“Clary, don’t rush off.” Kit was on her heels as she made her way through the workroom. “Hear me out, would you?”
“Is there anything more to say?” Still vibrating with frustrated energy, she spun to face him and found half the clerks gaping their way.
“Yes, quite a lot, actually. I have a proposal to speak to you about.” He said proposal without a hint of irony, somehow failing to realize she’d just presented one that mattered to her and had been soundly rejected.
He gestured toward a long storage space at the edge of the workroom. Apparently, Mr. Adamson was the only one at Ruthven’s who merited an office.
Clary followed Kit into the tidy, well-lit space, and she was surprised to find a long table and chairs tucked inside. A perfect place for a group of young women to sort out a ladies’ magazine project.
“Will you sit?” he asked, gesturing toward a chair.
“I prefer to stand.” At least then she could move, pace. Her blood was fizzing in her veins, and sitting primly had never been her style.
“Very well.” Kit chafed his hands together. “You wish to seek employment?”
“You know I do.” She began to pace, wary of what he’d suggest next. “If you’re going to attempt to prevent me—”
“Why not work at Ruthven’s?”
Gabriel Adamson.
There were other reasons, surely, but he was the first thought that came to mind. “I would prefer to make my own way. Find a position on my own merits.”
“You have no experience.” He stepped in front of her to stop her pacing, as if keeping her still would forestall the retorts brewing in her mind. “A fine education, I’ll grant you that, but why not gain a bit of experience here? You said you wish to know more about how Ruthven’s is run. I saw you banging at the typewriter when we came in.” His amused grin was maddening.
“I was not banging. I was practicing. Learning to hit the keys in the right order takes time. Plus, I lack speed.”
“You could learn with more practice. And if you spent more time at Ruthven’s, you could practice all you like.”
“No.” She hated it when he made sense. Impulsive, she might be, but she found logical arguments hard to resist.
Clary sidestepped past him and resumed pacing, biting her nail as she considered her options. She’d visited two employment agencies, and neither had responded with much eagerness. They had mentioned her lack of experience too. But working for her own family’s business was a half measure. Stepping forward but with leading strings still attached. “How would it work? Since I’m now on the board, how could I be employed by the business?”
“I’ll speak to Whitaker about that,” Kit said, looking far too pleased with himself. Far too ready to claim victory. “But I thought, at least at first, we could consider your role a mentorship. I’m sure we can arrange a stipend. Enough to pay rent, if you’re still determined to secure your own lodgings.”
“I am.” A mentorship? Which meant she would have a mentor. She looked out toward Adamson’s office, and her heart kicked into a wild hammering in her chest. No. She shook her head. “I don’t wish to be mentored by Mr. Adamson.”
“Who else would know as much about Ruthven’s?” Once again, he had a point she could not refute. “Clary, I think your ladies’ magazine might have merit if you can secure initial financing with your charity ball. Bring the matter to the next board meeting in three months, and we all can reassess the costs and what Ruthven’s could donate.”
Clary slid her brother a rueful glance. As much as Kit raged against their father’s manipulative ways, he was not above adopting Papa’s habit of wielding leverage to get his way.
But both of them had learned negotiation from their father. Clary wasn’t willing to give in and get nothing in return. “I’d prefer to call a special board meeting to consider the magazine project again in one month’s time.” Why wait to begin helping the girls of Fisk Academy?
“You’ll devote yourself to this endeavor?” Kit assessed her. “You’ll put your focus and energies here, rather than at your charities and ladies’ unions?”
Goodness, he really did intend to cage her. “If I’m here for a full workday, that will curtail my time for volunteer work. I expected as much once I found a position.”
He clenched his jaw, his throat working as if he wished to say more. But he was wise enough to know she would not concede everything. “I’ll agree to a month. In the meantime, consult with Adamson to come up with a workable plan for financing your magazine venture beyond the charity ball.”
A grin twitched at the corners of her mouth, despite her best intentions. A few years earlier, her brother had been a playwright and a rogue with a dreadful reputation. Now he spoke of business with almost as much knowledge as Mr. Adamson. Perhaps he’d learned something from their surly manager.
The man himself had come out into the workroom. She could feel him, hear his heavy footsteps, smell his scent in the air.
