Page 38 of The Siren of Sussex

“We’re not alone in that regard,” he said.

“You aren’t. You have a life outside of here. A purpose.”

“I do,” he acknowledged. “That doesn’t mean it’s been easy.”

The shadow of British colonial rule was ever present in his life, evident in the very fabric he worked with and the sugar that sweetened his tea. A man could easily become consumed by the injustice of it all.

But Ahmad had never had that luxury, not with Mira counting on him.

In order to live and work among English people, he’d long ago had to negotiate an uneasy peace with himself. To find a way to reclaim the spoils of colonialism—all those Chinese silks and India muslins—and transform them into something beautiful. Something that was uniquely his.

It was a symbolic exercise, but a powerful one.

“Easy enough for you,” Mira said. “You’re a man. And one day you’ll meet someone. You’ll fall in love and marry and—”

“Love?” Ahmad was surprised into a humorless crack of laughter. “How did we come to this subject? You know I’ve no interest in romance. All I want is to open a dress salon.”

“And to be thought extraordinary,” she said.

“My designs are extraordinary. I only need people to see them. The right people.”

“The beau monde.”

“Precisely.” Thus far, no one who had worn his creations had any claim to that exalted sphere of fashionable society. Not even Lady Helena. Though she was the sister of an earl, she’d married humbly, and now lived a retired life with her husband and child in a remote abbey on the North Devon coast.

Mira’s expression turned thoughtful. “You’re relying on Viscountess Heatherton.”

“She has a reputation for setting the fashion.”

“That isn’t the only reputation she has,” Mira said ominously.

Ahmad knew that only too well, but he saw no reason that Mira should. “The gossip rags again?” He frowned at her. “Is this how you choose to occupy your time?”

“With reading? Yes. It’s how I learn things about the world.”

“From the scandal sheets.”

“From all the papers. From books. And from listening to what people say when I go about with Mrs. Finchley. You may take my word on it. The viscountess isn’t known for being a particularly nice woman.”

Ahmad knew that, too. He downed the remainder of his port. “I can handle Lady Heatherton.”

Eight

Evelyn drew back the hood of her cloak as she entered the stables. Hephaestus’s great bay head hung over the wooden door of his loose box, his long forelock sweeping down over his eyes in a heavy black veil. He greeted her with a soft nicker.

“Were you waiting for me?” Approaching him with outstretched hands, she cupped his head and pressed a kiss to his velvet-soft nose. “Beautiful boy. How are you this evening? Bored? Missing home?”

As she murmured to him, he nuzzled her face, lipping softly at her skin. His breath was warm and sweet, the long whiskers on his muzzle tickling her cheek.

She didn’t fear him biting her. There was no malice in Hephaestus. Only the same affection for her that she bore for him. She ran her fingers through his tangled mane. “I’m homesick, too,” she confessed in a whisper. “Terribly homesick.”

“That you again, miss?” A man’s voice broke through the darkness.

Evelyn nearly jumped out of her skin. “Good gracious, Lewis! You frightened me half to death. I thought you’d gone in to dinner?”

Lewis emerged from the gaslit shadows, an oily rag in one hand and a half-polished piece of harness in the other. “Had my meal down at the Seven Bells. Don’t much care for the company at the house. No offense.”

“None taken.” Evelyn didn’t much care for it, either. Not the company, but the lack of it. She’d eaten alone again this evening, waited on by a silent Mrs. Quick and an equally silent footman. Uncle Harris was dining at his club. He’d left the house in the early afternoon. Heaven knew when he’d return. “Is Hephaestus settling in all right?”