Page 7 of The Siren of Sussex

He shrugged. “She has possibilities.”

“She’s probably nothing more than one of those ladies who attempt to copy the courtesans’ style.”

Ahmad supposed that she might be. There were enough of them about these days. Even so, thus far, none of those young ladies had yet had the ingenuity to visit Doyle and Heppenstall’s.

Until today.

Miss Maltravers had recognized that his designs were something out of the common way. “Magic,” she’d called them. He’d been ridiculously flattered.

“Or perhaps,” Mira said, “she’s looking to go into business for herself?”

“As a courtesan?” He thought it unlikely. And yet . . .

And yet the mere touch of her gloved hand had sent a startling shock of arousal through him. His breath had jammed up in his chest, and his blood had swiftly heated to a simmer.

He’d wondered, in that moment, what manner of strange creature she was, this frumpy female who had the power to beguile a man as surely as a siren.

To beguile him.

Good lord.

He’d spent his formative years working as a bullyboy at Mrs. Pritchard’s gentlemen’s establishment in Whitechapel. It had been the first job he’d found in England, the only one that had allowed him to keep Mira with him. There, he’d been surrounded by attractive women—outright professionals at their trade—and none of them had ever affected him as deeply as Miss Maltravers had. Certainly not by the mere touch of their hand.

If this was a sample of her erotic skill, she’d soon be as much in demand as Catherine Walters herself.

The prospect left a sour taste in his mouth. He downed another swallow of brandy.

“What else?” Mira asked.

He flashed her a questioning look over the rim of his glass.

“If not a lady or a courtesan, then what is she?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I mean to find out.”

Two

Evelyn crept through the back door of her uncle’s town house in Russell Square. Uncle Harris gave his staff a half day on Wednesdays and Sundays. It was how she’d managed to sneak away this evening unobserved. Still, one never knew when a stray maid or footman might be lurking about. It was best to be careful.

She ducked through the empty kitchen and tiptoed up the winding servants’ staircase and down the dark third-floor hall that led to her bedchamber. Slipping silently inside her room, she shut the paneled door firmly behind her, sagging against it with a breath of relief.

It had been over half an hour since she’d left Doyle and Heppenstall’s, and yet her stomach was still fluttering wildly. She felt rather like she had as a girl when encountering a particularly difficult fence during the annual hunt at Babbington Heath. There was a low throb of fear in her chest coupled with an overwhelming swell of giddy anticipation.

This jump will not beat me, she’d often thought.

And nor would London.

Lighting a lamp, she removed her soiled skirts and jacket. Having missed the omnibus in Bond Street, she’d been obliged to walk most of the way home. It was only a little more than a mile and a half. Not a great distance for one who was used to striding about the Sussex countryside. London, however, was far dirtier than Combe Regis. All the smoke and soot. It clouded the evening sky and blotted out the stars. Her hem and cuffs were filthy with it.

She washed her face and hands and changed into a faded blue day dress. It took but a moment longer to tidy her unruly hair and drape an old cashmere shawl round her shoulders. Having done so, she exited her room and made her way downstairs.

For her first season to be a success, she’d need more than a stylish habit or two. She’d need an entire wardrobe. Not refurbished hats and gowns, and not dresses made with drab fabric bought at a bargain. She required the best. And the best would cost money.

It was past time she broached the subject with Uncle Harris.

Located on the first floor, adjacent to the library, her uncle’s study was his private domain. The door was always shut, a light glimmering from within at all hours of the night and day. He rarely emerged, and on those brief occasions when he did, he looked—or so it seemed to Evelyn—rather like a mole popping its head up out of its underground burrow to squint blindly into the sun.

“Remember,” Aunt Nora had said before Evelyn departed Combe Regis, “my brother is a scholar. Nothing exists for him besides his work. You must take pains daily to remind him of your presence, else he’ll forget you’re there.”