Freedom would only come when she could control her own funds.
“I’m sorry to bring distressing news, Miss Ruthven.” Whitaker began to withdraw, turtle-like, his neck disappearing and shoulders sinking as his barrel chest deflated. “For years, I’ve served your family and still recall your father contacting me to alter his will on the occasion of your birth.” He regarded her solemnly for a moment. “He did wish to provide for you.”
“I know.” As with everything her father did, he assumed his children would conform to his expectations.
Whitaker busied himself, pulling out another oblong legal document from his leather satchel. “Shall we ask your brother and sister to join us for the signing of the partnership document? Their signatures are required too.”
“Yes, of course.”
Whitaker sprang from the settee like a man half his age.
“And thank you for your years of service to the Ruthvens,” Clary called after him. She couldn’t blame the solicitor for wishing to carry out his duties and be on his way. The poor man was probably used to young ladies who were grateful for their dowries and eager to put the sum to use securing an appealing suitor.
Clary could only think of everything she could achieve with the money.
Her older sister, Sophia, stepped into the room first, her expression faltering before she shot straight toward Clary like an arrow of sisterly concern. “What’s happened? You look pale and miserable.”
“Father left me a dowry.”
“Were you expecting him to do otherwise?” Sophia’s brow puckered under the artfully arranged wave of honey-blonde hair across her forehead.
“I thought he might have left me something of my own.”
Sophia laid her palm against Clary’s cheek. “Marriage was the fate Papa imagined for every woman.” She ducked her head until Clary looked her in the eye. “You have heard of the Ruthven Rules, haven’t you?” she teased.
They’d all been forced to read them. Every single word.
Their father’s dry, traditional etiquette books were so successful that they were the reason there were dowries and a publishing business for Clary and her siblings to inherit.
What a fool she’d been to think Papa—who loathed change and progress and any notion that women longed for accomplishments of their own—would set aside funds to allow her a measure of independence.
It didn’t matter. She’d find another way.
“Is everything in order?” Kit entered and closed the drawing room door behind him. Clary got a glimpse of her sister-in-law, Ophelia, in the sitting room across the hall. She longed to join her. She’d had enough of legal documents and disappointment for one day.
Her encounter with Gabriel Adamson came to mind. Just the thought of the man—his spotless suit, chiseled jaw, and icy gaze—was sufficient to ruin her day.
“The document only awaits your signatures.” Mr. Whitaker gestured to a low table that had been placed in the center of the snug room.
Sophia settled on the settee and patted the spot next to her, urging Clary over. Kit balanced on the edge of a chair, leaning forward, appearing almost as eager as Mr. Whitaker to have the matter resolved.
“Your one-third share of Ruthven Publishing is herewith declared in perpetuity, Miss Ruthven, and will eventually pass to your heirs, barring liquidation of the business.” Mr. Whitaker uncapped a fountain pen and held it out to her, barrel first.
Clary leaned forward, scanned the document, and signed her name before handing the pen to Sophia.
“Of course,” Whitaker added, “you may wish to pass ownership to your husband once you marry.” He glanced at her, a smile causing his neatly trimmed mustache to quiver. “See me, and I shall be happy to add a codicil to the agreement.”
“I have no wish to marry, Mr. Whitaker.”
The solicitor drew back as if she’d struck him. Sophia emitted a little gasp.
Kit turned to face her. “Clary, you’ve just come home after four years away at college. You needn’t make such a decision now.”
He implied she hadn’t given a thought to her future until this moment, but Clary had been looking forward to this day for years. Turning one and twenty meant reaching the legal age of majority, but for Clary, it had always been more. A prospect of the independence she craved.
“There is another possibility.” Sophia’s soft voice stopped Clary from saying something to her brother she’d likely regret. “My dowry was transferred into an annuity. Is such an arrangement possible for my sister, Mr. Whitaker?”
Clary let out a sigh of relief. Sophia had a knack for finding solutions to dilemmas.
