Page 56 of The Siren of Sussex

Mira’s jaw slackened. “She never.”

“I’m rather relieved, actually. Better to have a clean break than to return to her, groveling for her custom. And who knows but that I might have done, given time enough to reflect on the matter. I’m out of pocket quite a bit on her account.”

The color drained from Mira’s face. “She won’t pay for the dresses she ordered?”

“Not a ha’penny, according to her lady’s maid.”

Mira shook her head. “But she can’t refuse to pay you. She simply can’t. Not when you’ve spent so much money on her behalf.”

“She can and she has. There’s nothing for it.”

“Of course there is. You must tell Mr. Finchley.”

His brows snapped together. “Absolutely not.”

“You must,” she insisted. “He can do something about it. Instigate a lawsuit to recover your expenses or—”

“And how would that look?”

“It would be justice!”

“It would be the end of my career as a dressmaker. I can’t hope to start a business by suing my customers. What would that do to my reputation?” Ahmad exhaled. “The fact is, Lady Heatherton’s put me in a damnable position. I expect she knows it.”

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know.” He paced to the window and back again. His mind was in a muddle; his muscles bunched with tension.

All of his plans were crumbling around him, and he had no recourse at all. No action he could take to resolve things with Lady Heatherton, and no other titled society darling waiting in the wings to wear his gowns. No one on whom he could display his skill to the eyes of the beau monde. Only courtesans. Pretty Horsebreakers.

Unless . . .

A spark of an idea flickered in his mind. A ludicrous notion, born more of desperation than good sense.

But no. It could never work.

Could it?

Ahmad’s pulse accelerated. He looked at the clock on the mantel. It was a quarter past five o’clock. Fifteen whole minutes into the fashionable hour. There was still time if he hurried.

“What I need,” he said at last, “is some fresh air to clear my head.” He turned to Mira. “Will you join me for a walk in Hyde Park?”

“At this hour?” She wrinkled her nose. “It won’t be very restful. Everyone in Mayfair will be out walking and riding. Even your Miss Maltravers, I don’t doubt.”

Ahmad fetched their coats. “I’m counting on it.”

Twelve

Riding home from the park, Evelyn narrowly missed the first crack of thunder.

It was a portent of worse weather to come.

The approaching evening brought heavy rains and dark clouds that blotted out the setting sun. It left a damp chill in Evelyn’s heart and limbs. A feeling at odds with the sense of triumph she’d experienced as she’d entered Rotten Row on Hephaestus. The sense of beauty and power she’d felt until . . .

Until she’d seen him.

What in heaven’s name was Stephen Connaught doing in town? He was a country gentleman, never setting foot outside Sussex, except for the handful of years when he’d gone away to university. He’d always professed to despise London.

“You’d never want to live there, would you?” he’d asked her once.