“There is no victory quite as sweet as turning disappointment into determination.”
—JOURNAL OF CLARY RUTHVEN
Few visited the Ruthven offices who were not expected. Workroom employees were due at half past seven. Vendors arranged appointments weeks in advance. No meeting was ever scheduled before nine. Gabe imposed order efficiently and effectively on the daily goings-on of the business. If some random Londoner happened across their threshold, it was usually because the poor sod got lost.
Over the years, Gabe had learned the rhythms of the workroom floor by heart, memorizing the clatter of the printing presses and the patterned strikes of Daughtry, his assistant, and other clerks tapping at their typewriters. When productivity waned because of inane chitchat, he caught that too. And immediately cut such nonsense short.
So when he settled behind his desk on Monday morning, a half hour before any other employees were due to arrive, as was his habit, he savored the bliss of quiet. He felt something akin to peace. After weeks of mulling, he’d made a choice. He would inform Kit Ruthven of his plans to leave Ruthven’s and take the position offered by Wellbeck Publishers.
Why shouldn’t he go? He owed no loyalty to the late Leopold Ruthven. The man had been a reprobate, far worse than his family suspected. Only grudgingly, Gabe had come to respect the son. Kit Ruthven trusted him to carry out his duties, rarely questioning or interfering with his management. He even admired the man’s determination to share ownership with his sisters. If he’d been lucky enough to inherit anything of value, he’d have happily shared with Sara too.
Of course, Gabe didn’t believe in luck. Only in scrabbling and fighting for every scrap of good fortune that came his way.
Change was necessary. He needed the higher salary Wellbeck’s offered. He’d been beholden to the Ruthvens for long enough.
Unfolding the letter from Wellbeck’s, he smoothed the document on his desktop. Beside it, he poised a nib pen over a fresh sheet of foolscap and began scratching out a formal reply. A moment later, a noise in the outer workroom jolted his attention, and his nib sputtered blots of ink across the paper.
Hell and damnation. Gabe crushed the ruined page in his fist and shot up from his chair. No one ever arrived this bloody early, and he’d secured the door behind him when he’d let himself in.
After shrugging out of his suit coat, he rolled up his sleeves and moved slowly toward the door. He took care to land his boots softly on the polished wood. A distinctive sound froze him in place. Not the rustling that had initially drawn his notice but a steady, rhythmic tick of type bars hitting the platen of a typewriter.
Plastering himself against the frame of his open office door, Gabe gazed across the workroom to get a glimpse of the early morning typist. Irritation flared, and his chest collapsed in a long sigh.
Bent over Daughtry’s typewriter, Miss Ruthven swiped a strand of hair from her face and then proceeded to jab haphazardly at the keys. With her back to him, her body curved in a perfect hourglass shape. A single loose curl had slipped its pin, hanging down her back in the same sinuous line. Despite the fact that he’d never entered the workroom to find a lovely woman working away at one of the desks, she looked strangely right perched on Daughtry’s chair.
He couldn’t lambast her for skulking into the office and commandeering the old man’s typewriter. This was her office now. Her business. Her typewriter, if she damn well pleased to use the machine. Apparently, she did.
Gabe cleared his throat as loudly as he dared.
She jumped before turning an irritated glare his way. “You startled me.” After an enormous gulp, her tone softened. “I didn’t expect anyone so early.”
“Likewise.”
“Do you always arrive before everyone else?” She collected whatever she’d been composing from the typewriter and turned to face him.
“Always.” Gabe gestured toward Daughtry’s work space. “What required typing so urgently?”
“Nothing.” She shoved the paper behind her.
The movement amused him. How many filched objects had he pushed behind his back or stuffed into his pockets as a child? Once he’d even hidden a stolen pocket watch in his mouth while a constable passed on his nightly rounds. The bitter tang of tarnished metal had lingered on his tongue for days.
“May I?” he asked, palm out, much more politely than any copper had ever cross-questioned him.
She notched up her chin a moment and then relented, shoving the half-covered sheet in front of him. “It’s nothing. Truly.”
The page smelled of flowers. Gabe wondered if she imprinted her scent on everything she touched. Rows of letters typed over and over were broken with lines of text such as “There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.” The words were familiar to Gabe, though he couldn’t recall from where.
“I must become proficient with the typewriter. I came early so as not to disturb anyone.” She stepped closer and snatched the sheet from his fingers. “Did I disturb you, Mr. Adamson?”
“No,” he lied. But she did disturb him. Mightily.
His senses ignited in awareness, every nerve firing. She was the brightest spot in the room, her blouse a bright buttercup yellow that clashed with the darker gold of her hair. And those violet eyes of hers seemed to eat up everything they beheld. She had an eager way of gazing about, as if she was seeing the world for the first time, and every sight fascinated her.
She moved constantly too, like a flower swaying in a stiff breeze. Shuffling her feet, twisting at the hips, she behaved as if the act of standing in one place put a fearsome strain on her patience. “Would you mind if I continue, at least until the other employees arrive?”
