Page 142 of The Siren of Sussex

“Is that how you came to work for him?” she asked.

He nodded. “After Mrs. Pritchard gave me the sack, Finchley offered Mira and me positions with Miss Holloway—his future wife. She was going to India for several months and needed a manservant and maid.”

“Thank God for that,” Evelyn murmured.

Ahmad had been thankful. For a time, following his dismissal from Mrs. Pritchard’s, he hadn’t known what he would do with himself.

“Were you glad to see India again?” she asked.

“It was an experience. I hadn’t been back since I was fifteen. Long before the uprising.”

“I’ve been reading about the uprising,” she said.

He frowned. “Why?”

“I’ve been reading about all of India. Trying to, anyway.”

“Yes, but . . . why?” he asked again.

A flush of pink tinted her cheeks. “Because,” she said, “I want to know everything about you.”

Something fractured within him. A part of his innermost self, made hard by time and experience. He felt it give way inside of his chest. “Ah, Evie . . .”

She turned in her seat, her eyes earnest behind her spectacles. “There aren’t very many books that give a clear perspective. Everything at Hatchards seems to be written from a British point of view.”

His expression softened. She looked so serious sitting beside him. And so damnably beautiful. She was wearing a topaz-brown silk skirt he’d made for her, and the matching Zouave jacket with lashings of black braid. Its wide pagoda sleeves revealed the soft white muslin undersleeves and linen cuffs of the Garibaldi shirt she wore beneath.

All of it was his. Garments he’d designed for her. Had sewn with his own hands, taking into account every curve on the landscape of her body.

It gave him a feeling of possession to see her in his clothes. A sense that she belonged to him.

As if he needed further proof.

Less than half an hour ago, he’d been embracing her. Kissing her lips, her face, and her throat. His fingers had been in her hair, forcing the pins from her thick tresses. And she’d been clinging to him and kissing him back with warm, half-parted lips.

If not for the interruption, God only knew what else might have happened.

“You won’t learn anything about me by reading books,” he said. “The India I knew isn’t the one people write about. And anyway . . . it’s part of my past. When I went back, I was a stranger there. I didn’t fit anywhere, no more than I do here.”

“I’m beginning to think that fitting in isn’t all it’s made out to be. Everyone I’ve met since coming to London has been peculiar in some way. Nearly as peculiar as I am.”

“You are peculiar, aren’t you?” His voice deepened to a murmur. “The most wonderfully peculiar girl I’ve ever known.”

She slipped her gloved hand into his. “I shall take that as a compliment.”

“I hope you will. It’s how I meant it.”

There was more to be said, but neither of them said it. They didn’t have time.

The hackney stopped with a jolt along the edge of Commercial Road.

Ahmad’s body tensed at the familiar sights and smells. This was the second time in as many months that he’d been back here. But this visit was different.

This time, he wasn’t alone.

Mrs. Pritchard’s gentlemen’s establishment stood at the end of a narrow lane. A filthy, sagging building held together with layers of soot and grime and a haphazard coat of peeling white paint. Every chip and crack was illuminated in the unforgiving midday sun.

It had been two years since Ahmad had seen it, this place where he’d lived for nearly half of his life. His shoulders were set, his jaw tight as they approached. Though he looked straight ahead, he was aware of every movement around them. Every twitch of a curtain and every shadowed figure lurking in a doorway.