Chapter 14

14

The British embassy in these days was a centre.... Dinners, balls, and receptions were given with profusion.

—Rees Howell Gronow, The Reminiscences and Recollections of Captain Gronow

After breakfast the next morning, sunshine replaced the previous day’s rain. Eager to get out and enjoy the fine weather, Claire offered to buy the fresh herbs Mrs. Ballard needed for dinner.

As Claire walked through the marketplace on her errand, her gaze was drawn to a cheerful display of potted plants. A local flower seller was offering them at a reduced price, as the season for planting was coming to an end.

She thought of the large ceramic, urn-like pots on either side of the boarding-house steps. They held only ragged displays of dried sea grasses and bulrushes that had likely been there since last autumn. Wouldn’t flowers be more welcoming? These had certainly caught her eye—perhaps the bright blooms would draw the eyes of prospective guests as well.

Mr. Hammond had given her the key to a cashbox containing funds for postage and other household necessities. She did not think he would mind.

Claire made her selections, and the flower seller helped her carry them the short distance to the boarding house, giving her advice on how to transplant the flowers and water them.

When he’d gone, Claire delivered the herbs to Mrs. Ballard and asked where she might find gardening tools. The woman sent the scullery maid to the courtyard shed, and she soon came back with a small shovel and a trowel.

Claire had just returned to the front steps with the tools when Miss Patel opened the door for Mira, who wanted to see what Claire was doing.

“Pretty!” the girl enthused and bent to sniff the flowers.

“I think so too. I thought I’d put them into these big pots.”

“May I help?”

“If you would like.”

“She will get dirty,” Sonali warned. “At least wait until I bring an apron.”

“Very well.”

She returned with an old apron and tied it about the girl. “I shall wait inside, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

After removing the dried stems and bulrushes, Claire loosened the soil with the small shovel. Then with the trowel, Mira helped her dig holes for each plant. Claire arranged the plants, carefully settling them into the holes, and Mira helped her press the soil gently but firmly around them.

Mr. Hammond came out of the house, dressed for his climb. “I say. That looks nice.”

“I hope you don’t mind. They were not expensive.”

“Not at all. A definite improvement.”

“Are they not pretty?” Mira asked.

“They are indeed. Although you, my dear pumpkin seed, have more dirt on yourself than those flowers do.” He looked at Claire. “And you have some on your face too, just there....” He reached out and wiped it from her cheek.

Her skin tingled from his touch, and embarrassment further warmed her face. “Th-thank you.” She ducked her head. “If you will excuse me, I need to fetch a can of water for them.” She thought she might splash some cool water on her burning face while she was at it.

“Allow me to water them for you,” he said. “And while I’m at the pump, I shall wash this little one’s hands and return her to Sonali.”

Claire thanked him and went down the outside stairs to the basement and into her own room. She washed her hands and face in her washstand basin and looked up at her damp reflection in the small mirror, her cheeks still flushed.

She reminded herself that she had experienced this giddy feeling of attraction once before. She had known Lord Bertram barely a fortnight and had believed herself in love with him. Believed him when he said the same and convinced her to run away with him. He had seemed too good to be true ... and he was.

She had known William Hammond for even less time. Was she being foolhardy and gullible again?

In a small whisper, she warned herself, “Be careful, Claire.”

Later that morning, a knock sounded at the door while Claire and Mary were busy in the dining room. Claire went to answer it, hoping for the arrival of new guests. So far her puny efforts to increase business had been to clean up the place and plant a few flowers. Thankfully, there was Emily’s advertisement as well, although it had not yet run.

When she opened the door, a potential guest was not who she saw.

The tall Indian man stood there, dressed in gentlemen’s attire as before. Armaan.

His eyes widened upon seeing her. “Oh. I ... I have come to speak to a Mr. Hammond. I did not realize you were—”

“His business partner,” Claire blurted. She didn’t want him to assume she was Mr. Hammond’s servant or wife.