Yes, I would mind quite a lot.
“As you wish, Miss Ruthven.”
“Will you be at the meeting later this morning, Mr. Adamson?” she put to him over her shoulder after settling herself back into Daughtry’s chair.
“Of course.” The question irked him, almost as much as her sweet floral scent. Where did she think he’d be? This was his domain. At least for a little while longer. “I’m the one who called the meeting.”
As he headed back to his office, a thought struck like a punch to the gut.
He’d miss this damned place—the tidy workroom, the hum of activity when a shipment came in or a new title started production, even the simple orderliness of his desk. Employees like Daughtry, who believed in working as hard as he did to make the enterprise a success, were a rarity. Would he find the same at Wellbeck’s?
Then another thought came, and a chill spilled down his back like ice water.
“Will you be attending the meeting, Miss Ruthven?”
She shifted her enticing hourglass figure, glanced at him over her shoulder, and shot him an irksome grin. “Since I’m here, I might as well.”
Wonderful.
When the bell over the front door jingled at ten minutes to nine, Gabe sprang from his desk, straightened his necktie, and smoothed a hand through his hair, eager to face Kit Ruthven. Requesting a private meeting before the general company weather report must have struck his employer as odd, but Gabe couldn’t wait another day.
Sara was right. Time shouldn’t be wasted. Now or never. That philosophy had saved his skin more than once.
“Is something amiss, Adamson?” Ruthven strode into Gabe’s office and stuck out his hand in greeting.
“Not at all, sir, though there is a matter I wish to speak to you about.”
Aside from height, they were opposites in every way—background, temperament, and, most starkly, how they viewed the publishing business. Mr. Ruthven pushed for change, regardless of financial prudence. Caution had been a hard-learned lesson for Gabe, but he’d become skilled at avoiding risk and fighting the instinct to run headlong into trouble.
“I have a proposal for you,” Ruthven said, seating himself in front of Gabe’s desk and hooking his hat over one knee. “But let me hear you out first.”
The speech he’d planned petrified in Gabe’s throat. Doubts swarmed in.
He should have given Ruthven a chance to pay him more before submitting his resignation. He deserved a higher wage. By any standards, his compensation was meager compared to the responsibility the elder Ruthven had heaped on his shoulders. Other men would have harangued their employer a dozen times already.
“Something’s troubling you.” Ruthven leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees as he subjected Gabe to an irritatingly intense stare. “Is it your sister?”
“No, not my sister.” In an offhand comment, Gabe had mentioned that Sara was unwell. He’d given no details, and Ruthven must have assumed she was ailing with more than the common cold.
“If there’s anything you need. Time away from the office. More help. You need only let me know.”
Gabe covered the letter he’d planned to present to Ruthven with his hand. “Mr. Ruthven, after due consideration, I have decided . . . ”
“You seek an increase in compensation.”
“Yes.” Gabe clenched a fist over the resignation letter.
Kit leaned forward in his chair. “Precisely what I wished to speak to you about.”
“Is it?”
“You keep Ruthven’s running at a profit. Every member of my family is in your debt. I may not have agreed with my father often. Ever, to be honest, but he made a wise choice when he selected you as manager.”
“Thank you, sir,” Gabe said, biting out the words. He hated thinking of the elder Ruthven and how he’d acquired his job. But the son’s words emboldened him. “What amount had you considered?” He’d carefully calculated the sum needed to provide Sara with a generous dowry and to begin saving for his own future.
“Fifty more pounds per annum?” There was uncertainty in Ruthven’s tone, as if he was testing the waters. The man would have made a rotten gambler. “And an additional sum too, if you’re amenable to the project I have in mind.”
This project made the man’s voice rise an octave, and the sound was as clear an alarm bell as Gabe had ever heard. Lengthening his spine, he crossed his hands atop his blotter. “How much more?”
“Shall we say sixty pounds more per annum and an additional twenty pounds for the special project?”
More than Gabe expected. “Tell me of your project, Mr. Ruthven.”
Gabe braced himself. If Ruthven meant to prattle on about the costly literary periodical he and his sister wished to start, he’d have difficulty refraining from rolling his eyes.
“My sister Clary . . . ” Ruthven rose from his chair and began pacing.
Gabe’s eye twitched.
“I would like you to mentor her, Adamson.” Ruthven stopped to stare at him, awaiting a response.
“Mentor her?” Gabe shook his head. “I don’t think—” His mind stopped dealing in words. Images arose instead. Clarissa Ruthven wielding her croquet mallet. Glaring at him in the close confines of a hansom cab as his body shifted against hers. Her scent, floral and innocent, sweetening the air of the workroom. The way her garish blouse cast a sunny glow over her pale skin.
He’d never played croquet, he loathed flowers, and yellow was his least favorite color.
“She’s impetuous,” her brother declared, turning up the palm of one hand to tick fingers on the other. “Reckless, impulsive, but good-hearted. Well-intentioned, even.”
