Page 133 of The Siren of Sussex

“They’re bigoted rubbish,” Evelyn said feelingly.

Anne picked up the topmost book. She read the title aloud. “England and Her Colonies.”

“Written by an overzealous colonizer, it turns out.”

“Oh? And what about this one?” Anne lifted the second book. “Curry & Rice, on Forty Plates: or, The Ingredients of Social Life at ‘Our Station’ in India.”

“More rubbish.” Evelyn had found the author’s writing something worse than offensive. It had been contemptuous and condescending on the subject of native Indians and those of mixed Indian and English blood. Indeed, some of the passages had made her sick to her stomach.

“I’m sensing a theme.” Anne cast her a sardonic glance. “If you want to learn about India, why don’t you just ask him?”

Evelyn didn’t need to inquire who him was. “It’s not his responsibility to educate me. The ignorance is mine, and so must be the remedy for it.”

“It would certainly be easier than exerting yourself over these.” Anne flipped through the pages of the first book. “ ‘The Hindoo and the Mahommedan readily acknowledge the superiority of the European,’ ” she read aloud, “ ‘and are inclined to look toward him for instruction and protection.’ Dear me. How dreadful it sounds.” She snapped the book shut. “As dreadful in print, I suspect, as it is in practice.”

“You disapprove of the British presence in India?”

“I disapprove of meddling, in all its forms. And we’re a country of meddlers—often to disastrous effect. One can’t help but condemn it.”

“Not everyone is so enlightened,” Evelyn said.

Anne lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “If I concerned myself with the opinions of other people, I would never leave my room.” She dropped the offending book back onto the seat. “What will you do when you’ve finished all of your studying? Will you go to him?”

The notion tugged at Evelyn’s heart. “No. I won’t bother him at his shop anymore.”

He’d told her not to come there without a chaperone. Had said they couldn’t be alone together. And she wouldn’t keep forcing herself on him. Heaven knew, she’d been reckless enough already where he was concerned.

“What, then?” Anne asked.

“I’ll wait,” Evelyn said. “If Mr. Malik wants to see me again, he’ll have to seek me out for himself.”

Twenty-Eight

The following day, during her receiving hours, Evelyn was seated in the drawing room at Russell Square, sipping a cup of tea and reading the afternoon edition of her uncle’s paper, when Mrs. Quick appeared in the doorway.

“Mr. Connaught, miss,” she announced.

Stephen walked past the housekeeper into the room, still wearing his driving coat and gloves. His hat was in his hand. “Miss Maltravers,” he said, bowing.

Evelyn experienced the faintest flicker of disquiet.

Between the hours of one and three, visitors dropped in regularly. She’d become used to welcoming them, everyone from Lord Gresham to Mr. Fillgrave. But Stephen was never among her callers. Indeed, since his acrimonious last visit, she hadn’t done more than exchange passing pleasantries with him in Rotten Row.

“Mr. Connaught.” Setting aside her teacup, she rose from the sofa. Her topaz-colored silk poplin skirt rustled softly over her petticoat and crinoline as she stood. Paired with a Garibaldi shirt of creamy white muslin, the ensemble was—thanks to Ahmad—as comfortable as it was beautiful.

She couldn’t wear any of her clothes without thinking of him.

He’d been right to say they would give her confidence.

Indeed, though she hadn’t seen him in weeks, he was always with her. There, in the seams that shaped her waist and the sleeves that skimmed her arms. In the low neckline of an evening dress and the elegantly gored fabric of her skirts. Making her feel strong. Beautiful.

Stephen’s gaze swept over her in frank appreciation. “I bought a new gig,” he said. “I’ve come to ask if you would accompany me for a drive.”

She was taken aback by the invitation. “I’m not certain that’s a good idea.”

“It’s an open carriage. There’s nothing objectionable in you being seen with me in it.”

“I don’t doubt the propriety of it. I simply wonder if it’s wise—”