She opened the door wider and stepped back. “Do come in.”

He wiped his shoes on the mat, removed his hat, and followed her into the entry hall.

“I am afraid Mr. Hammond is out at present. Climbing Peak Hill, I believe.”

His dark brows rose. “For what purpose?”

“For the pleasure of it, he says. He likes the exercise.”

“Ah. I prefer riding. Or swimming.”

“May I give him a message?”

“Only that I called. I understand he wishes to speak to me for some reason. Why he should, I have no idea, as I have never met a William Hammond, as far as I recall.”

“And your name is Armaan...?”

“Armaan Sagar.”

Claire resisted the urge to reveal the truth, knowing it was not her news to tell. Especially with Mr. Filonov in the nearby morning room, humming to himself as he read the St. Petersburg news. And Mary in the adjacent dining room, putting away the breakfast china.

“I think you will be ... interested in what Mr. Hammond has to say.”

“Interested?” The man frowned. “Is he selling something?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. You are welcome to wait, although he might be some time yet.” Dishes clattered in the dining room, and Claire winced, hoping the girl had not broken anything.

She was not certain Mr. Hammond would want her to install the man in his private study. And Mr. Jackson was currently meeting with a lace dealer in the parlour upstairs.

She searched her mind, wondering where gentlemen usually met to talk, then suggested, “Perhaps you might prefer to wait at the Old Ship? Or the assembly rooms at the London Inn? I understand men meet there to play cards.”

A shadow passed over his face, and he seemed about to refuse when the service door behind them opened and Mira dashed into the hall, a doll hanging limp in one hand, half a biscuit in the other. “Miss Summers! Miss Summers! I tore Dolly’s dress. Please, can you repair it?”

Noticing their visitor, the little girl stopped abruptly and pressed herself to Claire’s side, her eyes fixed on the man with wary curiosity.

The man, too, seemed arrested and again lowered himself to the girl’s height, though there were no lemon drops to retrieve this time. His gaze traced Mira’s face, his eyes warm. “Good day, little one. A pleasure to see you again.”

From somewhere above, Sonali called, “Mira! Come!”

Claire gently turned her toward the stairs. “I am sure Sonali would mend it for you. Why not ask her first? If she cannot, I will see what I can do.”

“Very well.” Mira bounded up the stairs.

When Claire looked back at the man, she found him standing once again, still staring in the direction the girl had disappeared.

“You will think me foolish, but seeing her reminds me of home. Of the family I once had.” Almost to himself, he added, “And lost.”

“Not foolish at all. Quite understandable.” More than you know.

He explained, “In London, I saw many people like myself. Not here.”

A thought pinched his features, and he turned his focus to her, studying Claire inquisitively. “When we met before, I thought you seemed familiar. But now ... Mira called you Miss Summers, did she not?”

Claire hesitated, fearing what he might have heard about her, then replied, “She did.”

“I wonder if you are related to the Summers family here in Sidmouth. I see, or at least imagine, a resemblance. In fact, you look like Emily Summers, now Mrs. Thomson, sister to Major Hutton’s wife.”

Claire nodded. “Viola, yes. I am their eldest sister.”

“Ah. I have heard her mention another sister in Scotland but not here.”

“I had just arrived from Edinburgh when we met.”

“That explains it. Though I wonder why you are...” He glanced around the hall, then cleared his throat. “I have no wish to pry. Actually, I might wish to pry, but I shall resist.” A corner of his mouth turned up.

“Thank you.”

Again the service door opened, and Mrs. Ballard appeared. “Miss Summers? I need you belowstairs. Mary has broken another cream pitcher.”

“One minute.”

“I can see you are busy,” Mr. Sagar said. “I shall await Mr. Hammond at the ... Old Ship, did you say?” The half grin faded. “Very well, that is where I shall be.”