“Naïve,” Gabe put in.
Ruthven frowned. “Yes, precisely. Since returning from college, Phee and I rarely see her at home. She pursues a thousand causes and busies herself with political meetings, charities, ladies’ organizations.” Real fear came into the man’s eyes. “I worry for her safety and her reputation.”
“I understand.” Gabe worried about his sister too. “But where do I come in?”
Kit resumed his seat but only settled his bulk on the edge. “Clary wishes to learn more about the workings of Ruthven’s. Employment is her true goal, though she has no experience whatsoever. Teach her. Show her how you manage the accounts and the employees. Hell, let her learn to operate one of the printing presses. She could sit in on meetings with vendors, review submissions. Assist you with your work.”
For the first time since meeting the man, Gabriel realized how successful Ruthven must have been on the stage. How convincing his performances. He might have a terrible poker face, but he was managing to make a horrific idea sound utterly logical. Even beneficial, when Gabe knew with absolutely certainty that having Clarissa Ruthven underfoot would lead to nothing but trouble.
“I really don’t think—”
“Seventy-five pounds more per year.” Ruthven flashed a smile. “I should warn you that I’m tempted to keep upping the offer until you agree.”
Gabe was glad he never let Ruthven near negotiations with vendors. And what he said wasn’t entirely true. He couldn’t keep upping his salary. Gabe knew better than anyone that the company’s ledgers couldn’t bear an overpaid office manager.
Still, the amount was tempting. Almost double his current income and far more than Wellbeck’s offer.
“Clary can be a handful. I admit that.”
Gabe didn’t want to think of his hands anywhere near her. If he touched her, he’d no doubt come away smelling like violets or roses or whatever floral scent she wore. But at least he’d be warm. That energy of hers was like an ever-burning fire.
“An additional one-time payment of twenty-five for taking on what I know may be time-consuming.” Ruthven crossed his arms, hardening his features. All the mirth was gone, replaced with steely determination. “I’m asking for your help, Adamson. I don’t want her wandering into some unsavory situation. As you said, she’s naïve. Too trusting. Too idealistic. She’s going to make mistakes, as we all do, but I’d prefer she make them here.”
“Where you can protect her from the consequences?”
“Where I can protect her, full stop.”
If his own sister was as unpredictable and carefree as Miss Ruthven, Gabe would wish to protect her too. But he still didn’t like the prospect of having Clarissa Ruthven here, in his space, garishly dressed and glaring at him with those odd amethyst eyes. Yet . . . he wasn’t a man without strategies. Surely there were tasks he could find to occupy her time. She claimed she wished to master the typewriter. He could assign Daughtry to offer her instruction. If she wished to learn the workings of the presses, he could ship her down the road to the machines they leased, rather than observing those they kept on-site.
With a little effort, he could outwit a hellion.
“Perhaps—”
“Yes!” Ruthven whooped, nearly dancing a jig across the bare wood floor of Gabe’s office. “I knew you’d see reason. Clary will come around too. Trust me.”
Gabe rarely trusted anyone, but what disturbed him most was the man’s reference to persuading his sister. “Mr. Ruthven, your sister is aware of this plan, isn’t she?”
“Not every detail.” Ruthven ducked his head to stare at the toes of his boots. When he looked up, his actor’s mask faltered. Worry etched lines across his forehead. “She will agree. We’ll convince her.”
“We?”
“I’m willing to up your salary by as much as a hundred pounds. Surely, that will encourage you to take her on.”
Gabe wanted the money, no doubts on that score. But he wasn’t at all certain he was the man to convince Miss Ruthven to agree to her brother’s scheme. He suspected she’d be more amenable if Ruthven promised she could avoid Gabe for the duration.
“How long do you intend this”—Gabe couldn’t bring himself to refer to the man’s sister as a project—“mentorship will last?”
Ruthven shrugged. “As long as it takes.”
“Until?”
He sketched vaguely in the air. “Until she’s matured and has learned a few skills. Until she’s more sensible and less impulsive. Until I’m not worried every time she walks out the door.”
While Ruthven fretted, Gabe surreptitiously pulled his resignation letter from the desk and crumpled it in his fist. One hundred pounds for a brief period of misery. No, that wasn’t quite true. If Ruthven’s stated goals were true, this project might last a very, very long time.
“So we’ve settled the matter?” Ruthven coaxed.
Gabe stood and offered his hand. “We have, sir.”
“Excellent.” Leaning in and lowering his voice, Ruthven added, “Best not to mention every detail to Clary. Especially the matter of the pay rise and additional bonus.”
“Of course not, sir.” Bribery might taste excellent when one’s desired ends were achieved, but it never settled well in the belly. Gabe knew that better than most.
Just as they broke off their handshake, Daughtry burst into the office. “Pardon me, gentlemen. Mr. Adamson, you’re wanted in the workroom, sir. Your sister is here and says she must speak with you urgently.”