How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(17)

Unable to contain the nervousness buzzing through her body, Clary stood and pushed back her chair. She carefully extracted the sheaves of paper where she’d detailed her plan. “I volunteer at a girls’ charity school in the East End.”

Gabriel Adamson shifted his chair to watch her.

At the other end of the room, her brother braced his arms across his chest. “Where you disappear to all hours of the day and night.”

“Kit,” Sophia whispered, “this isn’t the time.”

“I would like to start a ladies’ magazine, one that is organized, managed, and produced by women.”

“Excluding men entirely? That seems unfair.” The small, bespectacled Mr. Daughtry, assistant to Mr. Adamson, was a man of few words, but his burst of indignation echoed off the office walls.

Clary turned to face the older man. “Can you see through that window into the main office, sir?”

“I work there every day, Miss Ruthven.”

“Yes, but do take a look now and indulge me.”

With a huff of frustration, the diminutive man got to his feet, leaned over the table, and peered through the magnifying lenses of his pince-nez spectacles. “I can attest that it is indeed the workroom, Miss Ruthven.”

“Would you kindly count the number of females you see in the workroom, Mr. Daughtry?”

Like an accordion folding slowly in on itself, his brow furrowed into deep lines. “There are no young ladies at work in the Ruthven Publishing office.”

“So you see, sir, excluding gentlemen from my project won’t create an inequality as much as rectify one.” She winked at him, and he blushed a furious pink. “Even the score, so to speak.”

A feminine chuckle emerged from Sophia at the opposite end of the table. When Clary glanced down, a slow grin tipped the edge of Kit’s mouth.

Beside her, Adamson cleared his throat. “While the concept of employing numerous young women to right society’s wrongs may appeal to you, I am charged with seeing to the financial health of Ruthven Publishing.”

“And you’ve done a fine job, Adamson.” Kit’s declaration caught Clary off guard. The two were overdoing the mutual masculine respect a bit.

“Thank you, Mr. Ruthven.” Even as he thanked her brother, Adamson continued to stare at her, as if he’d posed a question and waited on her to answer.

Clary crossed her arms. She hadn’t yet revealed the best part of her proposal.

“Your idea must be financially viable, Miss Ruthven,” Adamson added. “Who will buy copies of your ladies’ magazine?”

Clary leaned toward him, though not close enough for him to turn her into an overheated ninny as he had in the carriage. “The answer you seek is in the name. Ladies’ magazine.”

“So, a publication written by women to be purchased by women,” Sophia explained helpfully.

“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.”