And he’d wanted her so much.
He still wanted her.
Much good it did him.
“I have nothing to offer her,” he said.
Nothing save removing her from the society into which she’d been born. Making her an outcast. The same as any Englishwoman would be who yoked herself to a man of a different race.
And that was but the first obstacle standing in their way.
Even if they could clear it—somehow, some way—there would still be Ahmad’s lack of fortune to contend with.
“Nothing to offer her?” Mira scoffed. “Within a year you’ll be the most celebrated dressmaker in London!”
His mouth hitched. “You have a great deal of confidence in me, bahan.”
“I speak as I find,” she said. “Don’t tell me you disagree?”
“Not in that respect.” Despite everything, his faith in his work had never wavered. “But one year? Is that really your estimation?”
“If business continues at this rate, yes. Why? Is it not soon enough for you?”
It wasn’t. Not for Evelyn’s purposes. She needed a wealthy husband now, not twelve months from now. A respectable gentleman with the financial wherewithal to take care of her family, and to house and feed her horse. A man with financial security, not a newly minted dressmaker, dependent on the whims of London high society.
“A year is a very long way away,” he said. “Too long.”
Where would Evelyn be at such time? Married to someone else, probably. One of the many suitors who danced attendance on her—flirting with her at supper parties or sitting beside her at the theater. The society pages reported on them with regularity, speculating on which gentleman would ultimately win her hand.
The mere thought of it was another sharp knife in Ahmad’s heart. He was beginning to feel as though he was bleeding internally.
Mira slipped her hand through his arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
“You don’t want to look around upstairs?” The second floor of Valmar and Richardson’s was dedicated solely to feathers. Ostrich, peacock, marabout. Any color and style of plumage a dressmaker or milliner could imagine, all displayed in the same neatly arranged glass-fronted cases as the floor below.
Ahmad had no appetite for any of it at the moment, but he wouldn’t deny Mira the pleasure.
“Not today,” she said. “Some other time when you’re in a better mood.” She pulled him toward the door. “Come. You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten something.”
* * *
Evelyn entered Hatchards Bookshop, two clothbound volumes cradled in her arms. She dropped them down on the counter with a decided thump.
The clerk looked up with a start. It was the same older gentleman who had assisted her on her previous two visits. “May I help you, miss?”
“Yes, you may,” she said. “I require a book on India.”
His brows elevated. “Another one?”
“A better one. These aren’t at all what I was looking for.” She pushed the books toward him. She’d bought the first two weeks ago, and the second a week after that. On both occasions, she’d been disappointed. “I’d like to return them.”
“On what grounds?” The clerk reached for one of the books. Opening the cover, he glanced at the elaborate frontispiece. “You asked for the history of India. There’s none superior to Fletcher’s writings on England and Her Colonies. And for local flavor, you can’t do better than Captain Atkinson’s reminiscences.”
“So you said. But these books aren’t written by the people who actually live in India.”
“Captain Atkinson did indeed live in India, miss,” the clerk replied. “As he describes in great detail.”
“Yes, his descriptions are painfully detailed, but Captain Atkinson was not, in fact, an Indian.”
“I see. You prefer a history written by a native.”
“I do,” she said firmly. “Haven’t you anything of that sort?”
Outside the shop window, ladies and gentlemen bustled by in the bright midday sunshine. It was half past twelve. Evelyn hadn’t much time to linger. She had to be back in Russell Square by one in order to make herself ready for any callers that might stop in during her receiving hours.
It was Agnes’s half day. Blissfully on her own, Evelyn had taken the omnibus to Piccadilly Street, glad to be rid of the constraints of propriety, however briefly. For the past hour, she’d been as free as a tradesman’s wife, making her way about town in virtual anonymity.
Well, perhaps not complete anonymity.
She was recognized by too many people now. Ladies and gentlemen who had met her at card parties, dances, and dinners, and who had seen her riding in Rotten Row. She was conscious of a few sidelong glances as she transacted her business at the counter.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have ventured out alone?
But it was too late to second-guess herself.
“We may have something of that type,” the clerk said. “But it wouldn’t be anything I would call a reliable account. For that you’d do better to confine yourself to one of the military chronicles. The diary of Colonel Brough-Cholmondeley, perhaps?”
“No thank you,” she said. “I’ve had quite enough of the tedious ruminations of ex-soldiers.”
Behind her, a man cleared his throat.
Evelyn glanced back over her shoulder. And then she froze.
It was Captain Blunt, the infamous Hero of the Crimea.
She’d only seen him once, and had yet to be formally introduced, but his scarred visage was instantly recognizable. A gruesome slash ran from his right eye all the way down to his mouth. It gave his lips the appearance of a permanent sneer.
The impression wasn’t helped by the rest of him. He was tall, dark, and dour, with a military bearing that put one in mind of a soldier on the battlefield. Indeed, he looked as if he could break her in half with his bare hands.
No wonder Julia had nearly fainted when he’d asked for an introduction.
“If you’ll forgive the intrusion, ma’am,” he said. “You’re looking for an account of India written by a native Indian?”
“I am,” she said.
“You might try The Two Sisters by Shahid Khan.”
She blinked up at him. “Is that a history book?”
“It’s a novel,” he said. “A story about the importance of female education, recently translated from Urdu.”