An expression of relief passed over her face. “Of course.”
He felt a faint twinge of regret. Had he been so unreasonably restrictive as her guardian? So demanding that she keep herself apart from ordinary people?
It was what she claimed he did with himself. Held himself apart from life—from love.
An observer, she’d called him.
He wondered if there was any truth in the charge.
* * *
By the time the hired carriage rolled up to the back door of Evelyn’s uncle’s house in Russell Square, it was approaching six o’clock.
Ahmad had sent Becky and Mira home together in a separate cab. Evelyn had said she could return on her own, but he’d insisted on accompanying her himself. Not to talk. He hadn’t said more than three words strung together since they’d left Mrs. McCordle’s. He’d been still and quiet. Gazing out the window in silence as the dilapidated buildings of the East End docklands gave way to the fashionable houses of the West End.
She suspected he had regrets about taking her with him. Not because there had been any danger, but because she’d seen pieces of his life he preferred to keep hidden. Remnants of his not-so-distant past. The sagging brothel with its chipped paint and broken front steps, and the equally derelict rag-and-bone shop.
People lived in such places.
And not only the working women of Mrs. Pritchard’s, but other people, too. Families and children. Friends and neighbors. Couples like Mira and Tariq, meeting and falling in love, and planning to settle down.
The obstacles to Evelyn’s own happiness seemed small in comparison.
“When will I see you again?” she asked before she climbed out of the carriage.
“Soon,” he said. “I’ll need to fit you for your black afternoon dress.”
“I didn’t mean at the shop.”
“No.” He frowned. “I realize that.”
She gathered up her skirts. On the last occasions they’d been together, she’d been uncertain of him. But not now. Not after the passionate embrace they’d shared in his rooms. And not after the words he’d uttered as they’d stood on the steps of Mrs. Pritchard’s establishment.
“She’s mine,” he’d all but growled.
Evelyn had felt his declaration to her marrow. She was his. And he was hers. There could be no more pretense between them.
“If you want to see me again,” she said, “you must come to me in some other way.”
His face was half-shadowed in the dim interior of the cab. “You want me to call on you here? At your uncle’s house?”
She imagined him applying at the front door instead of the tradesman’s entrance. Joining her for tea in the drawing room. A proper courting call. “Yes,” she said. “Or you can seek me out at one of the events I attend.”
He gave her a dark look. “I’m hardly likely to be invited to a spiritualist ball, Evie.”
Her mouth tilted. “Who said anything about an invitation?”
Thirty-One
Evelyn had often read about Cremorne Gardens in the newspaper and in ladies’ magazines. Descriptions of grand events featuring tightrope walkers, balloon ascents, and military exhibitions. It had made Cremorne seem an exciting place. A true pleasure garden, where one might enjoy music, dancing, and spectacles under a starlit sky.
Reality was no less magical.
Indeed, as she crossed the grounds with her friends, Evelyn was unprepared for the beauty of the vast illuminated landscape—twelve glorious acres of it sprawling along the northern bank of the Thames. It was studded with fountains and statuary, and tables were tucked into every available nook and cranny to accommodate the fashionable crowds.
But it was still a garden. One edged by ancient trees and boasting private walks, hidden corners, and many a dark place for a secret assignation.
“Take care,” Anne warned. “It can get rowdy after dark.” Her alabaster décolletage shimmered in the moonlight. She was wearing the black ball gown Ahmad had made for her. A sumptuous confection of watered silk, it boasted a daring neckline, cut low across her bosom and shoulders, and a gored skirt that drifted to the back in a luxurious swell of fabric.
Julia traipsed along at her side, the flounced skirts of her own silk-and-lace ball gown held in her hands. “Only if one wanders away from the music and dancing.”
The orchestra pavilion loomed ahead—a majestic Chinese pagoda illuminated by hundreds of colored lamps. It was surrounded by a circular wooden dancing platform.
“I’ve read that it can accommodate as many as four thousand dancers,” Stella said.
“Oh,” Julia moaned. “I get sick to even think of that many people.”
Evelyn gazed up at the brilliantly lit pagoda in unvarnished wonder. Cool evening air kissed her bare chest and shoulders, and orchestra music hummed in her veins.
Her own ball gown was made of a shade of amber silk and crepe so delicately pale it resembled the glow of gaslight. Becky had come by Russell Square this evening to affix gold roses and frosted leaves on the skirts and bodice and in the stylish waterfall rolls of Evelyn’s coiffure.
“Lady Blackstone has reserved half of it for us,” Anne said. “Though it will be difficult to keep the two sides from mingling. One never can at these sorts of events, even with screens.”
“Why does she not use her own ballroom?” Evelyn asked.
“She prefers to host her entertainments out of doors.” Anne gave Evelyn a wry look. “A medium once told her that there should be nothing between her and the stars. And if there’s a full moon, all the better.”
“And yet,” Stella remarked, “she still keeps a roof over her head when she’s not entertaining.”
“I prefer this to a ballroom,” Julia said. “It’s less stifling.”
Evelyn nodded. “It reminds me of riding. All this fresh air and excitement. I can feel it in my blood.”
“I agree,” Stella said, straightening the fall of lace at her bodice and sleeves. She, too, wore one of Ahmad’s dresses. The ice-blue muslin enhanced the silver of her hair and eyes and lent an ethereal glow to her complexion. No one would ever guess that it was a gown originally made for another lady. “Providing we can all find partners.”
“We will,” Anne said.
Stella smiled. “You’re very confident.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? Nearly everyone Lady Blackstone invited is a spiritualist. And we four have much to recommend us in that regard. Me because of my mother, you because of your gray hair, Evie because of her purported psychic energy, and Julia—”