How to Woo a Wallflower Page 6

  “Exactly.” Clary cast her sister a grin of gratitude. She lifted a clipped rectangle of newsprint from her folder. “This article and others I’ve collected indicate that women drive consumption of magazines and reading material in their households.”

  “Why?” Adamson queried. He was like a buzzing fly, determined to dive in and spoil her soup.

  “Why what?” The two words emerged on a frustrated growl. The man truly did have the worst effect on her.

  “Why will women wish to purchase your particular publication? New ladies’ magazines spring up every year. Many fail. What will yours offer that’s unique? Why should a lady buy yours rather than the dozens of others sitting at newsagents’ as we speak?”

  “Fashion is a fine lure,” Mr. Daughtry suggested. “My wife can never get enough of frippery magazines.”

  Clary held very still and fought the urge to roll her eyes. Eye rolling wouldn’t do when she was trying to convince everyone she could manage a publication project on her own. “Fashion won’t be the focus. This magazine will be appealing to the eye, of course, with color art and illustrations, but the main impetus will be to inform ladies of social and political news of the day. Provide insight on ways they might contribute and organize to support causes they care about.”

  She didn’t have to look at Gabriel Adamson to note his disdain. He’d begun tapping his fountain pen like an insistent drumbeat against the tabletop.

  “Perhaps we should discuss this matter further at home,” Kit suggested from the far end of the table. He was using his soft, brotherly voice.

  “This is a business proposal, Kit. I wish for the board to consider my proposal as a business matter.”

  Kit released a sigh and focused his gaze on Adamson, who was bubbling like a boiling pot at Clary’s side, eager to release a cloud of steam.

  “How many young women do you plan to employ?” he asked her.

  “Ten. Perhaps more.” Clary hoped to offer work to as many young women as she could, with special consideration to be given to those graduating from the Fisk Academy.

  Mr. Adamson uncapped his fountain pen and began scratching notes onto the paper under his hand, finally drawing a slash at the bottom of a list of figures. “I can only estimate costs and guess at potential sales, but I fear investment in such a venture would not be repaid for years. If at all.”

  “I only expect to utilize the printing facilities. The new chromolithograph press sounds perfect for our purposes. Otherwise, the project will fund itself.” They couldn’t object. She’d keep the project self-sustaining. A surge of victory filled Clary. If she’d been a balloon, she would have floated up among the clouds. “The income from the journal will be used to pay the young women employed in its production and produce new issues. Any overage, we can count as a profit. We’ll only need an initial outlay of funds, and I shall take on the project of finding that money.”

  Something was amiss.

  Her explanation should have satisfied everyone, yet no one at the table looked pleased. Mr. Daughtry stared at her as if she’d lost her head, Sophia nibbled her bottom lip nervously, and Kit looked completely befuddled. She didn’t bother looking at Gabriel Adamson. It was bad enough that his black hair had dried into the most distracting waves and that his clean scent was tickling her nose.

  “How do you plan to find those funds, my dear?” Sophia’s voice was a welcome interruption in the tense silence.

  “With a charity ball.” Clary had initially hated the idea, but Helen convinced her. The wealthy loved balls, she insisted, and they’d need the wealthy to collect donations for both Fisk Academy and The Ladies’ Clarion, as Clary had decided to title the periodical.

  Sophia looked at Kit. Kit cast a gaze at Mr. Daughtry, and Adamson stood, hovering at her side. The broad length of him blocked the light from the room’s single window.

  “I can leave this discussion, if you prefer, Mr. Ruthven,” he said to her brother, ignoring her completely, as if her proposal wasn’t the current matter up for discussion. “This sounds like a charity endeavor rather than a business matter.”

  “Why can’t it be both? And of course you can’t depart,” Clary snapped. “This project will involve the use of paper, printers, and supplies that fall under your management.”

  “Very well.” He didn’t take a chair but strode to the window, positioning himself to recline against the sill. All the better to glare directly at her.

  “I’m afraid Adamson is right.” Kit ran a hand through his hair and stared at her in confusion. “We cannot use charity donations to run an enterprise from which we hope to turn a profit. That would be unethical.”