The solicitor nodded hesitantly. “Your situation was quite different, Lady Stanhope.” The patches of skin above his thick side whiskers began to redden.
“How so?”
“Well, you . . . your situation.” The solicitor tugged at his ascot. “My lady, you activated the spinster clause.”
“I see.” Sophia cast the older man a rueful smile. “Father finally had given up on the prospect of my ever marrying.”
“Yes, that’s the provision I want.” Clary bolted up from the settee, too tense to stay still. “I’ll take the spinster clause, Mr. Whitaker.”
“You’ve just turned one and twenty.” Kit held out his hands, palms up, beseeching her. “How can you be eager for spinsterhood already?”
“I’m afraid I cannot assist you, Miss Ruthven.” The solicitor pressed his lips together and shook his head. He looked truly bereft. “The clause is only applicable if a Ruthven daughter remains unmarried at the age of five and twenty.”
Four years. An unbearable delay when an eagerness to start her life burned inside her like the sun.
“Much can change in four years.” Kit’s voice had softened. “At least wait and see what the coming year brings.”
What Clary saw was doubt in her brother’s eyes. He knew she wasn’t patient and that waiting had never been her way.
“I wish you birthday felicitations, Miss Ruthven.” Whitaker began collecting his documents and carefully recapped his fountain pen. “If you remain unwed, perhaps we shall meet again in four years.”
After the solicitor departed, Clary slumped beside Sophia on the settee. Her sister wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
“We have a suggestion.” Kit stood as if he’d been waiting for the moment since Whitaker’s arrival. “What would you say to a Season?” His voice rose on a cajoling lilt, the way he’d spoken to her when she’d been obstinate as a child. “Balls, gowns, dinner parties. Sophia and Grey will sponsor your coming out.”
To the surprise of the family—and Sophia herself—she’d fallen in love with a viscount, Jasper Grey, Lord Stanhope. A man who’d pretended to be nothing more than an actor but was heir to an earldom. Sophia and Jasper had gained many friends among London’s aristocratic set, but Clary had no interest in following in her sister’s footsteps.
If worry wasn’t gnawing at her insides, Clary would have laughed at Kit’s suggestion. “Did you forget who I am in the years I’ve been away? Odd, unusual, never quite fitting in.” At her ladies’ college autumn ball, she’d been a wallflower, content to read while others danced. “I’m not a debutante. I don’t wish to be.”
She only wished to be free.
“I know you mean well, but I don’t want a Season.” Rising from the settee, Clary tugged loose the strangling knot of a ribbon at the high neckline of her gown. “What I need is employment.”
A far better choice than relying on her father’s money. She’d earn her own.
“Why would you need employment?” Kit’s voice rose to incredulous pitch. “We can increase your allowance.”
“An allowance comes with expectations and judgements about how I spend my pounds and pence.” Clary drew in a breath. She sounded ungrateful, and that wasn’t at all what she intended. Kit and Ophelia had been generous, opening their home to her when she returned from college. “You and Phee have been wonderful to me
. It’s not a matter of expecting you to do more. I simply wish to provide for myself. To make my own way.”
“You will, of course, receive a portion of the earnings from Ruthven’s.” Sophia tempered the news by adding, “Though they are only paid out twice a year, and Kit and I have been investing most profits back into the business to expand our offerings.”
Clary tapped her lower lip. Learning more about the family business was on her list of goals. “I would like to spend more time at the office and learn how everything works.” Perhaps a skill learned there could aid her in finding employment elsewhere.
Kit let out a strangled sound, part shock, part chuckle. “You needn’t worry about the day-to-day workings of Ruthven’s.”
“But I wish to. I plan to take my responsibilities to heart.”
“Mr. Adamson has the business well in hand.”
Clary’s teeth snapped together, and her fingers clenched into fists. “I’m sure he manages Ruthven’s well, but we cannot forfeit all responsibility. Father wished the business to remain in the family.” Of course, he’d never expected his daughters to share in its ownership. That had been Kit’s idea.
