“Nothing puts an ocean of distance between two people like a secret.”
—JOURNAL OF CLARY RUTHVEN
On Tuesday after the incident at Fisk Academy, Clary stood on the pavement outside Ruthven’s awhile before going inside. The gas lamps suspended above clerks in the workroom blazed through the glass.
She’d come late today, her eagerness to get inside vying with uncertainty about facing Gabriel.
As she stepped inside, she smiled at the buzzing activity of the place. Book stock had been delivered from the bindery and would soon be sorted for distribution to various shops around the city. The scents of Ruthven’s were familiar now—paper, binding glue, ink, and the peppermint sweets Daughtry kept in a bowl atop his desk.
“The wife insisted I bring them in to share,” he’d always say before popping another in his mouth.
Winding its way through them all, Gabriel’s scent set off an unbidden fluttering in her chest. Movement beyond the frosted glass of his office door caught her eye. He was here, and eventually she’d have to face him.
The kiss changed nothing, he’d said. But it had changed her. Now she was more determined than ever to discover the man behind his controlled facade. Whoever he truly was, he was a man she wished to know better.
One of the young clerks greeted her as she stepped toward her desk. “Good morning, Miss Ruthven.”
After smiling at the boy and greeting Daughtry, she scooped up a folder she’d prepared, pressed a hand to her cartwheeling stomach, and strode toward Gabriel’s office. She rapped twice and let herself in without giving him a chance to reply.
“Kit?”
“Clary. Good morning.” Her brother sat behind Gabriel’s desk, consternation crimping his features. “Where the hell is everything? Have you ever seen a desk this tidy in your life?”
Ruthvens weren’t known for their tidiness, except perhaps Sophia.
“He’s extremely organized. What are you looking for?” And why was he behind Gabriel’s desk?
“The report he provided last week.”
Clary pointed to a short wooden cabinet in the corner where Gabriel maintained documents and correspondence by topic, organized alphabetically. He’d shown her the filing system only briefly, giving the impression he did not trust anyone to rifle through its contents.
Kit opened the top drawer and began thumbing through the papers inside. A moment later, he’d retrieved the report and squared the sheet before him on the desk.
“Where is he?”
“Adamson? He’ll be in later,” Kit mumbled, his gaze fixed on the document on the blotter.
“Did he provide a reason?” A kiss he regretted, perhaps. A desire to avoid his mentee.
“Read the message if you like.” He retrieved a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and slid the note toward her.
The contents were as straightforward and devoid of detail as Kit’s explanation. Though Gabriel did at least mention a reason. Absence necessitated by a family matter.
“Odd, isn’t it?” Kit mused. “The man’s never requested a single hour away since Father died.”
Clary stared out the office’s single window and fought the heat flooding her cheeks.
“How’s the mentorship proceeding?” Kit chose precisely the wrong time to fold his hands on the desk and give her his full attention. “Is he teaching you everything you ever wished to know about Ruthven’s?”
Almost. And not nearly enough about himself.
“Do you know why Papa hired him, or when?”
“Business didn’t interest me back then.” Kit smiled and glanced down at Gabriel’s report. “To be honest, there are days when the details bore me now. We’re lucky to have Adamson at the helm.”
His words sparked an image in Clary’s mind. Gabriel at the helm, not of Ruthven’s but a ship. His black hair long, wild, and flowing around his shoulders. With his knack for management and physical strength, he’d make a fearsome pirate.
When the image faded, she found Kit scrutinizing her with a single dark brow winged high.
“You weren’t fond of him at first,” she said, recalling how the men had initially clashed.
“I didn’t know what to expect when I stepped into Ruthven’s after Father’s death. The West End theater world may be only a few miles away, but while I was living that life, it felt like a different world. Nothing could have persuaded me to set foot inside this place. When I met Adamson, I thought he was . . . ” Kit looked bemused, as if doubting whether he should continue.
“You found him what?”
“Insufferable. Arrogant, proud, and far too bloody young.” He chuckled and settled back in Gabriel’s chair. “Perhaps I envied an upstart managing Father’s enterprise so well when I hadn’t managed to stage a decent play in four years.”