Sometime later, Mr. Hammond returned from his climb, looking satisfied, if winded, his color heightened by the exercise.

Claire met him at the door.

“Armaan Sagar came by while you were out. The morning room and parlour were occupied, so I suggested he wait for you at the Old Ship Inn.”

A frown line appeared between his brows. “The Old Ship? Why?”

“I was not sure where two men would meet to talk. And you’ve told me to stay out of your study, so I did not ask him to wait there. Have I made a mistake?”

She took in his anxious frown with mounting concern. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like the thought of him there, surrounded by rough men in their cups. Not everyone is small-minded, of course, but that place has a reputation for lawlessness.”

“In that case, perhaps you had better change and go over there.”

“How long ago did he set off?”

“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”

Another frown. “I had better go as I am.”

“Good heavens. You are making me nervous.”

“Probably worrying for nothing. Still, if he’s there to meet me, I feel responsible.”

No, I feel responsible , Claire thought, stomach twisting.

Setting aside his gear and replacing his hat, he added, “If he does encounter incivility, perhaps I can help defuse the situation. I have some experience in peace negotiations, after all. I trust it will serve me well now.”

He turned and stalked out the door. For a few moments, Claire remained where she was, thoughts and fears whirling. Then she realized she would get nothing done standing there wringing her hands.

Grabbing her bonnet off the peg, Claire hurried out, tying the ribbons haphazardly under her chin as she jogged down the steps and strode up Back Street. She consoled herself with the thought that it was early in the day so the patrons would not yet be inebriated. She hoped.

Nearing the Old Ship Inn, she heard raised voices before she’d even reached the door.

Rude, jeering voices.

Oh no.

“Are ’ee lost, laddie? No lascars here.”

“Look at ’is fine clothes. You in a play? Convincin’ costume fer the role of gentleman, but yer the dashed wrong color.”

Laughter. And not the friendly sort.

Mr. Hammond’s voice. “Come now, gents. This man has lived here—what, more than a twelvemonth? Practically a local.”

“An incomer like ’at will n’er be one of us.”

Mr. Hammond persisted, “Mr. Sagar served His Royal Majesty in India, alongside many other brave soldiers. He deserves your respect. Come, let us have peace.”

“I’ll give you peace. A piece of my mind. And my fist.”

Another voice entered the fray. “Now, you lot. No fighting in here.”

Voices rose to an angry pitch, followed by a loud crash. A table being pushed over? Then came the sound of shattering glass.

Lord, please. Claire stood there, rooted to the spot. This was all her fault. She’d only meant to help. She could not go in, could she? Should she?

She was about to when she noticed a man and woman strolling up the street arm in arm. A woman she recognized—Viola, and without a veil! And with her was a tall, broad-shouldered man with burn scars on half his face. This must be her husband, Major Hutton.

Surprise and relief flooded Claire. “Viola! Oh, thank God. Come quick.”

They hurried forward, Viola looking eager, hand outstretched.

“Claire! We were so worried when we didn’t find you in Edinburgh. We returned last night and were just on our way to see you.” Searching her face, Viola frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“They are fighting inside.”

“Nothing new there,” Viola’s husband grumbled.

“But Mr. Hammond is in there, and Mr. Sagar.”

At that, he jerked his head around, a fierce scowl on his scarred face.

“Armaan is in there?”

Claire nodded. “I’m afraid so. It’s him they’re fighting about. And it’s my fault.”

“The devil it is. You both stay here. I mean it.”

“Be careful, Jack.”

But he had already charged inside.

Instinctively, Claire stepped closer to her sister and gripped her hand.

“The major will protect him,” Viola assured her. “Armaan once saved his life.”

Claire hoped it would not come to that. And she hoped he would somehow protect William too.

William ... Where had that come from? Why was she thinking of him by his Christian name? It was only the stress of the moment. He was Mr. Hammond, her employer in effect, and she would do well to remember that.

