“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, and 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.
She skittered backward. If investigating the contents of the clerks’ desks was wrong, invading Adamson’s domain was out of the question.
Yet his clean scent wafted enticingly through the open door, and a fresh pile of foolscap beckoned from a tray atop his desk.
A quick in and out. One sheet of paper. He’d be none the wiser.
Sucking in a breath, she pushed the door open, vaulted for the desk, snatched up a clean sheet of paper, and turned to go. Except the desk held her. She’d snagged her cuff on the edge of the metal tray, and when she jerked away, the tray came too, sending a torrent of paper fluttering to the floor. Dropping to her knees, she collected them quickly, cursing when she found several bent sheets under her skirt. She folded two and stuck them inside the neck of her shirtwaist, smoothed the rest, and placed them at the bottom of the pile.
Settling the tray back on his desk, she tried to square it precisely. That’s how Adamson maintained his desk. A place for everything, and everything in its place.
But as she straightened the tray, her hand bumped the brass stand that held his ink and pen. His fountain pen teetered off-kilter. Taking the cylinder between her fingers, she aligned the pen’s body perfectly in the center.
Scooting around his desk, careful not to touch anything else, she surveyed the whole from a distance and decided it all looked as settled as when she’d entered. Aside from his rubbish receptacle, the room was spotless. Glancing down into the bin as she made her way out, she noticed two crumpled sheets of paper. One word caught her eye. Resignation.
Retrieving the paper, she stretched the sheet between her fingers and skimmed the words quickly. The letter was addressed to Kit, informing him of Adamson’s decision to leave Ruthven’s and take a position with a rival publisher.
“What are you doing?”
His bark made Clary jump. Her heart plummeted into her boots. Before facing him, she drew in a long, bracing breath. “Looking for a clean sheet of paper.” Crumpling his letter, she stepped forward and flung the wad behind her toward the bin. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see she’d missed by several inches.
“In the rubbish?” Stomping into the room, he brushed past her and retrieved the letter from the floor. “My discarded correspondence is none of your concern, Miss Ruthven.”
For the most part, Clary agreed, though the letter she’d found seemed an important topic to explore. “If you’re unhappy with your role here at Ruthven’s—”
Before she could say more, he moved past her again and closed his office door. “The matter has been resolved, and I would prefer you speak of this letter to no one.”
“Of course.” Her cheeks were burning, as they always did when she was embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have entered your office when you weren’t here. I thought you’d have been in earlier.”
He narrowed one pale blue eye at her. “I arrive before the others of my own accord. My workday does not start until”—he yanked a watch from his waistcoat pocket—“now. If you’ll excuse me, Miss Ruthven.”
“Were you busy saving another young woman from a drunken brute?” Clary found it impossible not to tease him. Especially when he wore such a fearsome scowl. “Or perhaps you found some damsel in need of training in the defensive arts.”
He gripped the back of his chair and closed his eyes. She watched his broad chest expand and contract as he drew in half a dozen long breaths and let them out. When he looked at her again, his gaze was as frosty as a winter breeze. “If you must know, I was seeing to a personal matter. My sister and I are moving lodgings. A location closer to the office.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“Why would you?” Today he was every inch the cold, snappish manager. No warmth in his gaze or tone. Not a single glimpse of the man who’d held her in the dark of an alleyway.
“You know all of my siblings.” She knew the faultiness of the comparison, but she loathed the sharp edge of his retort. Hated that he worked so hard to put distance between them. She preferred that other man who’d put his hands on her and allowed her to pretend she was jabbing him in the throat. Was he only capable of being kind to her in the shadows? Softening her tone, she added, “I should like to meet her. What’s her name?”
“I know your sister writes of detectives, but perhaps you should consider the profession itself. You never seem to lack for questions, Miss Ruthven, and you’re clearly incapable of repressing the impulse to investigate.” He tipped his gaze down at his rubbish bin and arched an ebony eyebrow.
“I’ve already apologized for that, and do call me Clary.”
“No.” He shook his head, managing to avoid displacing a single strand of hair. “First names are not appropriate for the workplace.”
Clary chuckled. “That’s ridiculous. What does it matter what we call each other?”
