How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(16)

Misery was just the start of what Rigg could bring. Pain, blood, death—they all followed in the old bastard’s wake.

Gabe wouldn’t let him destroy what he had. He’d escaped the cage of his past and made a new life. He’d be damned if he’d let Rigg snuff that out.

The man had already taken enough blood from him. He couldn’t have any more.

Clothes wet, hair disheveled, the high cut of his cheeks flush with color, Gabriel Adamson stormed into the meeting room at Ruthven Publishing as if striding into battle.

Clary tipped her head and studied him.

The one constant every other time she’d seen Adamson was that he took care with his appearance, adding to his nature-given beauty by dressing in fine suits, tailored to fit as if the cloth had been stitched straight onto his bulk.

Today, he looked wild.

Clary couldn’t take her eyes off him.

“Adamson,” her brother called, “glad you could join us.” Kit lifted his gaze to a wall clock.

Clary thought Kit’s gesture unnecessary. Anyone watching could see that Adamson’s tardiness horrified him more than it inconvenienced anyone else. He’d already extracted his pocket watch and shoved the timepiece back in his pocket, as if the sight made him ill.

“I was delayed,” he explained.

“But you’re here now,” Sophia put in, always one to restore order and put others at ease. “Shall we begin?”

Adamson took the empty chair next to Clary and busied himself extracting a fountain pen from his pocket. Drops of the rain fell from his clothes and hair onto the stretch of table between them.

“Pardon me, Miss Ruthven,” he muttered through clenched teeth, brushing the water from the table.

“You needn’t worry.” Clary leaned in and caught the scents of damp linen and sandalwood shaving soap. “I have a dreadful habit of being late.”

“I don’t,” he snapped, casting her a fearsome glare, his clear blue gaze boring into hers. “I was unavoidably delayed.”

“I hope you didn’t intervene in another altercation,” Clary whispered, unable to resist a bit of levity to ease the thundercloud he’d brought into the room with him.

“Next time I see a reckless young woman battling an intoxicated bully,” he mumbled under his breath, “I’ll be sure to walk the other way.”

“Thank you all for being here. Today we have a new addition to the administrative board. Clary, as pleased as I am to see you take your place as co-owner of Ruthven’s, the fact that you’re old enough to do so makes me feel ancient.” Kit shot her a toothy smile before gesturing toward their manager. “Adamson, please begin by reporting on the business’s financial health in the last quarter.”

Next to her, Adamson opened a folder full of papers and ran a broad finger across rows and columns of numbers written in ruler-straight lines.

Clary drummed her fingers on top of her own folder, stopping when her sister shot her a disapproving look.

“The accounts have taken a positive turn,” Adamson began, his voice so deep the reverberation rumbled through her. “The updated volumes of Ruthven Rules have increased overall sales, and the new lines in popular fiction have, individually, outsold our main etiquette book lines. The collection of detective stories we’ve published is selling best, which includes Lady Stanhope’s tales, of course.”

He lifted his gaze briefly to acknowledge Sophia, whose lips parted before lighting in a smile, as if she was both pleased and shocked by the news of her books’ success.

“For the coming year, we will proceed with plans to expand our fiction offerings and have invested in a chromolithograph machine, housed upstairs, for the publication of the literary journal. The chromo allows for a color printing process, and four of our clerks have been trained in its operation.”

“What journal?” Clary leaned forward. The prospect sounded intriguing, but no one had mentioned a word to her.

Kit and Sophia exchanged a look, and Kit scooted his chair closer to the table, bracing his elbows on the edge. “We’ve been discussing the notion for some time. Since we’re a family of writers and have come to know many more while living in London, we thought of creating a showcase for excellent writing.”

“Perhaps you could submit one of your stories,” Sophia suggested. “Or some of your art. We intend to include color illustrations.”

Both of Clary’s siblings knew she’d been writing and drawing for years, though as a child she’d been reluctant to show her work to anyone. The urge to publish had arisen off and on, but more than any acclaim for her creative endeavors, she wished to help the girls at the charity school.

She had a notion of how to do so and hoped others would see the merit in her plan.

“Actually, I have another idea.” Her voice wobbled a bit, and she hated the quiver of uncertainty chasing through her body. Stiffening her back, she started again. “May I present a proposal?”

Sophia began to answer, but Kit cut in. “Is there anything more, Adamson?”

“Only to distribute these.” He’d made duplicates of the quarterly report and passed copies down the table. After closing his folio and folding his massive hands on top, he cast Clary an expectant look. “Please proceed, Miss Ruthven.”

His insistence that she take her turn to speak felt strangely like encouragement, though she doubted he meant it as such.