Another crash. A moment later, Viola’s husband emerged, one arm supporting Mr. Sagar, whose lip and brow were bleeding.

Mr. Hammond followed, or rather was pushed forcibly from behind by an aproned, irate landlord.

“Out with the lot of you. And don’t come back.”

“Our apologies, my good man.” Clothes rumpled but apparently unharmed, Mr. Hammond pulled out his purse and handed the man several gold coins, which he quickly pocketed.

“In that case, sir, you are welcome back anytime.”

When the publican retreated, Claire rushed forward. “Are you all right?”

Armaan shook off the major’s arm. “Yes, yes. Only a bloodied lip and a bottle to the head. I’ve had worse.”

“And doled out worse,” Major Hutton said, mouth quirked and a hint of pride in his expression.

Claire noticed the scraped skin of the major’s knuckles.

Viola noticed at the same moment and grasped his hand, studying the damage critically. “Oh, Jack, I told you to be careful.”

“I was. But that troublemaker’s nose will forever be crooked, I fear.”

“He had it coming,” Mr. Hammond said with a decisive nod. He stuck out his hand, a clear bond having formed during the melee. “William Hammond. I would gladly serve beside either of you any day.”

“Jack Hutton,” Viola’s husband replied, grasping his hand.

“Major Hutton,” Armaan clarified. “And I am Armaan Sagar. I understand you have been looking for me.”

William’s green eyes glinted. “I have indeed.” He shook Armaan’s hand and added, “After you have patched yourself up, come back to the boarding house, if you would. I have news for you.”

With a glance at Claire, Armaan asked, “Good news or bad?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“I shall be there in one hour.”

Claire spoke up. “And this is my sister Viola.”

Mr. Hammond bowed. “A pleasure, madam.”

Claire was tempted to stay and talk with Viola, but she also wanted to return to the house with Mr. Hammond and make sure all was in readiness for Mr. Sagar’s call. So after a heartfelt embrace and a quick introduction to her sister’s husband, Claire excused herself, agreeing to a long-overdue visit in a day or two.

On the walk back, Claire kept glancing at Mr. Hammond, striding beside her. “Are you truly all right?”

“Yes, I am completely unharmed, except for some drunken pushing and shoving.”

“Good.”

When he was silent, she looked at him again and saw the muscles in his jaw clench. “And before you ask ... no, I was not able to defuse the situation with my so-called skills in negotiation.”

Impulsively, she reached over and squeezed his arm, instantly noticing how firm it felt. “Even so, you were brave to rush into the fray to rescue your brother-in-law.”

Glancing over at her, he tucked her arm more securely to his side. “I suppose he is my brother-in-law. I had not quite thought of it in those terms. Thank you, Miss Summers.”

And she knew he was thanking her for more than a reminder of his relationship to the man.

True to his word, Mr. Sagar once again came to Broadbridge’s door an hour later. He had changed clothes and sported a bandage on his brow and a lip already scabbing over.

Claire greeted him. “I am glad you came back. I wish to apologize. I truly did not know that suggesting you wait there would prove so perilous.”

“Less perilous than it would have been, thanks to Mr. Hammond.”

“And the major.” She led him inside. “Mr. Hammond wishes to speak to you in his study. Far safer and more private, I assure you.”

She led him through the entry hall and up the stairs. As she opened the door that led to Mr. Hammond’s apartment at the back of the house, she explained, “Mr. Hammond has taken rooms over the stables. More separate, you understand. More ... respectable.”

“His idea, or yours?”

“His. He was already sleeping there when I arrived.”

“I see. Very proper, our Mr. Hammond.”

She sent him a wry look. “Very private , our Mr. Hammond.”

“Does he not keep horses?”

“No. Nor does he employ a groom. When guests arrive with their own horses, he sends them to the livery stables on Fore Street.”

At the end of the passage, Claire reached the door that led to Mr. Hammond’s private domain. She took a deep breath and knocked. A moment later, Mr. Hammond opened it. Would he send her away?