“He must have been young when Papa hired him? Eighteen?”
“Younger than when I first pursued employment.”
“What convinced Papa to give him the opportunity?” Clary hadn’t known her father to be a particularly generous man, but she also had no real notion of how he’d run Ruthven’s. Business was a topic he’d never discussed with her.
Kit shrugged. “I suppose the old man saw potential in him. As I told Adamson recently, his hire may be the only decision Father ever made that I have reason to commend.”
Clary offered him a tight grin. After spending time with the girls at Fisk Academy, she knew that Leopold Ruthven, however controlling and cold and miserly, had been a good father compared to the horrors some of the girls experienced at their caretakers’ hands.
“What’s that?” Kit indicated the folder she pressed to her chest.
“Notes regarding my magazine project. I’d hoped to discuss them with”—Clary caught herself before calling Gabriel by his given name—“Mr. Adamson.”
“Let me have a look.”
She was happy to pass him the documents, including a few of the images she’d considered for the cover. At least he was showing more interest than he had when she’d first broached the concept at the company board meeting.
“You’ve put a good deal of thought into this.”
“Helen and I both have. We’re determined to move forward, even if we can’t use Ruthven’s presses. We’re going to take some of the funds we raised at the charity ball and pay two upcoming graduates of Fisk to work on an initial issue. They’ll produce articles. I’ll work on art and illustrations.”
“So you’ve been going to Whitechapel?”
“I teach the girls art and science.” Clary sat in a chair near Gabriel’s desk and leaned forward as far as her corset would allow. “After hearing about our plans, that’s your only question?”
“Does Adamson know you continue to venture to the East End?”
Clary bit her tongue. Gabriel wasn’t her keeper, and she wasn’t at all certain he’d want his own visits to the area divulged. She definitely didn’t wish Kit to hear a word about the matter with Keene. He’d lock her in the guest room in Bloomsbury Square and never let her see sunlight again.
“Why don’t you come to visit the school? See the good we’re doing. Bring Phee along.”
“I won’t expose Phee to danger.”
She wouldn’t win the debate. They could continue like this all afternoon, and Clary suspected she’d get no further in convincing her brother that working at a school in the East End was a worthy cause. Keene’s attack had left Sally shaken but, thankfully, unharmed. Now that he’d been arrested, the tension that had been hanging over Helen and the students had begun to ease.
“I’m sorry, Clary. I know you care about your causes.” He stood, his frown softening into the shadow of a brotherly grin as he looked at her. “I can’t stay. Sophia and I are meeting with one of the writers we hope will join the literary journal as a regular contributor.” He lifted the copy of Gabriel’s report. “I just wanted another look at these numbers.”
There was still something amiss between them. Not in tone or expression but an unsettledness she could feel like static in the air before a storm.
“I trust you’ll bring the plans for your magazine to the board meeting in a few days. If your project will keep you here at Ruthven’s more often, and I could make the decision myself, I’d send you up to use the lithographic press right now.” He dipped his head and swallowed hard. “Commanding you not to go back to Whitechapel holds enormous appeal, but you’d find a way, wouldn’t you?”
Clary gave a firm nod.
Kit pursed his lips and narrowed his gaze at her. “We Ruthvens can’t keep a desk clean to save our lives, but we’re stubborn as hell, aren’t we?”
Stubborn, tenacious—words of praise or reproof, depending on how they were wielded. Kit was enough of a wordsmith to know it was a compliment with a cut, and Clary bristled at the characterization.
She didn’t go to Fisk Academy because she was stubborn. She went because it was a place she was needed, a place where she could do good. And the sense of belonging was a thousand times what she felt anywhere else. Except perhaps here, at Ruthven’s. At least when Gabriel was sitting in the chair across from her.
“I only want you to be safe, Clary.” He approached and pecked a kiss on her cheek. “Can’t blame me for that. You are my baby sister.”
“And now a grown woman.”
