How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(14)

“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.”

“Na?ve,” 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 na?ve. 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.