“Welcome, Mr. Sagar.” He turned to her. “Miss Summers, good. Perhaps you ought to hear this as well.”

He opened the door wider and gestured them both inside.

Surprised but pleased, Claire stepped through.

“My bedchamber and study.” He pointed briefly to each door, then led them into his study and invited them to sit in the two chairs before his desk.

Claire sat down and smoothed her skirt.

Mr. Sagar, however, remained standing as though at attention. “Can you tell me why I am here, sir?”

“I wished to speak with you.”

“Why? We have never met before today, I don’t believe.”

“No, but my wife told me a great deal about you.”

“Your wife?” Again, he sliced a confused look toward Claire and quickly away.

“Your sister. I should say, half sister.”

The man stilled and his entire body stiffened. “What?”

“Vanita. I married Vanita.”

“Little Vani...?”

“She was two and twenty when we married.”

Armaan stepped clumsily forward. “Are you sure we are speaking of the same person?”

“Yes, if your widowed mother married George Aston.”

Feeling blindly for a chair, Armaan slowly sank into it. A moment later he rose again, clearly agitated. “Where is she? Is she here?”

He started toward the door, but William rose and hurried around the desk to stop him.

“Sadly, no. That is the bad news I warned you about. Vanita died more than a year ago, our newborn baby with her.”

Claire’s stomach twisted at this mention of his double loss.

Meanwhile, Armaan stood there, shock and even anger rippling over his face. He huffed. “And the good news?”

“I hoped it was obvious. My daughter, Mira, is Vanita’s child. Your niece.”

For a long moment, Armaan stared intensely at Mr. Hammond, brows drawn low.

“My niece?”

“Yes. You are her last close relative from Vanita’s side, as far as I know.”

“I can’t believe it,” he breathed. Then he asked, “Vanita died ... in childbirth?”

Mr. Hammond flinched, then looked away from the man’s intense gaze. Instead he stared down at the stacks of paper on his desk. “No. The plague took her and the child both, when we were in Constantinople.”

Armaan flopped back down in the chair and laid his head in his hands. “Poor Vani.”

“Yes,” her husband bleakly replied.

Armaan looked up at him. “And poor you, if you loved her.”

“I did. I love our daughter as well.”

Again, Armaan pressed his hands to his forehead. “I saw Mira on the street. I thought she looked familiar. I felt I recognized her. I told myself I was being foolish. It was only my ... aloneness telling me that.”

In silence, Armaan sat there, clearly pondering, then he said, “So when you moved to Sidmouth and learned I was here—an astounding coincidence, you must allow—you decided to inform me of our connection?”

Mr. Hammond came and stood beside him, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. “No, my brother. I came to Sidmouth because you were here. I had been trying to find you for some time. After Vanita died, I finally received word that you had moved to Sidmouth. I brought Mira here in hopes of finding you.”

“Truly?” Armaan looked up at him, mouth ajar.

“Truly. Imagine my disappointment when I went to Westmount only to be told you were not there. The man who answered the door was not keen to confide your plans to a stranger. He would only tell me that you had left but were expected to eventually return.”

Armaan nodded. “I went to stay with the major’s father for a time. I hope it is not rude to say that living with a new-wed couple can make a single man feel quite ... Well, I think we were all ready for a change. Later, I went to London, a city I had long been curious to see. Do not mistake me, I am fond of the major’s family, yet they are not mine. I lost all my family, to distance, at least, if not death. Or so I thought.”

“You were informed of your mother’s death?”

Armaan nodded. “Vanita sent a letter through the company post. I had joined up to the great displeasure of my extended family and former friends. My mother’s marriage to an Englishman had not endeared us to them either. Vanita and I had been outcasts of a sort even before I chose to serve alongside the British. After our mother died, well ... I did not blame Mr. Aston for leaving India and taking his daughter with him.”

