Page 145 of The Siren of Sussex

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.

“Becky?” Ahmad called down the stairs. “Look after Miss Maltravers.”

“Miss Maltravers?” Mira was aghast. “You brought her here?”

Ahmad inwardly flinched. He hadn’t even begun to grapple with the fact that he’d subjected Evelyn to all this wretchedness. But he wouldn’t be distracted. “Miss Maltravers is the least of your concerns.”

He followed his cousin into the small, dank room and closed the door behind him. He cast a glance at the bed. It was neatly made, the thin coverlet unrumpled.

“Nothing untoward happened,” Mira said.

“You were alone with him in here, with the door shut.”

“I needed to have private words with him.” She smoothed her dress—an embroidered muslin, as neat and unrumpled as the bedcovers. “Why were you at your rooms at this time of day? You don’t usually return to King William Street until after six.”