others so much misery. It would be justice, but it would be cold-blooded murder. He’d never be able to face Clary. Sweet, good, loving Clary, who thought everyone was redeemable. Hell, she’d probably offer Rigg a cup of tea if she ever met the blighter.
If Gabe had anything to say about it, she never ever would.
He lifted his arm, and Rigg stumbled forward, planting his palms on the brick wall ahead. A moment later, he whirled on Gabe, his cane pointed toward him, a blade protruding from the end. “Fight or go, boy. Choose yer fate.”
“One fight, and I’m finished.”
Rigg lowered his cane and sneered. “We shall see, boy. I wager one taste of blood and pain won’t be enough. Ye always were a bloodthirsty brute.”
Gabe couldn’t deny the charge. But that was his past. He’d left that part of himself behind. This single dive back into hell, and he would go back to making a better life for himself. This chapter could be closed, once and for all.
“Where?” Gabe asked the devil.
“One o’ the usual places. Behind the Crossroads this time.”
The pub was a vile place, but the yard behind was large enough to accommodate hundreds of spectators, though some of Rigg’s fights had attracted as many as a thousand. People came from all parts of London, and farther, to view the brawls. Visitors paid the lodging house proprietors for a room, not for the night but for an hour. For a spot where they could look out a window or get a good view from the rooftops. That was the power of bloodlust.
“The hour?”
Rigg slid a cheroot from his pocket and took the time to strike a match against the bricks and light the end before offering an answer around the burning length of his wretched cigar. “The witchin’ ’our, of course.”
Gabe gave one downward jerk of his chin, shoved his fists in his pockets, and started back toward the Ten Bells. In the end, he hadn’t been fool enough to engage in this venture alone, and he needed to tell his compatriot where he’d be and when.
Four hours after leaving Ruthven’s, C
lary and Sara were cold, miserable, and on the verge of panic. They’d visited Sara’s old acquaintances, houses of ill repute, gambling dens, and a lodging house where a crotchety old woman barked at them to leave and never come back. Nivens, Sara said she was called. Gabe and his sister had once lived in the old woman’s dilapidated lodging house just a few blocks from Fisk Academy.
Clary thought of the school and Helen and the girls at Fisk more than once as they traversed the handful of square miles that constituted Whitechapel, but she dared not peek her head in or lead Sara to their door. Tonight, she was about dangerous business, and she didn’t wish the threat to touch any of them.
“Almost at me wit’s end,” Sara said in an exhausted voice.
They chafed their hands as they huddled across the street from one of the most notorious pubs in Whitechapel. The Ten Bells had been associated with the Ripper murders a decade earlier. A few of the victims were known to frequent the establishment, and one visited the very night of her heinous murder. Many suspected the culprit must have partaken at the pub too, perhaps choosing his victims from among its patrons.
“Shall we go inside?” Clary asked Gabe’s sister.
“Nothing in me wants to, except for the hope of hearing word of this bleedin’ fight.” Sara peered through the glass of the establishment. “Not a fit place for a lady such as yourself, Miss Ruthven, but I fear we’ve got to try.”
Clary needed no more encouragement. She started across the road and tipped her head back to make sure Sara followed. They hooked arms as they stepped inside, drawing the notice of several men, who grunted and offered compliments and lewd suggestions. Sara led Clary straight to the bar, waving to catch the barman’s notice.
“Wot can I get ye, ladies?” the affable man said as he approached.
Clary slid a coin across the counter, keeping it covered with her palm. “Information, sir.”
He ducked to see the coin, and she lifted her fingers to reveal a crown. The man whistled as one brow shot up. “Tell you anything you like, miss. Wot you need?”
How to Woo a Wallflower Page 20
