There wasn’t just one person in the reception room. An older man in a simple but clearly expensive suit stood behind the counter, handing over a sheaf of papers to a young clerk whose fingertips were stained blue with ink. The man straightened as she entered.
“Good morning, miss. Are you lost?” His voice held genuine concern and he came around the side of the desk to stand in front of her.
There was a kindness about him. Her hopes soared. “Not lost at all. I have a two o’clock meeting. I’m a touch early, my apologies.”
“Two o’clock? Your name is?”
“Fiona McTavish, from Asterly, Barnesworth & Co. I’m here to discuss a new tool that could change the fabric of society and I’m hoping you’ll consider partnering with me.” This was it. This was where he would sneer, or worse, turn his back and pretend she didn’t exist.
He frowned. “I take it you’re the Co. in Asterly, Barnesworth & Co.?”
“I am.” She didn’t let her voice waver. “Are you Mr. Pottinger?”
The man nodded and cleared his throat. He hemmed again and made no sign of inviting her into his office. He threw a look over his shoulder to the lad behind him, who was staring at Fiona, jaw dropped.
She couldn’t let him escape. This was her chance. All morning she’d not gotten past the front desk gatekeepers. Here she had the man she wanted to see right in front of her and he hadn’t run or thrown her out.
She leaned into that small miracle with all the bullheadedness she could muster. “Shall we discuss this in your office? I’ve brought a working prototype with me.”
Mr. Pottinger pulled at his cravat. “This is, uh, singular.”
It was the second time in two days she’d been described as such and it didn’t improve her mood.
“I agree. I may not be what you’re expecting. But if you would just give me a chance to show you my product…”
He took a step back, looking behind him as though the rail-thin, nervous-looking man at the counter was going to somehow rescue him from this overly forward female.
“I like women. That is, I like my wife and my daughters. I like my mother. I don’t really know any other women, but as a group they’re pleasant enough.” Mr. Pottinger seemed to notice he was rambling and ran his hands through his hair, rubbing the back of his head.
“Well, then. I can be the next woman that you know.” She forced a sense of cheeriness into her voice that she did not feel. Pottinger looked like a mouse cornered by the kitchen cat.
Lord, please don’t let him run.
His face had gone beet red and he wrung his hands as he spoke. “It pains me to turn you away. It does. But the truth is, I wouldn’t know how to go about working with a woman.”
“It’s not too unlike working with a man,” she said encouragingly. “Here. Let’s start again. I’m Fiona McTavish.” She thrust her hand out to him.
He paused, eyes darting to either side of him, before taking her hand and hesitantly drawing it to his lips and giving it a perfunctory kiss.
Everything in her deflated and she drew her hand back.
He seemed to sense that he’d done the wrong thing, because he sighed and tugged again at the neck of his shirt. “You see? I can’t work with a woman. What would we talk about?”
“The product?” She hadn’t realized that small talk would be a necessary part of any bargain made.
He shook his head. “A good working relationship is a meeting of the minds. You don’t come to understand a person by solely talking about a product. What if I cursed in front of you? I’m not used to watching my language unless I’m at home with the missus. And where would we go to do business over lunch? None of the clubs would admit you and I’m not taking a woman to a tavern.”
What an unbelievably ridiculous reason to lose her dream—a bloody pub lunch. “I don’tneedfood. I’ve gone days without it. And I work in a factory, so I can curse with the best of them, you old swag-bellied numpty.”
She’d meant it as a jest, to put him at ease, but Mr. Pottinger took another two steps backward until he was butting up against the solid wooden desk behind him.
The deal was slipping away and try as she might, she could not hold on to it.
“I wish you the best in your endeavors. I truly do. We just aren’t a good fit.” He bowed and shuffled to the side until he was no longer trapped by the desk. He bowed again before fleeing through a door.
The clerk, who had spent the past few minutes watching in awe, suddenly found great interest in the tip of his quill.
Fiona swallowed and picked up her bag. The bag that held her proposal and test results and a working prototype. The bag she’d been lugging around London all day, all for naught, apparently.
