How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(20)

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.”