“I’ve been reading about all of India. Trying to, anyway.”
“Yes, but . . . why?” he asked again.
A flush of pink tinted her cheeks. “Because,” she said, “I want to know everything about you.”
Something fractured within him. A part of his innermost self, made hard by time and experience. He felt it give way inside of his chest. “Ah, Evie . . .”
She turned in her seat, her eyes earnest behind her spectacles. “There aren’t very many books that give a clear perspective. Everything at Hatchards seems to be written from a British point of view.”
His expression softened. She looked so serious sitting beside him. And so damnably beautiful. She was wearing a topaz-brown silk skirt he’d made for her, and the matching Zouave jacket with lashings of black braid. Its wide pagoda sleeves revealed the soft white muslin undersleeves and linen cuffs of the Garibaldi shirt she wore beneath.
All of it was his. Garments he’d designed for her. Had sewn with his own hands, taking into account every curve on the landscape of her body.
It gave him a feeling of possession to see her in his clothes. A sense that she belonged to him.
As if he needed further proof.
Less than half an hour ago, he’d been embracing her. Kissing her lips, her face, and her throat. His fingers had been in her hair, forcing the pins from her thick tresses. And she’d been clinging to him and kissing him back with warm, half-parted lips.
If not for the interruption, God only knew what else might have happened.
“You won’t learn anything about me by reading books,” he said. “The India I knew isn’t the one people write about. And anyway . . . it’s part of my past. When I went back, I was a stranger there. I didn’t fit anywhere, no more than I do here.”
“I’m beginning to think that fitting in isn’t all it’s made out to be. Everyone I’ve met since coming to London has been peculiar in some way. Nearly as peculiar as I am.”
“You are peculiar, aren’t you?” His voice deepened to a murmur. “The most wonderfully peculiar girl I’ve ever known.”
She slipped her gloved hand into his. “I shall take that as a compliment.”
“I hope you will. It’s how I meant it.”
There was more to be said, but neither of them said it. They didn’t have time.
The hackney stopped with a jolt along the edge of Commercial Road.
Ahmad’s body tensed at the familiar sights and smells. This was the second time in as many months that he’d been back here. But this visit was different.
This time, he wasn’t alone.
* * *
Mrs. Pritchard’s gentlemen’s establishment stood at the end of a narrow lane. A filthy, sagging building held together with layers of soot and grime and a haphazard coat of peeling white paint. Every chip and crack was illuminated in the unforgiving midday sun.
It had been two years since Ahmad had seen it, this place where he’d lived for nearly half of his life. His shoulders were set, his jaw tight as they approached. Though he looked straight ahead, he was aware of every movement around them. Every twitch of a curtain and every shadowed figure lurking in a doorway.
A mob of children in ragged clothing trailed after them for a few yards, only to be chased off by a man emptying a pail of refuse into the street. It was another foul note added to the already-pungent symphony of night soil, rotting food, and fetid river water.
Evelyn briefly covered her nose.
“It’s worse when the sun’s out,” Ahmad said. “You get used to it.”
She gave him a doubtful look. “Are you sure Mira’s here?”
“No.” He wasn’t sure of anything. “But she said she was visiting an old friend. And these are the only friends she had.”
The stairs at the front of the house were broken in the middle. He led Evelyn up along the edge of them to the warped wooden door. A rusted knocker hung there from one loosened nail. A useless implement. He bypassed it completely, pounding on the door with his fist.
It was opened by a hulking older man wearing an ill-fitting coat and a pair of worn trousers. His broad face broke into a smile. “Malik!”
Ahmad recognized the fellow. It would be difficult not to. Joe Tweed had previously worked at the public house on the corner, removing quarrelsome drunks from the premises. He was as big as an ox. “Tweed,” Ahmad said. “You’re working here now?”
“Aye. Since you left.” Tweed directed his snaggled grin at Evelyn. “And who’s this with you? A new girl for the missus?”
Ahmad stepped in front of Evelyn. A muscle twitched in his cheek. He felt the overpowering urge to punch his old acquaintance squarely in the face. “She’s mine,” he said. “I’ll thank you to keep your eyes in your head.”
Tweed held up a hand, laughing. “Easy, lad. I don’t mean nothing. Just puzzling over why you’re back, that’s all.”
“I’m looking for my cousin. Is she inside?”
“Little Mira?” Tweed appeared genuinely surprised.
“You haven’t seen her?”
“Not since the pair of you left.”
Ahmad’s stomach tightened with apprehension.
His mind went immediately to the darkest possibility, imagining Mira out there somewhere, vulnerable and exposed, prey for any villain who crossed her path.
Evelyn squeezed his arm. “She has Becky with her.”
He nodded grimly. Mira and Becky together was better than either of them wandering about alone. But it wasn’t much of a defense against the local elements. If a ruffian was intent on meddling with them, two young women couldn’t hope to defend themselves.
“You want me to fetch the missus?” Tweed asked.
“I’m here.” A familiar female voice floated up from behind him. It was followed by the woman herself: Lily Pritchard. She wore a loose housedress, her gray-streaked hair twisted up on her head in a careless knot.
Ahmad inwardly recoiled at the sight of her.
For thirteen years she’d been his employer. She’d never hurt him. Had never forced him to her bed. But her interest had always been clear. She’d petted and handled him, knowing all the while that he must endure it or end up back on the streets, and his cousin along with him.
“Malik.” She regarded him in much the same way Lady Heatherton had. “What’s the meaning of this, banging on the door in broad daylight, as if you were the law? You know we don’t entertain visitors until sundown.”