Kit stepped toward Clary and stuck out his hand. She hesitated, still uncertain of his plan. Adamson lording over her for weeks? The prospect held no appeal, yet she knew there were far worse employers in London. The girls at Fisk weighed on her mind too. How eager they’d be when they heard about her plans for employing some of them. And Helen was already making preparations for the fund-raising ball.
Clary reached for Kit’s hand to seal the bargain they’d struck.
“Adamson.” Kit’s call brought the man closer.
He stood inches from her elbow, a dark blur in her periphery. He still smelled of rain.
“I’ve convinced her,” Kit declared proudly.
Clary quirked her brow. “You two conspired to come up with this plan?”
“You make it sound dastardly.” Kit ruined his mock offense with a guilty guffaw.
“Not everyone has a temperament for mentoring,” Adamson declared, without a hint of amusement.
“Not sure you’re up to the task, Mr. Adamson?”
“I was referring to you, Miss Ruthven. The receiving of instruction, not the giving.” He bit off each word, his full lips barely parting, as if he didn’t wish to express a syllable more than was required.
“I’ve always been an excellent student, Mr. Adamson.”
“We shall see,” he said ominously.
She found herself staring at Mr. Adamson’s mouth, wondering if he’d let any more syllables escape.
But Kit spoke next, and she forced herself to stop staring at her soon-to-be mentor and listen to her brother.
“Can you start today?” her brother asked. “You could continue on the typewriter.” He gestured toward the one she’d been using, and Mr. Daughtry glanced up in wide-eyed horror, his nose twitching like a rabbit’s.
Adamson gestured toward the older man. “Daughtry, Miss Ruthven will be working in the office for a while. We’ll need to find her a desk. In the meantime, teach her everything you know about typewriters.” With that, he dipped his chin in the merest of acknowledgments and strode back to his office.
Mr. Daughtry waved her over, and Kit patted her arm, offering a pleased smile, before she followed the old man back to his desk. A moment later Kit joined Adamson at the threshold of the management office. They spoke in low tones, and Clary strained to listen in on their exchange as Mr. Daughtry launched into a recitation of the various parts of a typewriter.
One word carried across the room because Kit pronounced it with extra emphasis. Whitechapel.
So this was about containing her.
Kit judged East End by its reputation for crime and skullduggery, refusing to consider that most of its habitants only wished for a day’s work, food in their bellies, and a home to keep them warm. Not so different from his well-off businessmen neighbors in Bloomsbury Square.
She wasn’t oblivious to the city’s dangers, but she wouldn’t allow fear to hem her in.
After Kit departed, Adamson rooted himself at his office doorway, taking up the whole width of the frame. Arms crossed, he observed her interactions with Daughtry and the other clerks. Even with her back to him, she sensed the press of Gabriel Adamson’s gaze, the intensity with which he noted her every move.
Allow him to teach her about her family’s business? Yes, she could do that. But if Kit thought Adamson would serve as her watcher, he was utterly mistaken.
End-of-day sounds filtered into Gabe’s office, and chatter rose in the workroom as clerks prepared to depart for the evening.
Between worry for Sara, rage at the notion of Malcolm Rigg invading their lives again, and the distracting presence of Clarissa Ruthven, he’d accomplished little. She’d avoided him, as he expected her to do. But he’d never forgotten she was a few feet away. Like a buzzing in his ears, she electrified the air.
He’d noted that Daughtry had warmed to her as the afternoon progressed. An hour ago he’d peered into the workroom to find the pair laughing, as if they’d known each other for an age. In the years Gabe had worked with the man, Daughtry had rarely laughed and never had said anything even remotely amusing. One day in her presence and the old clerk had discovered a sense of humor.
Gabe had debated storming into the workroom to put an end to their frivolity, but they’d both looked up as if sensing his displeasure. Soon after, Miss Ruthven resumed her spot in Daughtry’s chair, her hands poised over the typewriter keys.
Her presence exhausted Gabe, if only from the effort of trying to ignore her.
“Good night, sir.” A clerk strode past on his way toward the building’s exit.
Gabe nodded at the young man and stood to roll his shoulders, a useless attempt to ease the tension that had built in his neck and back. The outer office emptied, and Gabe watched his doorway, expecting Daughtry’s arrival. Each day he summarized attendance and productivity for the clerks under his supervision. On cue, the older man ambled in and placed his daily report on the edge of Gabe’s desk.
“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.