How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(29)
“I had a nightmare that he came back,” Helen whispered. “I was staying over at the school, and he broke in.” When one of the matron volunteers was ill or couldn’t monitor the girls at night, Helen stayed to keep watch. “In the dream, I’d fallen asleep, and he took us all by surprise.”
“It was just a dream, Helen.” She’d never known her friend to give in to fancy or fright. At Rothley, Clary had been the one up late, reading penny dreadfuls, painting macabre scenes, and attempting to write her own scary stories, while Helen read Euclid and Pythagoras.
“You’re right, of course. But I’ve considered whether we’re doing enough to protect the girls. Nathaniel suggested we hire a guard, at least for evenings.”
“Wouldn’t that make the girls more frightened?” Clary appreciated that Dr. Landau wished to protect Helen and the girls at Fisk Academy, but, thanks to Kit, she also knew how stifling overly protective instincts could be. “Where would we even find someone willing to serve as a guard?”
“Is your Mr. Adamson available?” Helen asked, her voice lilting mischievously. “The girls seemed to like him all right.”
“The same could be said of your Dr. Landau. Mr. Adamson is not my anything.”
“Not true.” Helen released Clary’s hand and crossed the room to retrieve matches from a drawer. When she returned to light the gas sconce again, she added, “He’s your employee, and now, oddly, your manager and mentor.”
“He leaves the mentoring to Mr. Daughtry.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Why would I be?” Damn Helen’s bloodhound instincts. “You saw how domineering he can be. How dismissive.”
“I’m sure there’s more to him.”
There was. He could turn gentle in a heartbeat, touching her as if she was delicate and precious. He could be helpful, instructing her with patience and praise on how to defend herself. And, apparently, he’d come from a part of London he spoke of with loathing.
As if she’d read her mind, Helen added, “Best not to bring up what I said about him coming from the East End. If it’s nothing he’s volunteered, then he may have his reasons for keeping mum.”
“He’s mum about everything. I know nothing about the man.” And she wanted to know. Desperately. “He admitted he has a sister, but he won’t tell me her name. Oh, and he has two friends, a Miss Morgan and her cousin.”
“I hope he brings one of them to the ball. The invitation does include a guest.”
“Perhaps.” Would he bring the young woman who’d visited him at the office and blushed every time he looked her way?
If nothing else, Clary would have a good view. She and Helen had already decided where to place their chairs in the back of the Stanhope ballroom to oversee the festivities.
“She’ll be eager to see you, of that I’ve no doubt.” Sara blew into her cupped hands to warm them. While the sun had managed to break through the clouds midday, the evening had turned cold, and London’s hansom cabs offered meager shelter from the elements.
“You’ve forgotten your gloves again.” Gabe removed his own and passed them to his sister. A lifetime of counting gloves as a luxury meant that Sara often left hers behind. But they were good for hiding the scars on his knuckles, so Gabe rarely forgot his pair.
“Miss Morgan, I mean.”
“I know who you meant.” His sister was tenacious but rarely subtle.
“You don’t mention her much.”
Unfortunately, Sara took his failure to speak of Miss Morgan as a sign of his determination to avoid marriage. In fact, it was that Jane Morgan didn’t interest him in that way. Though he had no interest in admitting to his sister which woman did.
“Perhaps we should stop accepting every invitation we receive from Jane Morgan.”
She pivoted to face him in the carriage’s close confines. “She’s one of few friends we have. Thomas’s family is scattered around the countryside. Jane Morgan may very well turn out to be the only guest at our wedding.”
“You’re right, of course.” Mercy, he was a selfish bastard. Because of the past, the secrets he needed to keep, he’d narrowed their lives to a few select interactions with people he believed he could trust. And it was a very short list. Miss Morgan and her father, when he was alive, and perhaps the Ruthvens and Thomas Tidwell, Sara’s betrothed. And, of course, Daughtry and his wife. Gabe and Sara joined the couple for supper at the pub around the corner from Ruthven’s once in a while.
She nudged him with her elbow and grinned. “Wish I had a sixpence for every time you tell me I’m right.” Shifting to reach into the pocket of her coat, she gazed over at him, wide-eyed, and added, “Seeing as how you’ve decided to accept all of Miss Morgan’s invitations, perhaps you should extend one to her in return.”
The envelope she placed in his hand had been sliced open, and the thick paper was covered with a ridiculously fancy script, full of useless loops and swirls. Among the decorative handwriting, he noted his name and their old address.
“You didn’t go back, did you?” They’d agreed to leave without notice, though they paid their landlord an additional sum to tell no one where they’d gone. So far, there’d been no more sightings of Rigg, and Sara was increasingly convinced she may have been mistaken in her identification of the man she saw.