“Indeed,” he said as he straightened his necktie and started toward the door. “I suppose you’re in charge until Adamson returns.”
“Do you ever plan on speaking to me again?” Sara placed a hand on Gabe’s sleeve as they approached their lodgings.
“I’m speaking to you now.” He reached out to steady her when she stumbled, not noticing a stone on the pavement. “Have a care.” Never one to be fussed over, she brushed away his hand, but Gabe reached for her again, hooking her arm in his. He noticed how pale she was. Now that he knew she was with child, he couldn’t help but be protective.
After days of sickness, he’d insisted on accompanying her to a doctor. She’d been shocked by the diagnosis. And from that day, she’d refused to believe that he did not judge her or think any less of Thomas Tidwell. All he truly felt was the pressure of gifting the man her dowry and seeing them married as soon as a wedding could be arranged. But first, Sara needed to inform her beau of how their future had changed.
“You’re ashamed of me. I know you are.”
“I’m not.” Gabe led his sister in through the front door and upstairs to their rooms. He didn’t wish to have a discussion where their landlady might overhear.
“What will Thomas say?” She wrung her hands and started pacing the length of their narrow sitting room.
“If you wish, I’ll accompany you when you tell him.” He couldn’t imagine Tidwell responding badly. The boy was utterly smitten with Sara. But if he did reject her, Gabe couldn’t bear for her to face it alone.
And, of course, as her older brother, it would be his duty to throttle the bounder.
“No.” She shook her head in that firm brook-no-argument way he knew so well. “This child is ours, and we will do what’s right by him.” She cast Gabe a soft smile. “Or her.”
“Best not to say a word to—”
“To anyone other than Thomas. I know.” Lifting a hand, she nibbled at a nail. “Can you imagine how Jane Morgan would react? Even if you’re not ashamed of me, she would be horrified. Jane is so proper, she’d probably never speak to me again.” Her lower lip began to tremble, and she swiped her hand across her mouth as if she could wipe the emotion away. “It doesn’t matter. Thomas and I will be married soon. I’m to meet his aunt and uncle this evening. I must go to him now. I’ll tell him we must set a date to be married. What’s taking him so long?”
Gabe couldn’t bear her inquisitive gaze and turned to glance out the window into the tidy back garden. He spotted one of those yellow flowers Clarissa had shoved under his nose and wished he could smell its scent.
He knew exactly why his sister’s beau hadn’t set a date for their wedding. Tidwell was waiting on him. The young man worked hard and saved as much as he was able, but marriage and securing a home required the dowry Gabe had promised to provide.
What Gabe hadn’t planned on was Sara spotting Rigg near their Cheapside lodgings. Part of the twenty-five pounds Ruthven had paid out for mentoring Clarissa had gone to their new landlady, and Gabe awaited his next wages to add to the sum he’d give Tidwell. He’d planned to keep adding to the pot for months, but now they’d need the money quickly. He had no idea where he’d acquire the funds.
“Thank you, Gabe, for taking me to the doctor this morning.”
He shot her a grin. “Thank me by getting rest, as he suggested.”
“I can’t.” She shook her head determinedly. “I must go and speak to Thomas.”
“Is he not at work?”
“He promised to leave early today. As I said, we’re going to visit his aunt and uncle in Walthamstow.”
Gabe knew the town was miles north of the city, but he had no idea how far. Like his sister, he’d never ventured outside of London.
“Don’t you need to be returning to Ruthven’s?”
“I do.” He did need to get back. Wondering how Daughtry was managing the place had weighed on his mind all morning. No, that wasn’t true. Clarissa had been on his mind since the moment he’d stepped away from her, the taste of her kiss still lingering on his tongue. Thoughts of returning to Ruthven’s tormented him. It was the one place he felt as if he belonged. The one place where he was in control. The one place others treated him with deference and respect.
Now it was also the place where the presence of Clarissa Ruthven had upended his control.
He couldn’t resist her, couldn’t govern his feelings where she was concerned. And more terrifying, he no longer wished to.
