How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(18)
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.