He stared at her, dumbfounded. “Have you truly never read a word of your father’s books?”
“Every word. He insisted. But it doesn’t mean I agree with any of them.”
“Of course. Ever the rebel.”
“And what’s wrong with rebellion? Sometimes one must, if the cause is just.” Clary laughed. “That rhymed.”
His full mouth twitched, his lean cheeks quivered, and she willed him to smile at her. Just once. Instead, he knitted his brow and deepened his glower.
She threw up her hands in frustration. “Calling people by the name they prefer would make the workroom a kinder place. More congenial.”
“Now you’re telling me how to manage the workroom? After three days on the job?” He let out another long breath and folded his arms. “I don’t refer to anyone here by his given name. Surnames or job titles. You’ll find the same in every office in London.”
“And what’s my title?”
He squinted at her as if she’d just asked the silliest question he’d ever heard, unbuttoned his suit coat, and slumped into the chair behind his desk. “Employer,” he said, flicking his hand her way, “co-owner, mentee.” He squared his gaze on her. “Heiress.”
Clary snorted. “You make it sound as if I should be covered in silk and velvet and dripping with jewels.”
“Shouldn’t you be?” He swept his gaze down the insubstantial length of her, from her brows to the toes of her boots, as if struggling to imagine her bejeweled and wrapped in a sumptuous gown.
She struggled to imagine the scenario too. But his gaze unsettled her. Clary pressed a fist to her hip to stop her hand from trembling. “You manage the finances of Ruthven’s. You know we don’t possess that kind of wealth.”
“Your sister married an earl.”
“They fell in love. Besides, Sophia is beautiful, proper, elegant. She’s the perfect candidate to be a countess.”
“And you?” He braced his hands on his blotter and leaned forward, his mouth softening, gaze fixed on her, as if something about her finally interested him.
An unladylike guffaw burst from her lips. “I’m not that sort of woman.” The words were surprisingly hard to get out. She’d accepted that she’d never be a beauty like Sophia. “I don’t snag men’s notice in a crowd.” Speaking the fact aloud—to him—scalded her throat.
“Now that is nonsense.” He spoke emphatically, forcefully enough to stifle the retort that rose to the tip of her tongue. “I’ve never met a lady who’s harder to ignore.”
“Because I talk too much?”
“No.” He pursed his mouth, and there was a glint of humor in his eyes. “Though you do have a good deal to say.”
“Then it’s because I wear beads on my shirtwaist and garishly colored clothes?” Clary found it hard to meet his gaze. He watched her intently, studying her face, glancing down at the pink shirtwaist she’d adorned with lace and a few jet beads along the collar.
“I’m not interested in ladies’ fashion.” He left the rest unexplained, the reason he found her difficult to ignore. Though he didn’t seem to regret the admission. He stared at her boldly, only stopping when someone knocked at his office door.
One of the clerks stuck his head in.
“Daughtry says I’m to take Miss Ruthven up and show her the workings of the chromolithograph.”
“Yes, by all means.” Adamson stood and waved them off.
On the threshold, Clary paused and let the clerk proceed without her. Turning back, she said quietly, “I still want to know your sister’s name, Gabriel, and I still think you should call me Clary.”
Uttering his name seemed to affect him mightily. He flinched and swallowed hard as he stared at her. Heatedly. Almost hungrily. Very akin to the look a wallflower craved from the handsomest man in a ballroom.
She grinned and pulled the door closed behind her.
“Messenger for you, Mr. Adamson.” The clerk handed Gabe a note, the reply he’d been awaiting from Sara.
In a few words, she let him know she was settling into their new lodgings, and all was well. “Grass beyond the front window,” she added with a few upward, sloping pencil strokes to indicate spears of lawn.
For a reasonable rent, bearing his new salary and the twenty-five pounds Ruthven paid him immediately, he’d found rooms with a kindly old widow in a tidy three-story brick home, just a few steps away from a respectable pub. He and Sara could take their meals without traveling far, and they were miles closer to Ruthven’s. Within walking distance. If he could bear the fog and rain, he’d never have to take an omnibus again.
