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.”
Mrs. Finchley greeted him from her place on the sofa. She was an attractive woman, and rather formidable, too, in her own right. Ahmad had first met her two years ago when she was still Jenny Holloway, a headstrong spinster determined to travel to India to find the missing Earl of Castleton—a distant cousin of hers, presumed dead after the rebellion. Finchley had hired Ahmad and Mira to accompany her.
And then, at the last minute, Finchley had decided to join them.
Together, they’d journeyed through France, and then on to Egypt and India, traveling as far as the hill stations of Darjeeling. It was there they’d found Lord Castleton, weak and injured but very much alive.
The whole adventure had given them a familiarity with each other that was more in keeping with a friendship than the relationship of masters and servants.
“Do sit down, Ahmad,” Mrs. Finchley said. “My husband was just extolling the virtues of London during the season.”
Finchley resumed his seat. “And my wife was reminding me of the beauties of summer in Devon.”
“Not the least of which would be a chance to visit Lady Helena and Captain Thornhill.” Mrs. Finchley smiled. “But I’ll say no more on the subject. We’ve ample time to sort out our summer travel plans.” She looked to Ahmad. “I hope you’ll stay for dinner?”
Ahmad sat down in the empty chair next to Mira. The very mention of Lady Helena, sister to the Earl of Castleton, was enough to remind him of his predicament.
As if he could forget.
“I don’t wish to be any trouble,” he said.
“No trouble at all,” Finchley replied. “It’s been far too long since we all dined together.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Finchley said. “It will be just like old times.”
A moment later, Mr. Jarrow appeared in the parlor doorway to inform them that dinner was served, and the four of them repaired to the dining room.
Ahmad hadn’t eaten a proper sit-down dinner in ages. He hadn’t the time. Since striking out on his own, his evening meals, such as they were, had been bolted down in between cutting and piecing fabric and hand-stitching seams. Sometimes, when absorbed in his work, he forgot to eat altogether.
But not tonight.
There was spring soup, chicken cutlets, boiled leg of mutton with steamed vegetables, and a rhubarb tart to finish. A plain English meal, typical of Mrs. Jarrow. Ahmad ate every crumb on his plate. It wasn’t until he was finished that Mr. Finchley finally pressed him on the reason for his visit.
“I need Mira,” Ahmad said bluntly.
Mira froze in the act of wiping her mouth. “Me?” She lowered her napkin. “For what?”
“To assist me next week. I have too many orders at the moment. Three evening gowns, and several riding habits—almost all due within the next ten days. It’s more than I can finish on my own.”
Mrs. Finchley looked pleased. “But that’s promising, isn’t it? To be so busy during the early months of the season?”