Page 90 of The Siren of Sussex

“It’s not about Mira, I hope?”

Ahmad frowned. “Why would it be?”

“She’s seemed as though she’s preoccupied with something.”

“She is preoccupied. I’ve tasked her with a great deal of needlework.”

“And you’re sure that’s all? There isn’t something else that’s troubling her?”

Ahmad didn’t think so.

Then again, he scarcely saw Mira from day to day. While she worked in King William Street with Becky, he was toiling from dawn until dusk in the back room of Doyle and Heppenstall’s.

Was Mira still feeling isolated and alone? As if she didn’t belong? Even now, with dresses to sew and Becky to keep her company while sewing them?

“Has she said something?” he asked.

“No, no. It’s just a feeling I had.” Finchley seemed to dismiss the concern as quickly as he mentioned it. “No doubt I’m reading her wrong. I’ve been somewhat distracted myself.”

“The work is good for her,” Ahmad said. “It gives her purpose.”

“I don’t dispute it. But this isn’t about Mira, you said.”

“No. It’s about another lady.” Ahmad swiftly explained his predicament. Or rather, Evelyn’s predicament.

Finchley listened in silence, his brow creased and his keen blue eyes thoughtful.

“I hoped you might drop a word in the ear of one of your informants,” Ahmad said when he’d finished. “If you still employ any of them.”

Finchley’s mouth hitched briefly. “If.”

The single word spoke volumes.

These past years, happily married and comfortable in his newfound domesticity, Finchley no longer worked on behalf of the more sinister elements of society. Instead, he directed his talents to worthier causes.

But knowledge was still power.

Ahmad couldn’t imagine Finchley being eager to give up his means of acquiring it.

“You’ll do it, then?” he asked.

“Of course,” Finchley said. “But one thing puzzles me.”

Ahmad regarded his former employer from across the desk. He knew that look, and he didn’t like it. “Which is?”

“You told me that Miss Maltravers was just a young lady from Sussex. A customer who commissioned riding habits from you in the style you made for Catherine Walters.”

“She is.”

“And that’s all?”

Ahmad didn’t reply.

“She clearly means more to you than that,” Finchley said. “If you’re exerting yourself on her behalf—”

“Exerting myself. Is that what I’m doing? This from the man who followed the lady he cared for across France and Egypt, by ships, trains, and dak cart, all the way to the farthest reaches of India?”

A smile glimmered in Finchley’s eyes. “It’s like that, is it?”