Page 9 of A Modest Independence

“There are some injustices people don’t forget. Not in two years. Not ever.”

She gave him a long look. For a moment, he felt as if she could see straight into his soul. “You and I are never going to see eye to eye on this, are we?”

“Probably not.”

“Does that mean you’re refusing to give me the necessary funds?”

Tom ran a hand over his hair. It would have been easy to play the villain. To bully and condescend to her, or to tie her up with confusing legal jargon. He spent most of his days doing just that. But he hadn’t the heart to thwart Miss Holloway. He understood only too well what it was like to thirst for freedom, to dream of starting one’s life anew.

No. He didn’t intend to refuse her. What he intended to do was to offer her an alternative.

If she was dead set on traveling to India—and equally set on refusing to take along any proper English servants—he’d employ Indian servants to accompany her. He could think of two likely candidates off the top of his head, a brawny manservant and his kinswoman, who were presently working in a disreputable establishment in London’s East End. Tom had met them on a case last year and had found them to be both trustworthy and resourceful.

It would take him a day—possibly two—to arrange it. And then…

He’d simply present Miss Holloway with a fait accompli.

“It’s an easy enough question,” she said.

He exhaled heavily. “Miss Holloway…this requires a longer conversation than I presently have time for.”

She stiffened. “Are you dismissing me?”

“No,” he said. And then again, more forcefully, “No. It’s only that, had I known you were calling today, I could have blocked out the afternoon for you. As it is, I’m required elsewhere.”

“By Mrs. Culpepper?”

He scowled. “She has nothing to do with it. Whatever you’re thinking—”

“I wouldn’t presume—”

“I have other clients who make demands on my time. One rather specifically at the moment. I can’t ignore an appointment I’ve made with him just because you happen to turn up. You’ll have to call again tomorrow.” He glanced at his diary. “At one o’clock, perhaps?”

“I’m not calling again tomorrow. I’m here now. And I don’t see what the difficulty is in authorizing a withdrawal at the bank—”

“Miss Holloway—”

“I want this settled today.”

“Impossible. I’m not free again until well past seven.”

She folded her arms. “I’ll wait.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well? What do you propose I do?”

He leaned back in his chair. He knew what he’d like to propose. But it wasn’t a good idea. He was barely hanging on to his professionalism as it was. To be alone with her would be absolute folly. Nevertheless… “I could stop by Half Moon Street this evening.”

He’d leased an elegant little house there for her last year. She’d lived in it for a short time after the present Earl of Castleton had cast her off without a penny. Tom had visited her on occasion. It had all been completely aboveboard. Indeed, within days, Justin Thornhill had taken over the lease himself.

“She’s my wife’s relation,” he’d said. “It’s only right that I see to her lodging.”

Later, when Justin and Helena had come to London, the four of them had spent a great deal of time together in Half Moon Street. They’d dined together. Danced together. Faced down newspaper reporters and society busybodies.

Tom had many fond memories of those days—most of which prominently featured Miss Holloway.

“I’m not staying at the house in Half Moon Street,” she said.