“He’s looking for Mira,” Tweed said.
Mrs. Pritchard’s bloodshot eyes became acquisitive. “Well, well.” She lounged in the doorway. “Have you lost her at last? Your little ward?” Her gaze moved to Evelyn. “And who might you be?”
“A friend,” Evelyn said, pushing up her spectacles. “I’m no concern of yours.”
“Oh ho!” Mrs. Pritchard laughed. “What starch! Malik’s got himself a little bluestocking.”
Ahmad turned to leave, guiding Evelyn back down the stairs. There was nothing to be gained by conversing with Mrs. Pritchard.
“If she comes here, I shall welcome her back,” she called after them. “There’s always a place for pretty girls in my house—if they’re willing to work. That goes for you, too, my fine lady.”
Evelyn stiffened.
Ahmad drew her along with him down the street, putting as much distance between them and the brothel as possible. “Ignore her,” he said.
“What a horrible woman.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Nor do I need to. You dislike her excessively. That’s enough for me.”
Some of the tension in his muscles eased. “Is it that obvious?”
“To me it is,” she said. “Did she not treat you well? I know she dismissed you, but—”
“It’s not only that.” The two of them walked back down the lane. “She’s a particular kind of woman. I’ve met many of her type since coming to England. They’re unpleasant at the best of times, dangerous at the worst.”
“Dangerous how?”
“If you cross them, they use all of their power to punish you. And they have a great deal of power.”
“She didn’t look very powerful.”
“Because of her class? She’s still an Englishwoman.” Ahmad looked out at the intersection of the lane ahead. “If Mira didn’t go to the brothel, I can think of only one other place she might be.”
“Where?”
“Lost Hope Yard. Becky has lodgings there above a rag-and-bone shop.” Tucking Evelyn’s hand more firmly in his arm, he guided her down the lane and to the right.
“I thought Becky was living above Doyle and Heppenstall’s now?”
“Not consistently. Her room at Mrs. McCordle’s is paid through the end of the month. She still goes back there on occasion, when she’s had enough of the other seamstresses.”
They walked down one lane and up another, keeping a brisk pace so as not to invite interference from beggars or any of the people who lingered between buildings.
At last, they came to the corner of Lost Hope Yard and the crooked wooden structure that housed the rag-and-bone shop. Becky was pacing in front of it, arms crossed at her waist.
Relief tore through him. “Becky!”
She looked up with a start. Her face fell. “Bloody hell. What do you mean by coming here?” Her gaze flicked to Evelyn. “And why the devil did you bring her?”
Evelyn’s hand fell from his arm as he strode forward.
“Where’s Mira?” he demanded.
“She’s upstairs, but— Wait!” Becky held her hands up to block his path as he moved to walk around her to the door of the shop. “She’s visiting a friend.”
“What friend?”
“Her old sweetheart.”
“What?” For an instant he could only stare at her. Mira had never had a sweetheart. She’d never had any relationship with a man at all. She was far too shy.
“She knew you’d take it bad,” Becky said. “What with you always treating her like a child.”
Ahmad ignored that. “Who is it?”
“A sailor. He only came back yesterday. She thought he might have died at sea. Either that or forgotten her. She’s been in a right state over it.”
“So you just . . . let them use your room?” He moved Becky aside.
She chased after him. “It’s not like that!”
Evelyn entered the shop along with them. The brass bell rang loud and long, announcing their arrivals, one after the other.
Mrs. McCordle looked up from her seat at the bottom of the stairs. “Oh no,” she said. “There’s one man up there already. This ain’t no knocking shop.”
“Wait here,” Ahmad said to Evelyn and Becky. His tone left no room for argument.
He vaulted up the stairs. The wooden steps groaned beneath him in protest. Striding down the short hallway at the top, he was nearly at the door of Becky’s room when it opened and a man emerged.
It was a dark-faced sailor in a woolen peacoat and trousers.
An Indian man, in fact.
Mira came out the door after him. “I’ll walk you back,” she was saying. And then she saw Ahmad. She froze where she stood, eyes widening.
Becky called out from the bottom of the stairs. “I told you not to leave that blasted note!”
“You must be Mira’s cousin,” the man said. He had a British accent with a Bengali lilt to it.
“And you are?” Ahmad asked in a voice of perilous quiet.
Mira hurried between them, as if in anticipation of a fight. “Ahmad, this is my friend Tariq Jones. Tariq, my cousin, Ahmad.”
Ahmad’s gaze narrowed. It appeared Mr. Jones was part English, like they were. “Your friend?”
“That’s right.” She lifted her chin in defiance. The subtle action reminded him of Evelyn.
It didn’t disarm him. He was too angry for that. But it brought him up short. “You and I need to talk.”
“If you want to have words with me,” Mr. Jones replied, “I’m ready to hear them.”
“Not you,” Ahmad said.
“He means me.” Mira gently pushed Mr. Jones’s shoulder. “It’s all right. You can go. Please. I’ll write to you this evening.”
Mr. Jones’s reluctance to leave her raised Ahmad’s estimation of the man by several degrees.
“Go,” Ahmad said. “She’s safe enough from me.”
Mr. Jones dipped his head. Giving Mira a last look, he disappeared down the stairs.
Ahmad pointed to Becky’s room. “Inside.”
Mira went rigid at the autocratic command, even as she obeyed it.