Page 147 of The Siren of Sussex

“I realize a sailor isn’t as well-to-do as a tailor.”

He gave her an ironic look. One may as well compare a skilled tradesman to a common laborer. A sailor couldn’t even rely on having employment all the year round. And when he did work, it was work that took him far from home, often for months at a time. His family was left behind to subsist on his meager earnings.

“I don’t mind being poor,” Mira continued determinedly. “I can go without fine things if I have to, so long as I have someone of my own. I’m not content to be an outsider all my life. An observer like you.”

He scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That’s what you are. That’s why nothing hurts you. You stand on the outside watching, not because you have to, but because you choose to. Because it’s safe. But I never wanted that. I don’t need to be protected anymore. I want to be part of this life, even if it can’t all be perfect.”

“I see.” He regarded her for a long moment, wondering how he’d missed all of this. He’d been so consumed with his dress designs and with Evelyn, he hadn’t troubled to delve deeper with Mira. Perhaps if he had, things might have proceeded differently.

Or perhaps not.

Mira wasn’t a little girl of eight anymore, clinging to his coat and hiding her face against his sleeve. She was a woman grown. One possessed of talent, intelligence, and decided opinions.

He respected her judgment in matters of fashion. Was it too much for her to ask that he respect it in matters of the heart?

Ahmad already knew the answer.

“I want to meet him properly,” he said.

An expression of relief passed over her face. “Of course.”

He felt a faint twinge of regret. Had he been so unreasonably restrictive as her guardian? So demanding that she keep herself apart from ordinary people?

It was what she claimed he did with himself. Held himself apart from life—from love.

An observer, she’d called him.

He wondered if there was any truth in the charge.

By the time the hired carriage rolled up to the back door of Evelyn’s uncle’s house in Russell Square, it was approaching six o’clock.

Ahmad had sent Becky and Mira home together in a separate cab. Evelyn had said she could return on her own, but he’d insisted on accompanying her himself. Not to talk. He hadn’t said more than three words strung together since they’d left Mrs. McCordle’s. He’d been still and quiet. Gazing out the window in silence as the dilapidated buildings of the East End docklands gave way to the fashionable houses of the West End.

She suspected he had regrets about taking her with him. Not because there had been any danger, but because she’d seen pieces of his life he preferred to keep hidden. Remnants of his not-so-distant past. The sagging brothel with its chipped paint and broken front steps, and the equally derelict rag-and-bone shop.

People lived in such places.

And not only the working women of Mrs. Pritchard’s, but other people, too. Families and children. Friends and neighbors. Couples like Mira and Tariq, meeting and falling in love, and planning to settle down.

The obstacles to Evelyn’s own happiness seemed small in comparison.

“When will I see you again?” she asked before she climbed out of the carriage.

“Soon,” he said. “I’ll need to fit you for your black afternoon dress.”

“I didn’t mean at the shop.”

“No.” He frowned. “I realize that.”

She gathered up her skirts. On the last occasions they’d been together, she’d been uncertain of him. But not now. Not after the passionate embrace they’d shared in his rooms. And not after the words he’d uttered as they’d stood on the steps of Mrs. Pritchard’s establishment.

“She’s mine,” he’d all but growled.

Evelyn had felt his declaration to her marrow. She was his. And he was hers. There could be no more pretense between them.

“If you want to see me again,” she said, “you must come to me in some other way.”