Chapter 2
Pen’s heart hammered as her pace slowed. What on earth had just happened? Why were her cheeks still burning? She placed her hands on them and willed her heart to stop thudding. But goodness me! That had been one of the most gorgeous men she’d ever encountered in her entire life. Except for Marcus, of course. But Marcus had never dressed as that dandy did, in tightly tailored coats with padded shoulders and a golden walking stick. He’d certainly been a prime one. So handsome and athletic. He’d also smelled nice. Clean and masculine. Of lemon and something else—
“Stop it, Pen,” she growled, quenching the feeling of grudging admiration.
The man who came toward her looked wary and made a big circle around her.
Pen sighed. She looked, no doubt, like a veritable country oaf. Not only was she dressed oddly, but now she also talked to herself.
When she’d instructed Sally to procure some men’s clothes, cast-offs of Sally’s own brother, she’d forgotten about fashion. Her encounter with the Corinthian had made her aware that she was not dressed appropriately for this fashionable city. Not only were the trousers a tad too short, but the cut of the coat was beyond anything she’d seen here. Her hat was an abomination.
And she desperately needed a bath.
Suddenly, the whiff of chilli, cayenne pepper, and turmeric wafted through her nose. It hit her; a feeling of homesickness so strong she almost felt nauseous. Pen stopped in her tracks and closed her eyes as she deeply inhaled the scent.
Of Biryani Masala, to be exact. It came from beyond that corner. Pen’s stomach growled loudly.
Following her nose, Pen stopped in front of an Indian-looking place, delight flushing through her.
“The Hindoostanee Coffee Shop. Of course! The gods are good after all.”
Pen liked this place.Marcus had taken her here once, possibly twice, shortly after it opened. It still looked the same, even though Mr Sake Dean Mahomet, the original owner, was long gone. The colonial-style chairs and sofas were made of bamboo cane. Round pillows were arranged on the floor on a carpet around hookah pipes, and a tiger skin hung on the wall. Indian, Chinese, and Arabian ornaments and images decorated the rooms. The entire place was an orientalist vision, to cater to the fantasies of British colonialists. At the moment, Pen did not care. She needed food.
Pen ordered a gigantic portion of curry with basmati rice and shovelled everything into her mouth. ‘Pon her soul. It was good!
She was sitting at a little corner table, and for the first time she’d stepped into the city, highly satisfied. Curry hadn’t been on the menu at the school in Bath. It had been rather unimaginative, the food there. Not bad, but, well, bland. Pen and her friends used to buy sweets and biscuits with their pocket money and have midnight picnics… how long ago that seemed.
“But this is fantastic,” a voice intruded into her memories. “Who would’ve known this place existed? An orgiastic vision of the Orient. How utterly magnificent. Yes, do bring me some food. This one. No. Wait. That one. No. A sample of everything, maybe? What is this house’s specialty? I really have to try the hookah.”
Pen wrinkled her forehead in annoyance. There was something oddly familiar about the drawl. She turned around to look and ducked immediately.
Zounds. It was the dandy she’d nearly killed on the street.
She hoped he didn’t see her. She could leave some coins on the table to pay for her food and creep out the other way. Dropping to her knees, she started to crawl.
“Well. What have we here?” the amused voice said above her. “My nemesis. We meet again. On the ground once more?”
She saw the bottom part of a very exquisite walking stick. Beyond that, an impeccably polished pair of leather shoes and a pair of athletic legs in strapped trousers.
Pen scrambled up with flaming cheeks. “I was picking up something. Did you follow me?”
“My dear fellow. Now why would I do that? I was hungry and looking for a place to eat. This looks prime.”
It all came too glibly over his lips. What would someone like him be doing in a place like this? Pen was sure he’d been following her. But why?
“I may join you, yes?” Without waiting for her reply, he pulled out a chair and sat down. He eyed her plate with interest.
“But I’ve just eaten, and I am about to leave.” She hadn’t finished her food, however, and she still felt hungry.
“Then have dessert. Bring something—” he turned to the waiter, who’d appeared, “typically Indian for our friend here.”
“The Gajrela, sir, is exquisite,” the waiter said.
“Excellent. Bring a dish of that.”
Turning to Pen, he said, “I am to travel to India in several months’ time. It is good practice to acclimatise the palate to that country’s food. What would you recommend?”
“What do I recommend?” Pen echoed.
