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“No doubt she’s struggling, for both tasks are quite daunting in and of themselves.” He grinned when his mother harumphed again. Deep down, she wasn’t a horrid person; she merely liked to complain for the attention.
“Yes, well, she needs a man to handle that sort of thing. Or better yet, she should sell the floundering business and wash her hands of it.”
“Perhaps she enjoys a bit of additional income from it.” Sadly, he knew next to nothing about Miss Cowan’s personal life, and suddenly, he wished to. Very much.
“Ha!” Again, his mother pointed a knitting needle at him. “Her father’s been dead and buried for over two years. If she hasn’t made a success of it by now, she never will.”
While that might have a hefty dose of truth in it, Bartholomew frowned. “Perhaps she merely needs to the proper guidance. After all, inheriting a business when one hasn’t been trained must surely be terrifying.”
“I suppose you think you can do better.” It wasn’t a question.
“I’d have no idea until I looked at the books and figured out where the problems lie.” He rubbed a hand along the side of his face. “Is that a hint you wish for me to do just that?”
“Of course you can do what you want. I certainly won’t stop you, but I do wish you’d make more of an effort to find a good woman to whom you might marry.” She shook her head as disappointment etched itself through her expression. “You’ve precious little time to waste.”
Not this again. “Mother, I’ve barely arrived home a week past and am still acclimating to life in Town. Out of everyone, you know why I’m wary of inviting a woman close.”
“Ah, yes, the horrid Lady Arbuthnot.” His mother ceased knitting. She found his gaze and held it. “If a woman could be classified as a bounder, it would be she. I’m sorry she broke your heart, but that was years ago. Surely you won’t let one social climbing woman bar you from the rest.”
“It’s a considerable risk,” he managed as his chest tightened. Five years hadn’t been enough time to rid the foul taste of the woman’s betrayal from his mouth.
“Then you’ll be alone, for no one is perfect. We all have faults.”
He scoffed but declined to answer. Miss Cowan seemed to be as near to perfection as anyone could be, at least from what he’d seen. She wasn’t meek or mild, even if she had been presumably on the proverbial shelf for years. As much as he’d despised her tart mouth upon first meeting, he craved verbal bantering with her. To say nothing of her soft skin and how her lips were just full enough to cradle his…
Get hold of yourself, Bartholomew. She is not for you. Mother will certainly see to that.
“Well?” His mother looked at him with a mixture of speculation and expectation in her too-sharp gaze.
“Well, what?”
“Are you going to assist Miss Cowan with her business-related issues? I want her returned here post haste. She has a large list of tasks I’d like her to accomplish yet today. I don’t like it by half she’s so distracted.”
Heaven forbid his mother wasn’t the center of attention at all times. “Fine.” Bartholomew shoved a hand into his hair. “Where has she gone?”
“To the docks, no doubt. Her father’s office is near the Port of London. Small place. Can’t miss it. At least with you there, some of those ruffians that wander about won’t try to molest her.” His mother went back to knitting.
Worry assailed him. “Is she often accosted?”
“A bit. It’s not a place for an unescorted woman—ton or not—but she’s hard-headed and seldom listens to me.” His mother snorted. “Apparently, neither do you. Now go.” She waved a knitting needle at him. “Best grab a hackney cab before they’re all spoken for, and for heaven’s sake, treat the poor girl to tea at a café while you’re out. I noticed you didn’t do so yesterday.”
And just like that, he’d been routed lock, stock, and artillery. If the English forces had had his mother at the helm, the war with Napoleon would have ended six years earlier.
Though life would be easier if he owned a carriage, he was able to find a hired hack with little effort. Perhaps he should invest in a vehicle, if only to make his mother’s life better. And he certainly didn’t like thinking of Miss Cowan traipsing about London at the mercy of a driver-for-hire. As he alighted at the Port of London, he promised himself to look into purchasing a used carriage. A bit of walking took him to a bright, red-painted door with a wooden placard on chains that read “Cowan’s Imports” above.
With trepidation and excitement twisting up his spine, Bartholomew pressed the latch and pushed the door open. The cheerful ring of a tin bell announced his arrival into an airy reception space that held a few sofas and chairs, the upholstery faded from the sun that no doubt streamed through the portrait windows in the front of the business during the summer months. As it was, the December gloom gave everything a sad, tired air. An Oriental carpet that had seen better days gave the room a bit of faded elegance. When he wandered over to a low table and poked through the periodicals and newspapers, he snorted to find they were all well over six months old.
Poor Miss Cowan was completely floundering.
“Oh, Captain Grayson.” She appeared in an open doorway beyond the reception room, her eyes wide with surprise. The navy dress she wore—the same one he’d seen on her another time—only added to the drab atmosphere. “What are you doing here?”
“Mother thought you’d perhaps wish for assistance with your current difficulties here.” Was it madness to want to hear her say his name? The unneeded formality between them began to chafe. After all, he’d stolen two kisses from her, and if given half the chance, he’d do it again. “Might I have a look?”
She glanced over her shoulder at a rather messy desk covered in papers and then shifted her attention to him. Hope and wariness clouded her expression. Was it him she felt anxious around or men in general? The urge to discover if she were an innocent took root in his brain. “I’m sure you have other things to fill your time.”
“Miss Cowan.” Bartholomew took one of her hands and held her gaze. “If I don’t do this, my mother will harp on me more than she already does. I have orders to take you to a tea house after this is sorted, so you can either argue with me or you can let me have a look at the tangle.”
The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her bottom lip, and he was obliged to stifle a groan. Finally, she nodded but pulled her hand from his. “Very well. I’ll admit the shipping shortages have me vexed. I don’t like it by half I’m not as respected as the other importers merely because they’re male.” But she stood aside and let him pass into the office, which clearly had been her father’s domain. “As if I’m too stupid to figure it out.”