“You’ll be all right?” He glanced back at his sister as he started for the door. “Both of you?”
She placed a hand on her belly and smiled. “We’ll be fine. And Thomas too.”
“You know I’ll happily pummel him if he doesn’t do right by you.” Gabe opened the door and stepped into the hall. “Give him my regards, and ask him to call on me as soon as he’s able.” He’d need to visit the bank and withdraw what funds he could to ensure Sara and Tidwell had the best start they could in their life together.
As he made the short walk to Ruthven’s, his mind wandered. He’d told Clarissa nothing had changed, yet he felt the lie in his very bones. The moment he saw her again, he’d want to kiss her. He couldn’t imagine a day going by now when that desire, and others, would not be paramount.
Wrestling with what lay ahead, he could think of only one option. The question was whether he had the brass to do it. Consequences be damned.
He frowned as he started down Southampton Row toward Ruthven’s. The sky had filled with dark clouds, and the air was dense with moisture. Along the row, gaslight beyond office windows cast a buttery glow onto the pavement. But not Ruthven’s. Its windows were dark. Had they shut up shop because he hadn’t come to work?
Quickening his pace, he reached the door and found the latch unlocked. Stepping inside, he took in the empty workroom. Clerks’ desks were irritatingly untidy, as if they’d all stepped away in the middle of their duties and abandoned the office in a rush. A ripple of fear shook him. Had some mischief chased them all away?
Ahead, his office door stood ajar. Through the opening he could see a candle glimmering at the edge of his desk. In the flickering light stood the most enticing woman he’d ever met. Candle glow lit up the rich burnished gold of Clary’s hair. She heard his footsteps and turned, blew out the candle, and burst through the door.
“It’s you,” she said, offering him a smile that chased the day’s worries from his mind. “I can explain.” She lifted a hand, and he longed to catch it in his and feel the soft warmth of her skin.
He glanced at the suspended gaslights dotting the workroom. “You wished to save on the cost of gas?”
“You’d probably commend me for that, wouldn’t you?” Another smile. Another shot of warmth through his chest. “Actually, there’s some trouble with our gas line. We’re not the only business affected on the row. The solicitor behind us and a tobacconist next to him are without lights too. The clerks waited an hour in the darkness, and I finally told them to go home for the day.” Clasping her hands in front of her, she bit her lip before asking. “That’s what you would’ve done, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.” By rights, she could have told the men to take the rest of the week off if she’d liked. “But why did you stay?”
“To wait for you.” She licked her lips, and Gabe swallowed hard, remembering the heat of her mouth against his. “Perhaps I should have wired to let you know there was no reason to come today.”
“You could have.” He took a step closer and caught her fragrance, floral and delicate but far sweeter than her spring bouquet because of her own unique scent underneath. She shifted on her feet, as if she might dart toward him or sidestep away. “But if I’d known you were here, I would have come anyway.”
“I wished to see you too.”
As it always did, the sight of her, her scent, the sound of her voice, lit him up inside. Warming every cold, dark corner of his soul. For some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to say all he needed to while they were in the office, where he was ever reminded that she was a Ruthven, and he was no more than her family’s employee.
“Would you come with me?”
She took his hand immediately and stepped forward, threading her fingers with his.
“Into a darkened alley for more lessons in fighting?” she asked with a saucy grin.
“We’ll save that for another time.” He let go a smile, and the freedom of doing so was a strange kind of bliss.
She stared at his mouth in dumbstruck fascination. “You definitely need to do that more often.”
Gabe waited while she retrieved her coat and bag from his office, resisting the urge to adopt her habit of fidgeting. His body fizzed with frantic vigor, not unlike what he’d felt before entering a fight. Though this was worse. He’d readied himself for every round of fisticuffs, but he never felt prepared for his encounters with Clary. She surprised him every time.
He was a novice with her. He’d never conducted a proper courtship in his life.
Steady, man. He wasn’t courting her. Not yet. Would he ever deserve that privilege?
First, he had to tell her the truth. No, that wasn’t right. First, he had to find the courage to confess it.