“As a member of the administrative board, you may bring any suggestion you have for Ruthven’s.” Kit looked her, the seriousness in his gaze replaced with the warmth she was used to. “Sophia and I both have been looking forward to your input.”
“And Mr. Adamson?” Kit and Sophia had allowed the man complete independence to establish iron control over the publishing office, and Clary would never forget the way Adamson bristled at the prospect of her involvement in the business. “Will he welcome my suggestions?”
“He’s a practical man.” Kit lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “There’s a board meeting next week. A good opportunity for you and Mr. Adamson to become reacquainted.”
“Yes.” Though of course they already had, and Clary tried not to think of how badly that encounter had gone. Most of all, she prayed Kit never learned the details. “But I still wish to seek employment.”
Kit pinched the skin at the peak of his nose.
“I wish to find my own lodgings too.” Clary got the words out quickly, fearing how Kit might respond to this detail. To her surprise, he seemed more sad than disapproving.
“You know Phee and I enjoy having you here. You may stay as long as you like. We’d like you to consider this your home too.”
“I know.” Clary took a step toward him, yearning to erase the hurt in his eyes. “I do. But I still long for a space of my own.”
“Are you in some sort of trouble that requires funds?” His golden-brown eyes took on a haunted look, as if he feared hearing her confess the very worst. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”
“Not at all.” Only that she’d fended off a bully with a croquet mallet and irritated their trusted business manager to the point he’d practically leapt from a moving carriage. “Please don’t fret.” She knew her brother meant well, but his protectiveness felt stifling.
Clary gazed out the window where a few shafts of sunlight were bursting through the rain clouds. She needed movement and fresh air. To stretch her legs and begin formulating fresh plans.
“I think I’ll go for a walk.” Clary kissed her sister on the cheek and offered Kit a grin. “Thank you for arranging for Mr. Whitaker to come.”
Sophia stood and followed her toward the door. “Don’t forget that we’ve planned a special dinner for your birthday.”
“I’ll be back in time for dinner; I promise.”
Two steps from the threshold, Kit’s voice rang out. “Tell me you’re not headed to Whitechapel.” He hated her trips to the East End, but, to his credit, he’d never insisted she stop her volunteer efforts at Fisk Academy.
“Trust me a little.” Clary hated that his worry led him to exert so much control. “I haven’t caused any scandals yet.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Gabe shifted on the plush chair underneath him and tried to think of anything but the envelope tucked in the pocket of his waistcoat. The letter’s contents nagged at his thoughts.
Wellbeck Publishers had been competing with Ruthven’s for years. On several occasions, they’d tried to lure him away to manage their enterprise, and now they were after him again. This time with the enticement of higher wages, opportunities for advancement, and an additional sum for quick action.
Why was he even considering turning them down?
For a nearly a decade he’d convinced himself honest work would pay off. Turning his back on stealing and brawling allowed him to look in the mirror without loathing the man staring back. With diligence, he’d eked out a measure of respectability for himself and his sister. Not wealth. They needed nothing lavish. Savoring the slide of quality linen against his skin was his only indulgence. Yet now, a decade on, he and Sara still resided in a run-down flat in Cheapside.
In all his time at Ruthven’s, he’d never arrived late or departed early, often doing the work of others who failed to carry their load. But rather than achieving the success he craved, the elder Ruthven had paid Gabe only enough to keep him coming back year after year. When the son took over, they’d loathed each other on sight, though a truce had been struck in recent months. Still, Gabe had yet to demand higher wages. He knew the strained state of the business’s coffers better than anyone.
“You’ll have to do better.” Sara nudged his elbow, dragging him from his wandering thoughts.
“Better at what?”
“Pretending that you enjoy Miss Morgan’s singing.” His sister chuckled under her breath, and the sound lightened Gabe’s mood.
After a bout of illness, she’d been stronger of late, less fatigued and eager to spend part of every day out of doors. This evening marked her first social outing in months.