“You knew they were leaving the country?”

“Yes, Vanita wrote again to tell me. She asked to see me one last time, to say good-bye in person. To my shame, I waited too long to act.”

William Hammond met his gaze. “Where Vanita is concerned, I know that feeling all too well.”

“Do you? Please. Tell me everything about her—about your life together.”

Mr. Hammond nodded and again looked down as he gathered his thoughts.

“I remember the first time I saw her—a dinner at the embassy, seated with her father. How striking she was with her lovely face, dark hair, and deep brown eyes. She looked beautiful, although not happy.

“The ambassador’s wife introduced us, and Mr. Aston invited me to join them at their table.

“Mr. Aston and I conversed easily, but his daughter remained subdued.

“He explained that she was disappointed. He had been promising to take her to England for years, to see the country where he grew up.”

Mr. Hammond looked at Armaan. “I gather that after you left home and your mother died, Vanita focused all her love and affection on her father. She drank up the stories of his childhood in England. His idyllic boyhood at his parents’ cottage by the sea.

“Yet considering the long voyage from India, Mr. Aston decided to disembark along the way and spend some time on the Continent before going on to England. One of his reasons was to show his daughter more of the world, giving her time to improve her English and learn society ways and manners.

“Personally I thought her English and manners were already excellent and said as much.

“In reply, Mr. Aston invited me to join them for dinner at their hotel the next night, to further our acquaintance. I later attended a concert with them, and a party as well.

“Then Mr. Aston asked to meet with me privately. I assumed he wanted to ask what my intentions were toward his daughter, perhaps to probe into my background and financial situation. When I met with him, he did ask a few questions along those lines. He could see I admired Vanita and encouraged me not to wait to pursue her even though we were not long acquainted.

“That’s when he confided the other reason he’d come to Vienna—to consult with a physician who’d been recommended to him. He’d seen the fellow again that very day and the prognosis was not good. Cancer. He had not long to live and wished to see his daughter well settled before he passed. Your sister traveled with a companion, but still he shuddered to think what might befall two unprotected women left alone in a foreign land.

“I asked if she had no other family. He mentioned you, her half brother, saying you and Vanita had fallen out of contact.”

Armaan nodded. “To my shame.”

“Mr. Aston admitted he had also lost contact with his few remaining relatives in England after so many years abroad. He thought it unlikely any of them would accept Vanita as family. He also feared some distant relatives he barely knew might try to overturn his will in their favor instead of Vanita’s.

“Despite the difficult circumstances and our brief acquaintance, I truly fell in love with your sister and she with me. I was a paid attaché by then, so I could afford to marry. Her father offered a generous marriage settlement—and a provision for you as well, by the way.

“I acquired a license and we married in haste so he could witness our wedding and be assured his daughter would be taken care of. So he could die in peace.

“Vanita was, of course, devastated when he died. I did my best to comfort her. I, too, promised to take her to England one day, but first I had to make something of myself. Succeed in my career. I estimated a few more years was all it would take.”

His lips twisted. “That estimate proved to be overly optimistic.

“I admit I briefly worried that marrying Vanita might hinder my chances of securing a higher appointment. For prejudices exist, even abroad. Yet she won people over with her charm and impeccable manners, her keen sense of humor and beautiful smile....” Mr. Hammond gazed over their heads, eyes soft in memory, a gentle expression on his face.

Claire’s heart burned with longing. Oh, to be so loved.

A moment later his expression sobered. “But I gave her precious little reason to smile in those final months.

“Whenever she asked about England, I put her off. I always had a reason. Mira was born and we could not travel with an infant. Then when Mira was older, an opportunity for advancement proved too tempting to pass up.

“Finally, when Vanita let me know she was expecting our second child, I began making inquiries into situations in England.

“In the meantime, I was appointed secretary of the Ottoman capital in Constantinople. I could not turn down such an opportunity. I assured Vanita that after our second child was born and grew old enough to travel, we would move to England, as I had long promised.

