How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(58)

“Mrs. Simms, some tea in the drawing room, I think.” Clary caught the child’s eye. “And milk?”

He cocked an eyebrow.

“And biscuits?” The boy shot her a crooked grin.

Gabriel stepped toward her and placed his hand on her arm, caressing up and down in a comforting gesture. “Let me deal with him. I don’t want you involved with this.”

Clary leaned to get another look at the boy. He was eyeing the trinkets on the hall table, making a stealthy grab for a porcelain box. She cleared her throat, and he settled the box back on the table without a backward glance.

“If the matter of this boy involves you, then it’s a matter that involves me,” she told Gabriel. “You said in the park that there’d be no going back.”

He wasn’t happy with her tenacity. She could see the flicker of irritation in his gaze, but he relented, slipping an arm around her back and clapping his other hand on the boy’s nape. He led them both into the drawing room and closed the door.

“Those biscuits comin’ soon?” Almost the moment the boy’s words were out, Mrs. Simms rolled a tea tray into the room, ducking back out as quickly as her legs would carry her.

Clary poured two cups of tea and lifted a pitcher of milk toward the boy.

“If you please, miss. Ever so kind, you are.” He settled his gangly frame on Kit and Phee’s lavender couch, flicking his grimy frock coattails out behind him.

She served him biscuits on a pretty blue-and-white plate and milk in a teacup, and he dipped his head in haughty thanks, as if he were a nobleman taking his afternoon repast.

“Which of you would like to tell me what’s going on?” Clary rested on a settee cushion and took a sip of tea.

“Brought a proposition to ’is nibs, and he took a huff, ’e did.” The boy shoved an entire biscuit in his mouth. Crumbs tumbled down his chest as he chewed. “Wouldn’t let me get a word in h’edgewise. Would ye, guv?”

“What proposition?” Clary asked both of them.

Gabriel, who’d been pacing around the room, finally took a seat beside her, tipping her cushion toward him with his bulk. A bit of milky tea sloshed onto her finger. When she winced, he gently took her cup from her hand and lifted her finger to his lips. “Does it burn?” He blew against her overwarm digit.

“I’m all right.” Except for the fact that she never liked being fussed over, yet somehow adored his tender ministrations. “Tell me about the proposition.”

The boy yanked a dirty square of folded paper from his coat. “Right ’ere. Plain as day. Never took the time to read a word, did ye, guv?”

Clary retrieved the note and began unfolding the edges. Gabe’s large hand came crashing down over hers, crumpling the paper. “It’s from the man I spoke to you about. I want nothing to do with him or this child, who’s one of his messengers.”

“Slander!” the boy shouted. “I work for meself and for whoever’s got a bob to send a message.”

Gabe leaned toward him. “I’ll give you half a bloody sovereign to forget this address. Forget you ever spoke to me. Forget your way back to my doorstep.”

The boy scooped up the remaining biscuits and shoved them in his trouser pocket. “Done,” he assured Gabe. “No message for Rigg, then?”

After digging in his pocket, Gabe flipped a gold coin in the air. The boy bounded forward and caught the shiny disc in his palm. After lifting the half sovereign to bite the edge, he cast Gabe a satisfied grin and shoved the bounty in his coat pocket. “Best be on me way,” he said.

Clary scooted forward to see the boy off.

“Let me.” Gabe placed a hand in her lap to stop her. At the threshold, she heard him call to the child. “I do have a message for Rigg. Tell him to burn in hell.”

Smoothing the paper out on her lap, she tried to make out the words. The ink had run on the sodden page.

“Did you ever hear the story about curiosity and a cat?” Gabe’s deep voice called to her from the doorway.

“He says he wishes to pay you to fight.”

“Of course he does.” He came into the room and closed the door behind him. “How much does he offer?”

“One hundred pounds.”

Gabe snorted. “And what’s my share to be? A few shillings?” He lowered himself to the settee beside her again, carefully this time, though she held no cup of tea. Stretching an arm out along the furnishing’s back, he lifted a hand to stroke her hair.

“Says here that the one hundred pounds is your share, in victory or defeat.” Clary placed a hand on his thigh and smiled when his muscles jumped under her touch. “Did he always pay you so much?”

“Never. At first he gave me nothing. Food, a cot to sleep on. I was paying off my mother’s debt for years. Then, when I began prize fighting, he’d give me just enough to pay for a decent meal, a bit of mischief. Never enough to save or better myself.” As he spoke, he gathered her unbound hair in his hand, slipping his fingers underneath to stroke the sensitive skin of her nape.

Clary’s body pebbled with gooseflesh, and heat pooled between thighs. He leaned closer to nuzzle her neck, cupped her cheek, and lowered his mouth to hers for a kiss. She forgot the note, the child, everything but the tantalizing taste of him.