Page 36 of The Siren of Sussex

“Keep her out of sight during working hours,” Mrs. Pritchard had commanded him on the day he and Mira had arrived. “I don’t want any of the gents getting any ideas.” She’d ushered them up the rickety stairs to their room. “And I’ll hear none of that gibberish you people like to talk. It puts the customers off. You’ll speak English here or you’ll keep your mouths shut.”

Ahmad had been but fifteen, and Mira little more than eight. She’d clutched weakly at his shabby wool coat, hiding her face against his sleeve. He remembered how he’d put a protective arm around her narrow shoulders.

That wasn’t all he remembered.

There was the smell of the place, dank and sour with sweat and sex. And there was the sensation of Mrs. Pritchard running her fingers through his hair as he passed through the door.

Just as Lady Heatherton had.

“We’ve always been together,” Mira said. “From the time we came to England. The same house, the same room. You were my whole world. And now you’re gone—”

“I’m not gone,” he said. “King William Street is only three miles from here.”

“It may as well be one hundred miles.”

“We still see each other. You visit often enough.”

“Of course I do,” she said, with something approaching bitterness. “I haven’t any friends of my own. Not in Mayfair. And it isn’t safe to be always traveling to the East End to see the friends I left behind at Mrs. Pritchard’s.”

“What?” He nearly spilled his drink.

A rare flash of defiance glinted in her gaze. “Did you think I could forget the life we left behind?”

“Yes, actually. I did.” It took an effort not to lose his temper. “You have no cause to go back to that place. You’re safe here. Far away from all that filth.”

It was the one saving grace of all this: her life here with the Finchleys. The life of a lady’s companion. A better existence than any he could ever give her. Here, in their house, she had the benefit of good food, clean air, and a warm bed. A sanctuary, far away from the squalor of the East End, and from the low characters who had patronized Mrs. Pritchard’s.

“It wasn’t filth,” Mira said. “Not all of it.”

“No, not all of it,” he acknowledged. “Not us. And not some of the girls. As for Mrs. Pritchard and all the rest of them . . .” His gut twisted at the very thought of his cousin returning there. “Good God, Mira. How many times—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters. We didn’t leave Mrs. Pritchard’s on the best of terms.” There had been a fight, and a resulting scandal. The threat of Ahmad being transported. “If not for Finchley’s intervention—”

“I know, I know.” The spark faded from Mira’s eyes. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have gone. They were never my friends anyway. I realize that now. They only tolerated me because they were fond of you.”

Fond.

The word left a sour taste in his mouth. Yes, Mrs. Pritchard had been fond of him. Exceedingly fond.

He downed a swallow of port. It burned his throat. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve never had true friends here. I know that much. I thought I had. One in particular. But the last of my letters has gone unanswered. It’s time I faced the facts.”

“Letters to whom?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said again.

“It clearly does if it’s upset you to this degree.”

“I’m upset because I’m alone. Because I don’t seem to belong anywhere.”

Ahmad sighed. “You’re shy, that’s all. You always have been.” Shy, and frail from an illness in her youth. The same sweating sickness that had claimed her mother’s life. It had left Mira wan and weak as a child, depending on him for so much.

“I’m adrift,” she replied.

Adrift.