Page 34 of The Siren of Sussex

Mrs. Finchley greeted him from her place on the sofa. She was an attractive woman, and rather formidable, too, in her own right. Ahmad had first met her two years ago when she was still Jenny Holloway, a headstrong spinster determined to travel to India to find the missing Earl of Castleton—a distant cousin of hers, presumed dead after the rebellion. Finchley had hired Ahmad and Mira to accompany her.

And then, at the last minute, Finchley had decided to join them.

Together, they’d journeyed through France, and then on to Egypt and India, traveling as far as the hill stations of Darjeeling. It was there they’d found Lord Castleton, weak and injured but very much alive.

The whole adventure had given them a familiarity with each other that was more in keeping with a friendship than the relationship of masters and servants.

“Do sit down, Ahmad,” Mrs. Finchley said. “My husband was just extolling the virtues of London during the season.”

Finchley resumed his seat. “And my wife was reminding me of the beauties of summer in Devon.”

“Not the least of which would be a chance to visit Lady Helena and Captain Thornhill.” Mrs. Finchley smiled. “But I’ll say no more on the subject. We’ve ample time to sort out our summer travel plans.” She looked to Ahmad. “I hope you’ll stay for dinner?”

Ahmad sat down in the empty chair next to Mira. The very mention of Lady Helena, sister to the Earl of Castleton, was enough to remind him of his predicament.

As if he could forget.

“I don’t wish to be any trouble,” he said.

“No trouble at all,” Finchley replied. “It’s been far too long since we all dined together.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Finchley said. “It will be just like old times.”

A moment later, Mr. Jarrow appeared in the parlor doorway to inform them that dinner was served, and the four of them repaired to the dining room.

Ahmad hadn’t eaten a proper sit-down dinner in ages. He hadn’t the time. Since striking out on his own, his evening meals, such as they were, had been bolted down in between cutting and piecing fabric and hand-stitching seams. Sometimes, when absorbed in his work, he forgot to eat altogether.

But not tonight.

There was spring soup, chicken cutlets, boiled leg of mutton with steamed vegetables, and a rhubarb tart to finish. A plain English meal, typical of Mrs. Jarrow. Ahmad ate every crumb on his plate. It wasn’t until he was finished that Mr. Finchley finally pressed him on the reason for his visit.

“I need Mira,” Ahmad said bluntly.

Mira froze in the act of wiping her mouth. “Me?” She lowered her napkin. “For what?”

“To assist me next week. I have too many orders at the moment. Three evening gowns, and several riding habits—almost all due within the next ten days. It’s more than I can finish on my own.”

Mrs. Finchley looked pleased. “But that’s promising, isn’t it? To be so busy during the early months of the season?”

Ahmad liked to think so. But there were no guarantees. Not when his initial outlay wasn’t recouped until after an order was filled. Even then, among the upper classes, it was often the custom to delay payment for months at a time. Indeed, many fashionable members of society lived off credit, maintaining a lavish lifestyle even as the tradesmen they owed went bankrupt.

“It’s early stages,” he said. “But yes. So long as nothing goes wrong.”

Mira pursed her lips. “Viscountess Heatherton hasn’t paid him.”

“I haven’t delivered her gowns yet,” Ahmad said. “Orders aren’t paid in advance.”

“And what of Miss Walters?” Mira asked. “Is her bill still outstanding?”

He privately cursed himself for having shared that bit of information with his cousin. “That’s not what I came here to discuss,” he said with growing impatience. “The fact is, I have orders—ample orders—and once Lady Heatherton wears one of my designs, I expect there’ll be more. In the meanwhile, I need assistance to finish her gowns—and the habits commissioned by Miss Maltravers.”

Mira gave him a puzzled look. “I thought she’d only ordered the one?”

“Today she ordered two more.” He’d all but encouraged her. If Miss Maltravers planned to cut a dash in Rotten Row, she’d require more than the one habit to do so.

“I intend to ride daily,” she’d told him. “It’s why I came here.”

To find a husband. A well-to-do husband. One of the droves of men who frequented Hyde Park, in fact. The ones who came to ogle the Pretty Horsebreakers.