Page 25 of Rules for Ruin

Miss Flite stood at the shop’s filthy counter. A pair of large, unshaven men in threadbare coats and sweat-stained breeches loomed on either side of her, watching her from beneath the brims of their low cloth caps the way hungry sharks might watch an oblivious seal frolicking to its doom.

She was dressed all in black, just as Ollie had described. An ebony parasol was tucked under her arm, and a tiny black dog danced at her feet, constrained by the slim velvet lead she held in her black-gloved hand. The fine veil of her bonnet had been drawn back to reveal her face as she spoke to the barman, old Ned Scrimple.

Ned was staring at her with an expression that—when coupled with the lascivious stares of the other men—had Gabriel reflexively clenching his fist. He forced his fingers to loosen. Things could easily escalate. There was drink involved, and there was an uncommonly attractive woman. A few more swallows of liquid courage and one of these louts would willingly start a brawl over her.

“What’s this, Ned?” Gabriel asked with deceptive casualness. “A party?”

Miss Flite turned. Her dark blue gaze flicked from Gabriel to Ollie and back again. If she was surprised to see them, she didn’t show it. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

A glass of spirits sat on the counter beside her, so far untouched.

“A bit early in the day for a drink, is it not, my lady?” Gabriel inquired, coming to join her.

“Oh, that isn’t for me,” Miss Flite said. “It’s for him.” She smiled in Ollie’s direction. “I thought you might be thirsty, young man. You’ve kept such a brisk pace these past two days.”

Ollie paled. He was usually more effective when following people, blending in easily with his surroundings and remaining invisible. If Miss Flite had spotted him, it could only be because he’d been careless.

Gabriel stepped up to the counter, putting himself squarely between Miss Flite and the larger villain on her right. He stared down at her, as close to her as he’d been in Compton’s library. This time, his pulse was unaffected. His blood pumped cold and steady, fully aware of the danger, even if she wasn’t.

“Is that what’s brought you here today? The impertinence of this young lad?”

Ollie flinched to hear Gabriel’s Birmingham accent emerge, knowing that it never boded well.

Ned, the barman, was equally aware. He took a step back from the counter, holding his hands up in apology. “She were asking about the old days, Mr. Royce, some two decades past, long before I took up shop. I meant no disrespect. I didn’t know she were one of yours.”

“The old days,” Gabriel repeated. “Ah. But they’re dead and gone, aren’t they, Ned?”

“That’s what I told her, sir.”

“She’s looking for someone named Grace,” the man on the right said. “Knew a whore named Grace once.” He craned his head around Gabriel to leer at Miss Flite. “Not as pretty a whore as you are, but—”

In one lightning-fast movement, Gabriel grabbed the man by his greasy hair and slammed his face down on the bar. There was a crunching sound, followed by a vigorous spurt of blood.

“My nose!” the man bellowed.

Ned rushed to the man’s aid, dirty bar cloth in hand. “Shut up,” he growled as he cleaned up the blood. “You want it to be your neck?”

“That’s Gabriel Royce, you lummox!” one of the drunkards called out from a table nearby. “Him who runs St. Giles. Best shut your mouth if you know what’s good for you.”

Miss Flite gave Gabriel an interested look. One would never guess by her expression that there was a man bleeding copiously not six feet away. “Is it true?” she asked. “Do you run St. Giles?”

Gabriel motioned to the door. “Shall we?”

“I don’t mind a little blood.”

“Nor do I. But I do recall your aversion to smoke.”

Her lips compressed. For a moment it seemed she would refuse. “Very well,” she said at last. “How could I refuse such gentlemanly consideration?”

With that, she picked up her little dog—a black, curly-coated bit of fluff with a red satin ribbon bow on its head. The tiny beast fixed Gabriel with a surprisingly fearsome glare as Miss Flite conveyed it from the shop.

Gabriel strode after her. When Ollie moved to follow, Gabriel jerked his head back to the bar. “Drink your drink,” he commanded.

Outside, Miss Flite continued carrying her dog as she proceeded down the refuse-strewn alleyway. The skirts of her plain, black silk day dress were nearly as wide as the skirts of her ball gown had been. They swayed about her in a seductive swish of fabric, at once protective and provocative.

Gabriel stalked along at her side, as closely as the circumference of her hem would allow. His blood was pumping harder now. By God, but he’d lost his temper. And the man hadn’t even touched Miss Flite, or offered her violence. All he’d done was call her a whore. As professions went, it wasn’t even the worst one. Gabriel’s chest still tightened with fury to recall it.

He couldn’t think why. Miss Flite was nothing to him. Just a comely female he’d met under unusual circumstances at a ball. A lady who had intrigued him, yes. But a lady nonetheless. He had no use for such refined creatures.