  Clary’s throat closed, as if her collar had been cinched too tightly around her neck. Then the tightness spread, as if someone was twisting the laces of her corset like a vice. “Unethical is the state in which many girls live, while others flourish a few miles away. If we cannot do both, then I shall view this as a charitable endeavor entirely. Not a project to earn a profit. Why can’t Ruthven’s undertake a philanthropic effort? Father never gave a dime to anyone he didn’t owe.”

  “Not even then, at times,” Kit groused.

  “Initially, we can employ young ladies from Fisk Academy to run the magazine. Perhaps Helen could arrange for their work to earn them credit toward graduation. This could reduce the cost of salaries initially.”

  Adamson moved in her periphery, sweeping a hand across his mouth. “Running the presses costs money, so unless we wish to take a loss, some funds will need to be repaid to Ruthven’s.”

  Sophia pushed away from the table and crossed her arms before lifting a hand to fiddle with the broach at her neck. Clary recognized her sister’s pondering stance. “Perhaps a scheme could be worked out to donate use of the lithograph machine for the magazine project. Clary does have a point. Ruthven’s has never engaged in any sort of philanthropy.”

  “Because we are a business and wish to earn a profit,” Kit insisted. He stood too, as if to emphasize his point.

  Only Mr. Daughtry remained seated, and he seemed supremely entertained by the tense debate.

  “We are turning a profit,” Clary noted. “And a healthy one, according to Mr. Adamson.” She risked a glance at him, and he narrowed his gaze, as if irritated to have his report used in support of her idea. A moment later, he strode toward her and scooped up his folio from the table.

  “I’m not sure we can accommodate the project, Clary.” Kit sounded disappointed, but his voice was firm. “We plan to add new titles each month for the rest of the year, not to mention the literary journal we plan to produce. When would the presses be used for your charity venture?”

  “More etiquette books?” She couldn’t keep the derision from her tone.

  “Updated etiquette books,” Sophia said defensively. “A few years ago, you assisted us to update the ladies’ Ruthven Rules.”

  Frustration twisted Clary’s stomach in knots. “What is the point of teaching gentleman to be more gentlemanly or ladies to be more ladylike?” She swiped a stray hair behind her ear and dislodged a hairpin, which plinked onto the table. A massive hand burst into her line of vision, collecting the bent metal.

  A moment later, Adamson engulfed her hand in his, turned her palm up, and deposited the hairpin in the center. Just as suddenly, he let her go, and Clary clenched her fingers around the pin.

  His eyes had taken on a shuttered aspect, but she could detect emotion beneath the surface of cool blue. Pity lurked in that bright gaze of his, and seeing it was far worse than Kit’s treating her idea like a child’s improbable fancy.

  Collecting her notes, she stuffed them into her folder and clutched the whole to her chest. “I’ll figure out a way to do this, with or without Ruthven’s.” Pivoting on her heel, she stomped to the door, then turned back. “And if we’re going to produce more etiquette books, at least let them be useful.”

  “Such as?” Adamson asked, with more interest than she would have expected.

 
; “How to succeed in business.” She glowered at her brother. “How to remain healthy into one’s dotage.” Mr. Daughtry perked up at that suggestion. How not to be affected by an insufferably handsome man. Or better yet, how to make such a man realize a brilliant idea when he hears one. “How to woo a wallflower,” she sputtered and marched from the room.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Clary, don’t rush off.” Kit was on her heels as she made her way through the workroom. “Hear me out, would you?”

  “Is there anything more to say?” Still vibrating with frustrated energy, she spun to face him and found half the clerks gaping their way.

  “Yes, quite a lot, actually. I have a proposal to speak to you about.” He said proposal without a hint of irony, somehow failing to realize she’d just presented one that mattered to her and had been soundly rejected.

  He gestured toward a long storage space at the edge of the workroom. Apparently, Mr. Adamson was the only one at Ruthven’s who merited an office.

