It was all Evelyn could do not to gape at the man. She didn’t know what surprised her more, that he should know something about novels, about Indian writers, or about the education of women.
“We don’t have that book,” the clerk said.
“No doubt you can order it,” Captain Blunt replied, “if the lady wishes.”
“I do wish it,” Evelyn said swiftly. “Thank you, sir.”
The captain inclined his head to her. He was holding a brown clothbound book in his hand, waiting for her to finish her business so he could purchase it.
Evelyn chanced a glance at the gilt-embossed cover. Her eyes widened. Good lord. It was The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins.
Her gaze flicked to Captain Blunt’s face. Never had she seen a gentleman who looked less sentimental. And yet . . . he read novels.
“I will make inquiries about Mr. Khan’s book for you,” the clerk said. He pushed her stack of books back across the counter. “But I can’t accept these in return. You’ve already read them.”
“I have,” she said. “But—”
“This isn’t a circulating library, miss.”
Evelyn would have liked to argue, but not with a queue forming behind her. After leaving her direction for the clerk, she grudgingly collected her books, nodded a goodbye to Captain Blunt, and exited the shop.
Hansom cabs rolled by in the street, along with sporting gigs and carriages. Evelyn was walking briskly toward the omnibus stop when one of them stopped alongside her.
It was the Arundell carriage. Anne lowered the window. “Where are you going in such a rush?”
“Home to Russell Square,” Evelyn said.
“Get in. I’ll take you.”
A liveried footman hopped down from his perch to open the door.
Evelyn murmured a thank-you to him as he assisted her inside. She sank down on the seat across from Anne as the door closed behind her. “I’m obliged to you.”
“Not at all. I’m glad for the company.”
“You’re alone this morning?”
“For the moment. Mama is at a meeting with a representative of that boy medium from Birmingham. Such high drama! There will be a séance soon.”
“With the boy in attendance?”
“Of a certainty. Mama is beside herself—far too distracted to mind me. She said I might use the carriage to do a little shopping. I’ve had an entire hour to myself.” Anne arranged the skirts of her black silk dress as the carriage rolled back into traffic. “Did you just come from Hatchards?”
“I did. You’ll never guess who I ran into.” Evelyn described her encounter with Captain Blunt. “Do you suppose the man has hidden depths to him?” she asked when she’d finished.
“I suppose he might,” Anne said. “But no amount of novel reading can blot out the fact that he has a brood of illegitimate children living with him. One child I could forgive. Even two, possibly. But an entire houseful?”
“A haunted houseful, if one believes Stella’s description.”
“Not only hers. I’ve heard tales of his haunted estate from others, too.” Anne frowned. “No. Captain Blunt can’t be considered a viable suitor for any of us. Julia least of all. She needs a mild, gentle sort of man.”
“Do you have someone in mind?”
“Not yet. But I’m keeping my eyes and ears open.” Anne leaned forward to examine Evelyn’s books. “What did you buy?”
“These aren’t new purchases. I was trying to return them.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“They’re bigoted rubbish,” Evelyn said feelingly.
Anne picked up the topmost book. She read the title aloud. “England and Her Colonies.”
“Written by an overzealous colonizer, it turns out.”
“Oh? And what about this one?” Anne lifted the second book. “Curry & Rice, on Forty Plates: or, The Ingredients of Social Life at ‘Our Station’ in India.”
“More rubbish.” Evelyn had found the author’s writing something worse than offensive. It had been contemptuous and condescending on the subject of native Indians and those of mixed Indian and English blood. Indeed, some of the passages had made her sick to her stomach.
“I’m sensing a theme.” Anne cast her a sardonic glance. “If you want to learn about India, why don’t you just ask him?”
Evelyn didn’t need to inquire who him was. “It’s not his responsibility to educate me. The ignorance is mine, and so must be the remedy for it.”
“It would certainly be easier than exerting yourself over these.” Anne flipped through the pages of the first book. “ ‘The Hindoo and the Mahommedan readily acknowledge the superiority of the European,’ ” she read aloud, “ ‘and are inclined to look toward him for instruction and protection.’ Dear me. How dreadful it sounds.” She snapped the book shut. “As dreadful in print, I suspect, as it is in practice.”
“You disapprove of the British presence in India?”
“I disapprove of meddling, in all its forms. And we’re a country of meddlers—often to disastrous effect. One can’t help but condemn it.”
“Not everyone is so enlightened,” Evelyn said.
Anne lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “If I concerned myself with the opinions of other people, I would never leave my room.” She dropped the offending book back onto the seat. “What will you do when you’ve finished all of your studying? Will you go to him?”
The notion tugged at Evelyn’s heart. “No. I won’t bother him at his shop anymore.”
He’d told her not to come there without a chaperone. Had said they couldn’t be alone together. And she wouldn’t keep forcing herself on him. Heaven knew, she’d been reckless enough already where he was concerned.
“What, then?” Anne asked.
“I’ll wait,” Evelyn said. “If Mr. Malik wants to see me again, he’ll have to seek me out for himself.”
Twenty-Eight
The following day, during her receiving hours, Evelyn was seated in the drawing room at Russell Square, sipping a cup of tea and reading the afternoon edition of her uncle’s paper, when Mrs. Quick appeared in the doorway.
“Mr. Connaught, miss,” she announced.
Stephen walked past the housekeeper into the room, still wearing his driving coat and gloves. His hat was in his hand. “Miss Maltravers,” he said, bowing.