And she was right. He owed their host his full attention.
In truth, he owed Sir Eliot Morgan’s daughter, Jane, more than he could ever repay. He’d come to her father for elocution lessons the year he’d left Whitechapel, determined to shed his Cockney dialect. In Sir Eliot, he’d found a mentor and friend, and Jane had proved an excellent conversational partner, allowing him to practice his polished pronunciation. She’d also befriended Sara. After Sir Eliot’s death, remaining friendly seemed the natural course. Lately, however, the demure spinster had developed a terrible habit of flushing to a feverish crimson whenever he was near. She also sang poorly, in a pitch that clashed with her cousin, Dorothy, who accompanied her on the piano.
Out of loyalty to the late Sir Eliot, Gabe lifted his head and offered Jane an encouraging grin.
“Much better,” Sara praised under her breath. “Look, she’s blushing now.”
She was, and Gabe wished he could ascribe her high color to the overheated room rather than a blooming infatuation he had no interest in encouraging.
“Have you considered asking her to marry you?”
Gabe choked on the sickly-sweet cordial he’d been sipping from a ridiculously tiny crystal glass. “Never, and don’t you dare put the thought in her head.”
“I’m content putting the notion in yours.” Sara set down her teacup and offered Miss Morgan a round of hearty applause as she finished one song and launched into another. “She’s respectable, polite, mild mannered. Everything a man might wish for in a wife.”
Indeed, she was. If he’d made a list of qualities a bride should possess, Miss Morgan would tick every box. Unfortunately, she didn’t interest him in the least. Nothing about Miss Morgan moved him. Not a single part of him. There was also the matter of her being the daughter of a baronet. Despite their long friendship, he wasn’t at all certain Sir Eliot would have encouraged his suit.
“It’s time for you to marry. I can’t bear the thought of your being alone.” Sara worried a great deal about his being left on his own after she married.
“I can’t afford a wife yet.” He lightened his tone, forcing his mouth to curve in a smile.
She planned to marry a young
man she’d met by chance in a coffee shop, a young law clerk who had the good sense to become smitten with her. What she didn’t know was that Thomas Tidwell had come to Gabe soon after, explaining his desire to further his legal studies and inquiring about the possibility of a dowry.
Gabe was hesitant to discuss the matter bluntly with Sara, for fear she’d believe Tidwell’s intentions weren’t pure. Yet Sara had always been the practical one. Her good sense had stretched a few shillings into weeks of food. When their mother disappeared for days, she’d been the one to bring in wages to keep a roof over their head. Sara’s sensible, hardworking nature had kept them alive.
After a few more sips of tea, she leaned closer. “I thought you planned to speak to Mr. Ruthven about higher wages.”
“I need to find the right time.”
“Now or never, I always say.” Sara viewed time differently than Gabe. She was impatient, eager for life to proceed, never willing to wait.
He reached for her hand and promised, “I’ll speak to him tomorrow.”
“And once you’re earning enough, you’ll get yourself a wife?” Sara gripped his fingers fiercely. “Promise me you will.”
“I’ll begin considering matrimony. Will that do?” He gave her a reassuring squeeze. “I suspect searching for a bride won’t be a simple matter.” Ladies weren’t lining up at his office door, after all. And even if a fetching one appeared, she would judge him based on the gentleman he’d spent years trying to become.
What if the day came when a lady he courted discovered the creature he’d once been?
“Nonsense.” Sara released his hand and nudged her chin toward Miss Morgan, whose voice cracked as she hit the song’s crescendo. “Finding a wife will be as easy as allowing yourself to see what’s been in front of you all along.”
“Why have you planted yourself over here in the corner?”
Clary looked up from the notes she’d been making in her journal as Helen approached, bearing ruby-hued punch in dainty cut-crystal vessels. Phee and Kit had invited a few friends to her birthday dinner, and the crowded drawing room was filled with pleasant chatter interspersed with laughter.
How to Woo a Wallflower Page 3
