Page 85 of The Siren of Sussex

But Mr. Malik was no longer strictly her habit-maker, nor even her dressmaker. He was her partner.

That had been their agreement, hadn’t it?

If her reputation was at risk, then his was, too. He had a right to an explanation.

“He’s someone from my village,” she said. “It’s rather complicated.”

A smile curved Mr. Malik’s mouth. There was no trace of humor in it. “Isn’t everything?”

“Yes. Quite.” She fell silent for a moment. “Do you truly want to know? I warn you, it’s a long, unhappy story. And worse.”

His brows lifted.

“There’s a romance at the heart of it,” she said.

Something flickered in his gaze. An emotion that was difficult to read. “Your romance?”

“No. Not mine.” She and Stephen had never had a romance. She realized that now. “Would you like to accompany me for a walk in the garden? We can speak freely there. Though I daresay you haven’t the time—or the inclination. I wouldn’t blame you on either account.”

“On the contrary,” he said. “I’m completely at your service.”

Ahmad waited while Miss Maltravers dashed back upstairs to fetch her shawl. Upon returning, she led him into the back garden.

Accessed through a set of doors at the rear of the house, it was a thoroughly ramshackle scrap of acreage, in desperate need of a proper gardener. Trees grew at odd angles, and roses and shrubbery ran wild, encroaching over the path and hanging from the garden gates that opened out to the mews.

It was private, Ahmad allowed that much. And that was all that mattered to him.

Hands clasped at his back, he strolled along the uneven garden path at Evelyn Maltravers’s side as she relayed to him the origins of her sister’s disgrace.

“Near to my family’s cottage in Combe Regis is a great estate called Babbington Heath. It’s the property of Sir William Connaught—a baronet. His two sons, Anthony and Stephen, are practically the same age as my sister Fenny and myself. We all but grew up together.”

“You were childhood friends?”

They walked beneath an arch of branches. Sunlight shone through the leaves to dapple Miss Maltravers’s face.

“More than that,” she said. “From an early age, Anthony and Fenny behaved as sweethearts. Nothing could come of it. Anthony was just a lad. But as the years passed, he continued to exhibit a preference for my sister. A boyhood fancy, my aunt Nora called it. She didn’t believe it anything serious. Certainly nothing to prevent Fenny from making her come-out in London.”

“This was three years ago?”

Miss Maltravers gave a grim nod. “We’d just come out of mourning for my father and it was past time Fenny made her debut. She was the most beautiful of all of us. The most beautiful of all the girls in Sussex. My family anticipated she’d make a grand marriage. Indeed, she appeared poised to do so. But she hadn’t been in town above two months before Anthony followed after her.”

Ahmad cast her a frowning glance. “To what end?”

“I’ve asked myself that question countless times. He wanted her, that much is plain. And he refused to give her up to another. But if Anthony marries without his father’s consent, he’s left all but a pauper. And his father will never consent to him marrying my sister.”

“Why not?”

“Because Sir William is terribly high in the instep. The daughter of an untitled country gentleman isn’t good enough for his heir. He’s made that fact plain from the beginning. It’s put Anthony in an impossible situation. He has no money of his own until he turns twenty-six—and only then if he’s refrained from marrying without permission. So you see, he couldn’t have wed Fenny even if he’d wanted to.”

“He could have done,” Ahmad said. “Quite easily.”

She gave him a doubtful look. A breeze through the trees ruffled a curl of her hair. The same vexing auburn lock he’d longed to smooth back earlier. “And how would he have supported her?”

“He might have worked.”

“He’s a gentleman,” she said.

Gentleman.