The thundering noise above his head set his teeth on edge. They’d rarely put the chromolithograph to work since purchasing the expensive machinery. The original plan had been to add more colored plates in some of the novels they sold, and, of course, Kit Ruthven had grand designs for his literary journal.
The intricate beast of a press ran on steam and took up much of the second floor. Only a few of the young men were trained in its use, and they’d hired one man who was a true master at transferring original art onto the lithographic plates. The process of applying the various layers of ink was messy and could be dangerous once the machine was set in motion. He hoped they were insisting Clary—er, Miss Ruthven—kept a safe distance.
With Sara settled, Miss Ruthven occupied, and the workroom humming with productivity, he settled behind his desk to finally get some work done. He started with vendor correspondence, finished that, and progressed to working on billing statements. Just as he was preparing the second, a ruckus erupted. Clerks in the workroom rose from their chairs, and two of them sprinted toward the stairwell. A moment later, a scream echoed down from upstairs.
Gabe shot up from his chair and rushed toward the stairwell. She was coming down with two clerks at her heels. Gabe’s heart stopped. Blood stained her shirtwaist, her fingers, even her face. He lunged up the steps between them, hands shaking as he reached for her.
“What the bloody hell happened?” he roared at the clerks behind her. “Clarissa, Clary,” he said softly, “where are you injured?”
She turned a miserable gaze his way. “Wherever my pride is located.”
“Pardon?”
The clerks snickered behind her, and Gabe barely resisted throttling them both. Then she started in, a little gurgle of mirth at first and then full-blown laughter. An infectious sound, throaty and enticing. And when his heart started again, he thought he might be amused too, if someone explained what the rotting hell was going on.
One of the lithograph operators skidded to the edge of the landing above. “She got into the paints, sir. We tried to clean the mess, but it doesn’t come off easily.”
She held her breath, trying to control her laughter. Gabe reached for a part of her arm that wasn’t stained and led her to his office.
“It wasn’t her fault, Mr. Adamson,” a clerk shouted in her defense.
Daughtry beelined toward them, fatherly worry etching lines across his wrinkled brow. “Is the lass all right, sir?”
“Find me some rags, water, soap, maybe a bit of turpentine, and bring them to my office.”
Clary allowed him to lead her and had almost calmed by the time he pointed her toward a chair. She refused to sit.
“What if I stain it?”
He didn’t care. All that mattered was that she was in one paint-splotched piece.
She scooted the tray of paper aside on his desk. Even that didn’t irk him. After tipping her head back to inspect the rear of her skirt, she settled her bottom warily against the edge.
Gabe rolled up his shirt-sleeves. “Tell me what happened.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” She held up her hands and paint dripped down her wrists. Now that he looked closer, it wasn’t just red. A bit of blue too. At her cuff, they blended into a vibrant purple, a darker version of her eye color.
Daughtry shuffled through the door with a small folding table, his arms brimming with all the other items Gabe had requested. “Can I help, sir?”
“Thank you for your concern, Wilbur,” she answered reassuringly. “I’ll be all right.”
Wilbur? Daughtry cast her a quick grin and ducked out of the room.
“You’ve won him over quickly.” Gabe didn’t want to think about why it irked him so.
She pointed a red-tinted finger at him. “You only think so because I used his given name. See how much friendlier it sounds?”
Gabe started with a damp cloth against her wrist and found much of the paint came off, except for a faint pink stain. He hated to use harsh turpentine on her skin. Returning to the basin to wring out his cloth, he dabbed it against the bar of soap before returning to her. He took her hand in his, and she pulled up her sleeve to give him access. The soap worked better at removing the coloring.
“I could manage this myself,” she said softly as he worked, though she made no move to pull away.
Gabe looked into her eyes a moment, and her breath seemed to catch. “This won’t take long.” He turned her hand over to clean the underside of her arm. “I can see what happened. Why don’t you tell me how.”
She glanced up at the ceiling, down at his hands where he held and washed her, anywhere but into his eyes. “I was curious,” she mumbled. “And I wanted to be useful.”
A few splotches of paint had managed to get on her face, and Gabe pressed two fingers to the edge of her jaw, tipping her head up. “Go on.”
She was warm and soft under his fingertips, and he stretched out his hand to cup her cheek as he rubbed at a spot near her chin.
