Page 37 of The Siren of Sussex

It felt like an accusation. An indictment.

“What am I to say to that?” he asked.

“Nothing. I only thought you should know. It’s why I’m so concerned about the state of your finances.”

“Our finances,” he corrected her. Some of the funds in his account were rightfully hers. Reward money they’d received for helping to find Lord Castleton, bestowed on them by a grateful Lady Helena. It was meant to go toward opening a dress salon.

And it would, when he had a reputation to support one.

“Our finances, then,” she said. “Though I didn’t do anything to earn that money. It was you who went about questioning people, not me.”

“You helped enough,” he replied grimly. The journey had put a strain on Mira’s health, and the heat of Egypt and India had weakened her even further. She was no longer accustomed to extremes of temperature. It had taken months for her to regain her strength. “And you needn’t worry,” he said. “Our finances are in perfectly good order.”

She took another grimacing sip of her drink. “You’ve been making withdrawals at the bank.”

He gave her an alert look. “How did you—”

“I guessed. It wasn’t difficult. What with Miss Walters owing you one hundred pounds, and the viscountess demanding the very finest of everything.” Mira was silent a moment before asking, “How much have you taken out?”

“Only enough to cover expenses. Fabric and trimmings and the like.”

“And Lady Heatherton intends to pay for it?”

“Eventually, after the gowns are delivered. It’s not uncommon for ladies to take their time in settling their dressmaker’s bill. You know that. It’s a hazard of the trade.” He liked it no better than she did.

“Yes, but . . .” Her fingers curled around her glass. “I’m depending on you opening a shop of your own. On coming to work with you. Helping you with your designs. Even keeping house for you.”

He might have laughed if the subject wasn’t such a sore one. “I haven’t a house for you to keep.”

“Not yet. But it won’t be long before you’ll see success. You must. My entire happiness depends upon it.”

The knot in his stomach tightened. He already understood that Mira was depending on him. It didn’t help to hear it. Not in those terms. He had enough pressing on him at the moment. “I thought you wanted to marry? To have a home of your own one day? You’ve often spoken of it.”

She shrugged a shoulder. “I’ve grown up.”

“Mira—”

“I mean it. When Mr. Doyle retires at the end of the summer, you must take over his lease and open your shop. You must make a place for me. Otherwise—”

“I’m doing everything I can,” he said. “But I can’t promise anything. The season hasn’t even fully begun yet.”

“You’ll make a success of it. Once Lady Heatherton wears your gowns, everyone will see how good you are, and then—”

“It’s not that simple. God, I wish it were.” He leaned toward her. “Don’t you understand, my dear? It isn’t enough for a man like me to be good at what he does. It isn’t even enough for him to be great. In order to succeed—to be accepted—he must be extraordinary. Better than the best. Better than Charles Worth, even. It’s a different standard altogether.”

“Because of our heritage.”

“In short? Yes.”

She bowed her head. “And just what is our heritage, exactly? We haven’t any people. Any country. No family, save each other.”

He felt a rush of sympathy for her.

In his younger days, he’d often felt as she did. A sense of being on the outside looking in, disconnected—nay, rejected—from the society in which they lived. British society.

Indian society had been no more welcoming.

On returning there two years ago, Ahmad had been equally out of place, as much a stranger as any Englishman. Mira had felt it, too. That lack of connection. The absence of a home. A people.