  Clary followed Kit into the tidy, well-lit space, and she was surprised to find a long table and chairs tucked inside. A perfect place for a group of young women to sort out a ladies’ magazine project.

  “Will you sit?” he asked, gesturing toward a chair.

  “I prefer to stand.” At least then she could move, pace. Her blood was fizzing in her veins, and sitting primly had never been her style.

  “Very well.” Kit chafed his hands together. “You wish to seek employment?”

  “You know I do.” She began to pace, wary of what he’d suggest next. “If you’re going to attempt to prevent me—”

  “Why not work at Ruthven’s?”

  Gabriel Adamson.

  There were other reasons, surely, but he was the first thought that came to mind. “I would prefer to make my own way. Find a position on my own merits.”

  “You have no experience.” He stepped in front of her to stop her pacing, as if keeping her still would forestall the retorts brewing in her mind. “A fine education, I’ll grant you that, but why not gain a bit of experience here? You said you wish to know more about how Ruthven’s is run. I saw you banging at the typewriter when we came in.” His amused grin was maddening.

  “I was not banging. I was practicing. Learning to hit the keys in the right order takes time. Plus, I lack speed.”

  “You could learn with more practice. And if you spent more time at Ruthven’s, you could practice all you like.”

  “No.” She hated it when he made sense. Impulsive, she might be, but she found logical arguments hard to resist.

  Clary sidestepped past him and resumed pacing, biting her nail as she considered her options. She’d visited two employment agencies, and neither had responded with much eagerness. They had mentioned her lack of experience too. But working for her own family’s business was a half measure. Stepping forward but with leading strings still attached. “How would it work? Since I’m now on the board, how could I be employed by the business?”

  “I’ll speak to Whitaker about that,” Kit said, looking far too pleased with himself. Far too ready to claim victory. “But I thought, at least at first, we could consider your role a mentorship. I’m sure we can arrange a stipend. Enough to pay rent, if you’re still determined to secure your own lodgings.”

  “I am.” A mentorship? Which meant she would have a mentor. She looked out toward Adamson’s office, and her heart kicked into a wild hammering in her chest. No. She shook her head. “I don’t wish to be mentored by Mr. Adamson.”

  “Who else would know as much about Ruthven’s?” Once again, he had a point she could not refute. “Clary, I think your ladies’ magazine might have merit if you can secure initial financing with your charity ball. Bring the matter to the next board meeting in three months, and we all can reassess the costs and what Ruthven’s could donate.”

  Clary slid her brother a rueful glance. As much as Kit raged against their father’s manipulative ways, he was not above adopting Papa’s habit of wielding leverage to get his way.

  But both of them had learned negotiation from their father. Clary wasn’t willing to give in and get nothing in return. “I’d prefer to call a special board meeting to consider the magazine project again in one month’s time.” Why wait to begin helping the girls of Fisk Academy?

  “You’ll devote yourself to this endeavor?” Kit assessed her. “You’ll put your focus and energies here, rather than at your charities and ladies’ unions?”

  Goodness, he really did intend to cage her. “If I’m here for a full workday, that will curtail my time for volunteer work. I expected as much once I found a position.”

  He clenched his jaw, his throat working as if he wished to say more. But he was wise enough to know she would not concede everything. “I’ll agree to a month. In the meantime, consult with Adamson to come up with a workable plan for financing your magazine venture beyond the charity ball.”

  A grin twitched at the corners of her mouth, despite her best intentions. A few years earlier, her brother had been a playwright and a rogue with a dreadful reputation. Now he spoke of business with almost as much knowledge as Mr. Adamson. Perhaps he’d learned something from their surly manager.

  The man himself had come out into the workroom. She could feel him, hear his heavy footsteps, smell his scent in the air.

  Kit stepped toward Clary and stuck out his hand. She hesitated, still uncertain of his plan. Adamson lording over her for weeks? The prospect held no appeal, yet she knew there were far worse employers in London. The girls at Fisk weighed on her mind too. How eager they’d be when they heard about her plans for employing some of them. And Helen was already making preparations for the fund-raising ball.

  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 hab
itants 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.