“Instead, she contracted the plague.” He shook his head, lips trembling. “She and the infant died. A son...”

Tears filled Armaan’s eyes. “I am sorry.”

William nodded, eyes bright with unshed tears. Claire’s eyes filled as well.

“So was I. But it was too late. She never made it to the English seaside she’d longed to see.”

Armaan slowly nodded. “So you came here in her stead?”

“Yes. She did not extract such a promise from me. But when I realized how quickly she was failing, I vowed it. Our little girl would be brought up in an English village as her father had been. As Vanita had dreamt about her entire life.

“A few months after the funeral, I received a letter from my contacts detailing your presumed whereabouts. After the quarantine lifted, I resigned my post and began making arrangements to travel here to Sidmouth.”

He ran a weary hand over his face. “I should have been a better husband to her, put her desires before my ambitions. I will not blame you if you despise me.”

Armaan seemed to give this due thought, then said, “I do not despise you. We both disappointed Vanita in our own ways. Perhaps we might help each other make peace with the past.”

When their conversation ended, Mr. Hammond walked with Claire and Armaan back through the passage to the main house.

He asked, “Would you like to see Mira again, now you know?”

“You read my mind, sir.”

“Not sir . William, please.”

“Very well, and you must call me Armaan.”

He nodded. “Come with me, Armaan.”

Mr. Hammond led the way up to the nursery. When they arrived, they found the girl on her own, playing with her dollhouse.

Mr. Hammond said, “Mira, there is someone I would like you to meet.”

As before, Armaan Sagar sank to his haunches to face Mira at her level. This time, however, curiosity had been replaced by something deeper.

“Good day, Mira. Do you know who I am?”

The little girl said softly, “Armaan.”

“And what else?”

Confused, Mira shook her head.

“I am also your uncle. Your amma ’s brother. Your ... mamu .”

“ Mamu. ..” the little girl breathed in reverent reply.

“Yes, bhanji .”

“ Bhanji ?” Mira repeated. “What is that?”

“This means niece . For that, my dear, is what you are to me. And I thank God for that. And for you.”

For a moment the little girl stared, uncertain. She glanced at Claire, then at her father, and at his reassuring nod, Mira tentatively reached out and touched Armaan’s face. “I never had an uncle before. I am glad you are mine.”

Sonali came in then, returning from the water closet or wherever she had been. She stopped abruptly at discovering others in the nursery. Her gaze flicked from Mr. Hammond to Claire, then latched onto the newcomer with guarded interest.

“I only stepped out for a moment.”

“That’s all right,” Mr. Hammond said. “We have just brought Mr. Sagar to see Mira.”

“Why?”

“He is her uncle. Vanita’s half brother.”

The woman’s mouth fell open, and her eyes brightened. “Armaan? Can it be? Vanita spoke of you often.”

“Thank you. I am gratified. I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

Mr. Hammond spoke up. “Forgive me. This is Sonali Patel. Former companion and friend to Vanita, and now nursery-governess to Mira.”

She smiled at him, and Armaan bowed.

“Miss Patel. An honor.”

When he straightened, Claire noticed Armaan survey the woman, eyes warm in obvious admiration. Yes, the woman could be charming when she wished to be. Claire only wished she made the effort more often.

Sonali added, “Of course, you don’t know of me. You had already left to enlist in the company army when I joined the household. Still, I heard all about you. Vanita was most fond of you and missed you terribly.”

“I missed her as well. I regret not staying in contact with her.”

“Yes. You should have.”

Surprise flashed in Armaan’s eyes, and he briefly ducked his head. “You are right. But I am very glad to meet her daughter now. And her friend.”

Mr. Hammond said, “You must visit us often, Armaan. As often as you like. No need to wait for an invitation. For you, the door is always open.”

“Thank you, William. That is most kind.”