How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(24)
There was no blank paper on any of the clerks’ desks, and when she checked Daughtry’s drawer, she found none there either. Heading toward the storage room, she discovered her key to the front entrance didn’t fit the lock. She felt odd about searching any of the clerks’ drawers. Despite being co-owner of Ruthven’s and commandeering Daughtry’s typewriter, she’d come to know the young men who kept the business going, and they treated her as one of their own.
She knew one hid a penny dreadful in his drawer that he read surreptitiously during quiet periods. Another was a stargazer and kept an astronomic map in his desk. Rifling through their belongings seemed out of order.
Which meant—she looked toward Adamson’s office again—she’d have to risk being barked at by the ruler of Ruthven’s.
A soft knock brought no response. Still nothing when she tried a more strident rap. He could be running late, which seemed completely out of character, or he could be avoiding her. She drew her fingers over the letters of his name, printed on the frosted glass of his door, then slid her hand down to the latch. It gave way against her fingers, and the door creaked open.
She skittered backward. If investigating the contents of the clerks’ desks was wrong, invading Adamson’s domain was out of the question.
Yet his clean scent wafted enticingly through the open door, and a fresh pile of foolscap beckoned from a tray atop his desk.
A quick in and out. One sheet of paper. He’d be none the wiser.
Sucking in a breath, she pushed the door open, vaulted for the desk, snatched up a clean sheet of paper, and turned to go. Except the desk held her. She’d snagged her cuff on the edge of the metal tray, and when she jerked away, the tray came too, sending a torrent of paper fluttering to the floor. Dropping to her knees, she collected them quickly, cursing when she found several bent sheets under her skirt. She folded two and stuck them inside the neck of her shirtwaist, smoothed the rest, and placed them at the bottom of the pile.
Settling the tray back on his desk, she tried to square it precisely. That’s how Adamson maintained his desk. A place for everything, and everything in its place.
But as she straightened the tray, her hand bumped the brass stand that held his ink and pen. His fountain pen teetered off-kilter. Taking the cylinder between her fingers, she aligned the pen’s body perfectly in the center.
Scooting around his desk, careful not to touch anything else, she surveyed the whole from a distance and decided it all looked as settled as when she’d entered. Aside from his rubbish receptacle, the room was spotless. Glancing down into the bin as she made her way out, she noticed two crumpled sheets of paper. One word caught her eye. Resignation.
Retrieving the paper, she stretched the sheet between her fingers and skimmed the words quickly. The letter was addressed to Kit, informing him of Adamson’s decision to leave Ruthven’s and take a position with a rival publisher.
“What are you doing?”
His bark made Clary jump. Her heart plummeted into her boots. Before facing him, she drew in a long, bracing breath. “Looking for a clean sheet of paper.” Crumpling his letter, she stepped forward and flung the wad behind her toward the bin. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see she’d missed by several inches.
“In the rubbish?” Stomping into the room, he brushed past her and retrieved the letter from the floor. “My discarded correspondence is none of your concern, Miss Ruthven.”
For the most part, Clary agreed, though the letter she’d found seemed an important topic to explore. “If you’re unhappy with your role here at Ruthven’s—”
Before she could say more, he moved past her again and closed his office door. “The matter has been resolved, and I would prefer you speak of this letter to no one.”
“Of course.” Her cheeks were burning, as they always did when she was embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have entered your office when you weren’t here. I thought you’d have been in earlier.”
He narrowed one pale blue eye at her. “I arrive before the others of my own accord. My workday does not start until”—he yanked a watch from his waistcoat pocket—“now. If you’ll excuse me, Miss Ruthven.”
“Were you busy saving another young woman from a drunken brute?” Clary found it impossible not to tease him. Especially when he wore such a fearsome scowl. “Or perhaps you found some damsel in need of training in the defensive arts.”
He gripped the back of his chair and closed his eyes. She watched his broad chest expand and contract as he drew in half a dozen long breaths and let them out. When he looked at her again, his gaze was as frosty as a winter breeze. “If you must know, I was seeing to a personal matter. My sister and I are moving lodgings. A location closer to the office.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“Why would you?” Today he was every inch the cold, snappish manager. No warmth in his gaze or tone. Not a single glimpse of the man who’d held her in the dark of an alleyway.
“You know all of my siblings.” She knew the faultiness of the comparison, but she loathed the sharp edge of his retort. Hated that he worked so hard to put distance between them. She preferred that other man who’d put his hands on her and allowed her to pretend she was jabbing him in the throat. Was he only capable of being kind to her in the shadows? Softening her tone, she added, “I should like to meet her. What’s her name?”