Page 137 of The Siren of Sussex

“I am,” Evelyn confessed. “I don’t even know the name of the street we’re on.”

The second woman laughed. “This is King William Street, miss.”

“King William Street?” Evelyn caught her breath.

Great goodness. This was where Ahmad lived. He’d told her once that he had rooms above a tea dealer’s shop here.

She glanced up at the painted shop signs in the distance, her pulse quickening. And sure enough, there it was, not more than a block away: Tea Dealer.

“There’s an omnibus comes regular at the end of the street,” the first woman said.

“Aye, every ten minutes most days,” the second woman added.

Evelyn thanked them both before walking on. The tea dealer’s shop drew closer with every step. She couldn’t stop looking at the sign. Looking and wondering about Ahmad. So consumed was she with her daydreams that she didn’t see the man himself striding toward her until the very last minute.

But he saw her.

He stopped where he stood, as if the sight of her had turned him to stone. “Miss Maltravers?”

Evelyn stopped, too, her heart thumping hard. She wasn’t entirely certain she hadn’t imagined him into existence. “Mr. Malik. Good afternoon.”

All the noise of the busy street seemed to fade away, disappearing as if there were only the two of them.

Recovering himself, Ahmad advanced toward her. He was wearing a black three-piece suit, just as he always did, looking handsome beyond bearing. But there was something different in his appearance. He seemed thinner. As if he’d lately been ill.

And that wasn’t the only change.

His countenance had lost some of that brooding artistic intensity she so admired. In its place was a stark sort of weariness. He looked tired and cross. Not wholly himself.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, coming to a halt in front of her.

“Trying to find an omnibus,” she said.

“You didn’t come to see me?”

“No. Not intentionally. I didn’t realize where I was until five minutes ago. But now I’m here . . .” She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t press him. That she’d wait for him to seek her out on his own. But this was different. She squared her shoulders. “Is there someplace we can talk? Someplace off the street?”

She waited for him to say no. For him to hurry her to the omnibus stop, or worse—to stride off, washing his hands of her completely.

But he only regarded her in silence. And then he nodded. “I have rooms upstairs. We can go there.”

Twenty-Nine

Evelyn’s astonishment at Ahmad inviting her to his rooms was quickly dispelled.

“Mira and Becky are here,” he said.

“Oh?” Evelyn followed him up the creaking stairs at the back of the tea dealer’s shop. She privately admitted to a feeling of disappointment. “They aren’t working at Doyle and Heppenstall’s?”

“Not regularly. There have been some disagreements with the other seamstresses.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” The stairs led to a narrow corridor. There was an equally narrow door at the end of it.

“It’s not unusual.” He flashed her a glance as he retrieved a key from his pocket. “There’s an art to managing seamstresses. One I haven’t yet managed to perfect.” He unlocked the door and opened it, standing back for her to enter.

She passed under his arm into what looked to be a sitting room. It was sparsely decorated, with a round wooden table in the corner and a worn sofa and chair arranged in front of an unlit coal fireplace.

It was also completely empty.