Chapter 2 - The Physician and the Ledger
The study smelled of dried tobacco, aged paper, and eucalyptus ointment.
Dr. Aris, a Greek physician who had tended to Blackwood wounds for thirty years, carefully applied a cooling herbal salve to Ivy’s left shoulder blade. Ivy sat perched on the edge of a deep leather armchair, Ronan’s jacket draped over her knees, her blouse pulled forward just enough to expose the injury while maintaining her modesty.
"A clean strike, thankfully," Dr. Aris muttered, his bushy brows furrowing as he secured a sterile dressing. "The skin broke in two small places near the collarbone, but the leather was old and brittle. It didn't tear deep muscle. Still, you'll be bruised for a fortnight, child."
"Thank you, Doctor," Ivy said, flinching only slightly as the tape pulled against her skin.
"Don't thank me. Thank the boss. In thirty years of seeing men bleed on these Persian rugs, I have never seen Ronan Blackwood put his own coat on another living soul."
The door to the study swung open without a knock, and Ronan entered, holding a glass of amber whiskey in one hand and a thin manila folder in the other. He had discarded his tie, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his charcoal dress shirt, revealing the hard line of his throat.
"Leave us, Aris," Ronan said.
The doctor bowed his head respectfully, packed his leather satchel, and slipped out through the side entrance, closing the heavy door behind him.
Ivy immediately reached to pull her torn uniform back up over her shoulder, her cheeks flaming hot. "Mr. Blackwood, I shouldn't be in your private study like this. I can go back to the staff dormitory—"
"Sit down, Ivy."
It was not an order barked in anger, but a command that permitted no argument. Ronan walked around the massive mahogany desk and leaned against the edge, looking down at her. He didn't look at her with the condescending pity she usually endured from society folk, nor with the predatory leer she sometimes caught from the estate's younger guards. His gaze was analytical, assessing, and strangely protective.
"Your father was Thomas Lancaster," Ronan said, opening the manila folder.
Ivy froze, her fingers clutching the woolen fabric of his jacket. "You know my father?"
"I knew his work. He was one of the finest bookbinders and manuscript restorers in the Northeast before the financial crash took his workshop," Ronan stated, his eyes skimming a page of handwritten notes. "When he passed four years ago, he left significant arrears to the harbor unions. Debts you took upon yourself to pay."
"My mother is frail," Ivy said quietly, lifting her chin with a stubborn spark in her hazel eyes. "The debt was his, but the responsibility was ours. Malcolm gave me a position here when no one else would hire a woman without references. I work hard, Mr. Blackwood. I don't break things, and I don't complain."
"I know you don't." Ronan set the folder down and took a sip of his whiskey. "Which is precisely why you should never have been carrying champagne trays for Vivien Hail’s vanity projects."
Ivy swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. "Miss Hail is your future bride. It was my duty to serve her."
"Vivien Hail is a symptom of a political compromise," Ronan said, his voice dropping into a dangerous rumble. "Her father controls the rail terminals out of the northern ports. My council thought an alliance would prevent a turf war. But a woman who strikes servants with her fiancé's grandfather's whip is not a woman fit to manage the Blackwood household. She lacks restraint. And in my world, people who lack restraint end up in shallow graves."
The bluntness of his words sent a chill down Ivy’s spine, a reminder of who this man truly was: the undisputed ruler of the city's criminal underbelly, a man feared by mayors and district attorneys alike.
"What do you want from me, Mr. Blackwood?" she asked frankly.
Ronan looked at her—really looked at her. He saw the lush curves of her body that high society deemed unfashionable, the soft strength in her broad shoulders, the intelligence radiating from her hazel eyes that refused to be cowed.
"The Blackwood library contains over four thousand rare manuscripts, maps, and accounting ledgers dating back to our arrival from Sicily in 1892," Ronan said, tapping the desk. "My grandfather kept records in cipher. Many of the bindings are decaying. Vivien wanted to burn half of them to install an art deco lounge."
A gasp escaped Ivy’s lips before she could stop herself. "Burn them? That's sacrilege!"
The ghost of a smirk played at the corner of Ronan’s mouth. "Precisely. Starting tomorrow, your position as maid is terminated. You are the private curator of the Blackwood Archives. You will report directly to me. You will restore the books, decode the ledgers, and maintain the history of this house."
"And Miss Hail?" Ivy asked, breathless.
"Miss Hail will not set foot in the East Wing without my express permission," Ronan said, his voice hardening like steel. "Now go to sleep, Ivy. Malcolm has prepared a guest suite on the second floor for you."
"A guest suite? Sir, the staff quarters—"
May you like
"You are no longer domestic staff," Ronan interrupted, his eyes holding hers with an intensity that made the air between them feel thick and charged. "And in this house, when I protect something, it stays protected."
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