Page 33 of The Siren of Sussex

Seven

By the time Ahmad emerged from the workroom at Doyle and Heppenstall’s, it was half past six. Drawing his tall beaver hat down over his brow, he walked to Bond Street, where he hailed a hansom cab. “To Half Moon Street,” he said, climbing in.

The jarvey slapped the reins, and the rangy chestnut trotted off in the direction of Piccadilly. Half Moon Street lay just off the main thoroughfare—an elegant, if not ostentatious, address, tucked away from the ordinary hustle and bustle of Mayfair.

Ahmad sank back onto the poorly padded seat of the cab. The straw on the floor was damp from the rain, and the interior reeked of cheap perfume. In better weather, he’d have walked to Mr. and Mrs. Finchleys’ house. It was less than a mile away from the tailor’s shop. But he’d already lingered too long. First, taking his time with Miss Maltravers, and then, after she’d gone, taking his time with the adjustments to her habit.

She’d left him feeling inspired, just as she had the last several times he’d seen her. He didn’t fully understand it, this strange desire to help her achieve her potential. He was attracted to her; that much was clear. But it was something more than mere attraction. It was a variety of kinship. A mutual recognition that whispered to his soul.

And it was mutual.

He didn’t know her as well as he might, but he knew enough of women to recognize the signs. It was present in the way she clasped his hand, and in the way her breath stuttered when he touched her. It was in the way she held his gaze, even as she blushed.

What courage she had. To enact this plan, coming to London and seeking him out all on her own. All because she’d seen his habits on the Pretty Horsebreakers.

“I’m determined to outshine them all,” she’d proclaimed the day she’d walked into Doyle and Heppenstall’s.

Recalling it, his mouth ticked up into a smile.

He was still smiling when the hansom came to a halt in front of the Finchleys’ town house. After paying his fare, Ahmad made his way past the front entrance to the black cast-iron fence that shielded the stairs to the back.

The servants’ entrance.

Descending the damp stone steps, he rapped on the door. It was opened almost at once by Mrs. Jarrow, the Finchleys’ dour cook-housekeeper.

Her flinty eyes narrowed. “It’s you, is it?”

Ahmad removed his hat before entering the kitchen. A pot was boiling on the stove, and at the back of the room, a young kitchen maid in a white apron loaded steaming dishes into the dumbwaiter. “Have they already gone into dinner?”

“Near as can be. They’re in the parlor. Your cousin’s with them.” Mrs. Jarrow returned to the stove, grunting under her breath, “Didn’t reckon I’d have an extra mouth to feed this evening.”

Ahmad crossed the kitchen to the servants’ stairs, ignoring the muttered remarks.

Mrs. Jarrow and her husband had been employed by the Finchleys for years. They were a stern-faced married couple of middle age. A product of Mr. Finchley’s charity, just as Ahmad and Mira had been. The only difference was that the Jarrows were English. While he and Mira were . . .

Not entirely English. Not entirely Indian, either.

The Jarrows had never wholly approved of their presence.

Nothing was ever said outright. That wasn’t how civilized people operated. It was the sharp looks and the double-edged remarks. It was the lingering suspicion. As if his and Mira’s ancestry was but the first step toward committing some manner of crime.

Or perhaps it was the crime.

The Jarrows wouldn’t be the first to think so.

Ahmad ascended the stairs to the Finchleys’ small parlor. It was a cozy room, furnished with an overstuffed chintz sofa and chairs, a tufted ottoman with tassel trim, and heavy tables on which stacks of books resided along with various trinkets the Finchleys had collected during their travels.

A fire of hot coals glowed cheerfully in the grate. Mira was seated in front of it, in company with her employers, Tom Finchley and his wife, Jenny.

“Ahmad!” Mira rose from her chair at the sight of him. She was wearing a simple gray silk dress, unadorned, though far from plain. It was a sophisticated design, with clean lines that flattered her figure. One of his own creations, complemented by delicate embroidery at the hem—Mira’s contribution. She had an ineffable talent for needlework.

Finchley stood as well. He was a plain sort of gentleman in appearance. Of medium height and slim build, with hair that was a commonplace shade of brown, and eyes of a nondescript blue, hidden behind a pair of spectacles. An ordinary-looking fellow in every respect. Deceptively so.

The truth was, there was nothing ordinary about Tom Finchley. He was possessed of a ruthless legal mind. Indeed, at one time, he’d been considered the most formidable solicitor in London.

“This is a surprise,” he said. “I trust nothing is amiss?”

“Nothing at all.” Ahmad bowed. “Mrs. Finchley. Mira.”