“It may as well be one hundred miles.”
“We still see each other. You visit often enough.”
“Of course I do,” she said, with something approaching bitterness. “I haven’t any friends of my own. Not in Mayfair. And it isn’t safe to be always traveling to the East End to see the friends I left behind at Mrs. Pritchard’s.”
“What?” He nearly spilled his drink.
A rare flash of defiance glinted in her gaze. “Did you think I could forget the life we left behind?”
“Yes, actually. I did.” It took an effort not to lose his temper. “You have no cause to go back to that place. You’re safe here. Far away from all that filth.”
It was the one saving grace of all this: her life here with the Finchleys. The life of a lady’s companion. A better existence than any he could ever give her. Here, in their house, she had the benefit of good food, clean air, and a warm bed. A sanctuary, far away from the squalor of the East End, and from the low characters who had patronized Mrs. Pritchard’s.
“It wasn’t filth,” Mira said. “Not all of it.”
“No, not all of it,” he acknowledged. “Not us. And not some of the girls. As for Mrs. Pritchard and all the rest of them . . .” His gut twisted at the very thought of his cousin returning there. “Good God, Mira. How many times—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters. We didn’t leave Mrs. Pritchard’s on the best of terms.” There had been a fight, and a resulting scandal. The threat of Ahmad being transported. “If not for Finchley’s intervention—”
“I know, I know.” The spark faded from Mira’s eyes. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have gone. They were never my friends anyway. I realize that now. They only tolerated me because they were fond of you.”
Fond.
The word left a sour taste in his mouth. Yes, Mrs. Pritchard had been fond of him. Exceedingly fond.
He downed a swallow of port. It burned his throat. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve never had true friends here. I know that much. I thought I had. One in particular. But the last of my letters has gone unanswered. It’s time I faced the facts.”
“Letters to whom?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said again.
“It clearly does if it’s upset you to this degree.”
“I’m upset because I’m alone. Because I don’t seem to belong anywhere.”
Ahmad sighed. “You’re shy, that’s all. You always have been.” Shy, and frail from an illness in her youth. The same sweating sickness that had claimed her mother’s life. It had left Mira wan and weak as a child, depending on him for so much.
“I’m adrift,” she replied.
Adrift.
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.”