He took a moment to adjust his cuffs as he stood in the doorway, watching Rickard take evident pleasure in the spread laid out before him: a gleaming sterling coffee pot engraved with flowers, sitting in its brazier, flanked by two matching silver coffee cups and saucers, an island in a sea of pastries. Flaking, honeyed desserts of every sort, fromtulumba tatlisitobasbousa, circled the coffee service, generously stacked and overflowing from their shining brass platters.
“Hell,” Rickard said by way of a greeting, “if you’d mentioned you had real coffee I might’ve visited sooner.”
Yusef said nothing, only sat down across from him. He reached for the looped handle of the tall coffee pot, so muchmore elegant than the squat round teapots that more commonly populated the country’s parlors and drawing rooms. Pouring the dark, thick brew into one cup, he passed it Rickard’s way.
Rickard accepted it gingerly, a reverent look on his face. He paused to hold it just below his chin, taking in a long, deep breath. “Sada, right?” he asked.
“As usual.”
Rickard took a sip, closing his eyes to savor the moment. “Ah, that’s proper coffee, that.” Happiness teased at the man’s mouth, before he opened his eyes and surveyed the spread before him. “Taught yourself to bake?” he asked, one brow raised, before taking another drink.
“No, I actually brought my cook with me. From Smyrna.” Noting Rickard’s confusion, Yusef clarified, “I keep him here. He’s more comfortable amongst the greenery. He didn’t quite get on with London.”
Never one for prolonged pleasantries, Rickard grunted in response. He set his cup down and laced his fingers together, looking pointedly at Yusef. “What’re you about now? Have you divested yourself of…” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “Are you out of the business, then?”
Yusef found his gaze wandering to the table, uninterested in recounting the same sorry topic he’d covered with Marcus Hartley ad nauseam in recent weeks. His focus landed on the diamond-shaped cakes—basbousa, a childhood favorite of his. Semolina cakes drenched in rose-flavored syrup. He leaned forward to select one, examining it before setting it on his plate without taking a bite.
“Practically speaking, yes,” he finally said.
“And now?”
“Now what?” Yusef responded, rubbing his fingers together to remove the residual stickiness.
Rickard scoffed. “You’re going to retire to your fancy country estate? To what, ride? Hunt?”
Yusef arched a brow. Rickard was perhaps the only man outside of his Uncle Ram whom he’d allow such brashness, but even still, the coarse Englishman presumed a bit too much.
“Why yes, I think I shall give it a go. Take an active interest in my estates and holdings, perhaps find some heiress as a wife and get her with child, so as to ensure my line in short order.”
Rickard picked up his cup and narrowed his gaze. “I run the damn boot blacking company too, you’ll remember.”
Yusef sighed, relaxing his posture. “Alas, even were I inclined toward such mercantile pursuits, I’m not aware of any comely heiresses saddled with a profitable family business. Not anymore, that is.”
At the oblique reference to his wife, Rickard’s face hardened. “Call off Collins. You don’t need to watch our bloody residence.”
Yusef eyed the small diamond ofbasbousahe had no intention of eating, all alone on its elegant china plate. “Ah, but it’s not that Ineedto surveil you, it’s that I enjoy the knowing. You of all people should understand that. Better than anyone.” With a forced air of disinterest, he reached for the coffee pot again and poured a cup for himself.
“Fine. You can be bloody godfather or something,” Rickard growled, shaking his head slightly. “Just… lay off. I’m not your employee anymore.”
“Come now, we were partners.”
Rickard huffed, and set his cup down on the table with a clatter. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he muttered to himself before clearing his throat and lacing his fingers together, rubbing one thumb against his palm. “You need to find something to occupy yourself. Now that you’re getting on from the opium trade.” The words came out in a staccato rhythmquite atypical for Rickard, a man of few sentences that usually contained even fewer words.
Torn between wanting to see how Rickard fared as a concerned friend and taking offense at anyone’s interference in his personal matters, Yusef leaned back with a raised eyebrow and slowly crossed his arms. “Oh?”
“Christ,” Rickard swore with a frown. “My wife thinks you’re bored. Hence the…” He paused to sigh, then leaned forward for his coffee again, a little more relaxed now that he’d confessed the true author of his concerned speech. “The spying.”
For some reason that little exposition irritated him. Yusef should be glad of it, that the only man in England he considered a friend and ally had found domestic happiness and a worthy helpmeet. But instead, he found his good mood curdling under the acid sting of envy. Another unwelcome emotion.
“Does she? Well, I’m glad Mrs. Rickard has not taken any offense by it, for none is meant.”
Rickard barked a laugh. “Oh, no. She had some choice words for you.”
Yusef knew he should at least attempt a condescending smile, but he found it impossible.
“You’re awfully quiet today,” Howard murmured from behind his easel, positioned to the left of hers.
“Am I?” Rose said airily. She’d been hauling her thoughts all about London with her and, quite frankly, it was exhausting. Memories of Joseph, from back in their youth, invaded her dreams. Every night she woke at three in the morning, her heart pounding and with an ache between her legs that would not dissipate until she hitched up her shift and slid a hand down to pet herself. She’d bite her lip when release came, not wanting to breathe his name in the dark, superstitious of what might comeof that. And then she’d lie there, wide awake, hating herself for wanting him. How could she explain such things to Howard?