“The red paint spilled. I didn’t realize how full the container was. And then I accidentally brushed the blue plate while trying to clean up the red.” Her eyes slid closed for a moment, and he missed her violet gaze. “It was a disaster.”
“Hardly. I thought you were injured.”
She opened her eyes, and her mouth fell open as if she’d say more. Her breath came in warm, tickling wisps against his face.
Gabe turned to retrieve a clean rag. He willed away his response to her. She was a Ruthven. He was from the gutters of Whitechapel.
“Were you worried about me?” The thread of hopefulness in her voice kindled heat in his chest. Right in the spot where his heart would be, if he still believed he possessed a working one. His whole body warmed, and he was buzzing with that devilishly appealing energy she exuded.
He swiped a wrist across his brow before turning back to her. She gasped and lifted a hand to her mouth.
“What?”
“You’ve . . . ” She waved toward him and pressed her lips together. “I’m afraid you’ve gotten a bit of paint on you too.”
Wonderful. “Where?”
Dropping to her feet, she approached and tugged the clean rag from his hand. “Your turn on the desk, Mr. Adamson.”
“Not necessary. Just tell me where.”
“Too hard to describe,” she insisted, though there was a mischievous glint in her eyes. “You’ll at least have to lean down so I can reach.”
He rested his arse on his desk’s edge and tried to pretend having her fuss over him was a nuisance. He even worked up an irritated sigh, but it turned to a gasp when her fingers swept through his hairline.
“Hold still,” she said breathily.
She was a pretty young woman any day of the week, but when applying herself to a task, her eyes widened, her lower lip plumped, and her soft round chin jutted forward. Her touch came gently, forcing her to smooth the rag over the spot several times.
“Almost done,” she whispered and pressed an inch closer, right between the V of his thighs.
He gripped the edge of his desk because he remembered how it felt to hold her this near, and every instinct told him to tuck his hand to her waist. One dip of his head, and he could take her determined mouth. Slide his hand into her hair and free those curly waves trapped in pins at her nape.
“There.” She smiled at him and took a step back. “Now just make sure you don’t touch me again, and you’ll remain spotless.”
“That’s not as easy as it sounds.” He meant being spotless. After the things he’d done, he would never be clean. But the other was true too. Keeping his hands off her was an increasingly impossible challenge.
“Isn’t it?” The rasp in her voice shot shivers down his back. She moved closer again, her skirt pressing against his legs. “Then you’ll touch me again?”
Before he could answer, she pressed her clean hand to his. He gripped the desk so hard his knuckles ached.
“Gabriel,” she whispered.
His name sounded perfect on her tongue. So good he could almost forget the times he’d heard it shouted like a curse.
The front doorbell echoed through the workroom, and Gabe edged off the desk, sidestepping away from her. “I have no appointments scheduled,” he told her pointlessly. His tongue felt as thick as the sluggish haze in his mind, and he struggled to remind himself that this was work. She was his employer’s sister. Hell, she was his employer.
Daughtry’s signature double knock sounded at his door before the man pushed inside. “Visitors to see you, sir.”
“I don’t entertain visitors.” No one knew that better than Daughtry, who maintained his appointment calendar.
“Say they’re friends. Say you invited them to stop in to see the office. A Miss Morgan and her cousin, Miss Banks.”
One of Clary’s gilded brows winged high.
“I’ll come out to greet them in a moment.” He turned to face her and was shocked to find the same regret in her expression that he felt in spades.
“Go. I’ll tidy this up so that you can visit with them in your office.”
“Yes,” he said. Yet he couldn’t force his feet to go. He preferred to stay here, with her. Even when she ignored him and began collecting the crimson-stained rags, he liked being near her. He couldn’t lie to himself about that anymore. The impulse was too strong to deny.
Miss Morgan’s voice filtered in from the workroom. She was just the sort of woman he’d always told himself he wanted. Demure, well mannered, agreeable.
But she didn’t fire his blood. Or cause him to stand stock-still, clenching his fists so that he didn’t reach for her. He didn’t think of Jane Morgan from the beginning of one day to the start of the next.
The only woman who lingered in his thoughts was Clarissa Ruthven.