How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(53)

When they reached the park’s green, he led her to a bench set back from the main path. He indicated the seat, but Clary was too full of nerves to sit.

“Perhaps we could speak over there.” Clary pointed to an oak tree set deeper within the park.

He led her over with two of his fingers hooked around two of hers, and she could feel that his hand was shaking ever so slightly. Once she was standing with her back to the broad tree trunk, he began pacing in a circle around her, as if she was holding up a maypole.

“You asked me last night why I was in Whitechapel,” he finally began. “I was looking for someone.” He stopped in front of her, looked into her eyes.

The pain she saw there made her want to reach for him, but she didn’t want to stop him from saying more. He drew in a deep breath, his gaze never leaving hers.

“I was looking for my mother.”

“You were raised in Whitechapel.”

“That detail doesn’t seem to surprise you.”

“It’s your accent.”

“I worked years for this accent,” he insisted, enunciating every word as if he was biting off each consonant.

Clary chuckled. “Helen noticed. She says she could hear the Cockney underneath, yearning to get out. She’s from Bethnal Green. Her father was from Whitechapel.”

Gabriel’s eyes widened. “She’s not Abraham Fisk’s daughter, is she?”

“Yes, that was her father’s name.”

He smiled, a flash of white, and then a lovely sound rumbled in his chest. Like thunder breaking from far off and rolling ever closer. Finally, the chuckle burst out, and Clary found herself transfixed. She was sure he’d laughed before but never while she was near. The sound was intoxicating, infectious, and she found herself chucking too. Then she realized she had no idea what was so amusing.

When he caught his breath, he said, “Fisk was a scoundrel of the first order. A terrible gambler, a cheat, and an outrageous charmer. My mother used to say he could peddle water to a drowning man.”

“Did you find her last night?” Clary regretted her question, because Gabriel’s face fell before he looked away from her, casting his gaze toward the far edge of the park.

“No, I didn’t find her.” He gazed down at her again. “But I encountered someone else. A man I wished never to see again.” He swallowed and closed his eyes a moment. “A man who used to own me.”

Clary shook her head, an involuntary reaction to the denial she felt ringing in her soul. “No man can ever own another.”

Gabriel stepped away, turned his back on her a moment and then returned. Drawing closer. Close enough to touch her, but he didn’t. “My mother worked for him. She ran up a debt when I was young and offered me in payment. I stole for him, lied for him, fought for him. On the street and in the ring.” His mouth stretched in a horrible mockery of a grin. “I was one of his thugs. And when I became his best brawler, he only allowed me to fight in the prize ring. Men bet on me like I was a terrier in a rat pit.”

He lifted a fist between them. “That’s where I got the scars.”

Clary stroked a finger across his knuckles, then lifted her hand to trace the line near his mouth and the jagged slash near his brow. “But you got away and made yourself a success in business. You’re not a brawler anymore.”

“Aren’t I?” Gabriel unclenched his fist and let his hand fall to his side. “I was a beast back then. Feral, he used to call me. I ran away, so he put me in a cage for a while.” He lifted a trembling hand, stroked his fingers along her cheek. “I wish I were half the man you think I am.”

“I’ve always known there was more to you. Secrets you kept locked away.”

“More than a boring, rule-bound man. Isn’t that what you thought of me?” He slid a finger under her chin and lifted her gaze to his. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking I’m what you see before you. A fine suit and elocution lessons don’t change what a man is at his core.”

“I know who you are.” Clary pressed closer, until the buttons of her shirtwaist clicked against the buttons of his shirt.

“You don’t know all of it yet.” He dragged in air as if it hurt to breathe. Hands clenched into tight fists, he faced her. “Men died, Clary. They died because of my fists.” He swallowed hard, tendons straining in his neck as if the rest was stuck inside him. “The fight didn’t stop when a man was bested. Rigg insisted we fight on.” Shaking out his hands, he flexed his fingers before curling them into fists again. “Two men I fought never recovered from their injuries. Onlookers came for blood. That’s what we gave them.”

“Gabriel.” The whispered word was meant to soothe him, but her voice had turned quavery. The horror of it welled in her chest—grief for him and the men he’d fought and those who loved them.

He deflated once the confession was out, broad shoulders sagging as his fists unfurled. When he finally raised his head to look at her, he wore the starkest, saddest expression she’d ever seen. “Now you know who I am. What I’ve done.”

“I admire you more because of what you’ve overcome.”

He laughed, but the sound came out rusty and bitter. When he pulled away from her, she let him go.

“You’re confounding me with those girls at your school.” He began pacing around the tree again, his voice fading and rising as he passed her. “Some sad East End charity case just waiting for the benevolence of a well-meaning spinster or noblewoman.”