Evelyn’s gaze skimmed over the page as she took it. A third address was written beneath the first two. She looked up, meeting Mr. Malik’s eyes. “Who is Monsieur Phillipe?”
“A hairdresser.”
She fell silent. Insecurity bubbled within her. Was there nothing about her that was good enough as it was? But no. She wouldn’t permit herself to be offended. She’d promised to put herself in his hands. Entirely in his hands. “I see.” She folded the slip of paper and passed it to Agnes. “Is that all?”
“For the moment.” He withdrew to the door, taking the bolt of dark green fabric along with him. “You may get dressed.”
No sooner had he departed the fitting room than Agnes rushed to assist Evelyn down from the platform. “The cheek of the man,” she said under her breath. “Alone in here with you, and with no girl to assist him. Who does he think he is? Why, he’s not even English!”
Evelyn frowned. “What on earth does that signify?”
Agnes fetched Evelyn’s folded bodice, skirts, and underpinnings from the chair in the corner. “You never know what those like him are up to, do you? And you in your knickers!”
“Really, Agnes.” Evelyn flashed the maid a speaking glance as she stepped into her petticoats and crinoline. “Mr. Malik is accustomed to seeing ladies in their underclothes. He’s a habit-maker, for heaven’s sake.”
“An Indian habit-maker,” Agnes muttered, helping Evelyn into her skirts. “It’s as I say, miss. Men like him—there’s no telling what liberties he might have taken.”
“Nonsense. He was a perfect gentleman.” Evelyn knotted the ties of her skirts at her waist. “And you can’t have been too concerned, else you wouldn’t have lingered so long visiting your friend.”
Agnes flushed. “You won’t be mentioning that to Mrs. Quick, will you?”
“Of course not.” Evelyn slipped her arms into the sleeves of her bodice. “I only mean to say that your instincts were right. Mr. Malik took no liberties. He was far more concerned with measurements and fabrics than he was with my poor self.”
Agnes snorted. “That’s not what I saw.” She fastened the hooks that closed the front of Evelyn’s bodice. “You should’ve seen how he stared at you when you weren’t looking.”
Evelyn’s cheeks warmed. “Rubbish.” Mr. Malik had no more interest in her than any other talented habit-maker would have in his client. “He’s a visionary, that’s all. He’s determined that I look my best in the riding costume he designs.”
Another snort.
“He is,” Evelyn said firmly. “It’s his reputation, too. And if he sees fit to recommend a new corset, and a particular modiste and hairdresser, I intend to heed his advice.”
* * *
Ahmad followed Viscountess Heatherton’s sour-faced lady’s maid up the servants’ stairs of her ladyship’s town house in Grosvenor Square. He was never permitted to enter the residence by the front door. He came in through the kitchens, where he waited until he was summoned, all the while subjected to the suspicious glances of the scullery maid, cook, and every passing maid and footman.
It was only upon entering Lady Heatherton’s lavishly appointed boudoir on the third floor that he began to be treated as something more than a common tradesman.
“Mr. Malik. At last.” Mildred Lacey, Viscountess Heatherton, was a blond sylph of a lady, on the shady side of thirty, with a penchant for tight-lacing that made a bounty of her modest charms. She greeted him with a feline smile, clad in nothing more than a pale pink peignoir worn over her lace-trimmed chemise, French corset, and stockings. The sheer, gossamer fabric clung to her slender curves. “That will be all, Crebbs.”
“Yes, my lady.” Crebbs was an older woman, wiry and shrewd, with graying hair and a mouth bracketed by deep lines. She departed with a curtsy, shooting a warning glare in Ahmad’s direction before she shut the door behind her.
Ahmad didn’t know if Crebbs held him in such suspicion because of his sex, his class, or his race. All three, probably. A damning combination, as far as some were concerned.
But not Lady Heatherton.
To her jaded palate, the mixture was as potent as an exotic liqueur.
She approached him with that same lazily seductive smile. Her attention was riveted on his face. She showed no interest in the large white dress box in his arms. “As you see, I’m ready for you.”
Ahmad set the box down on the gilded rose-silk settee, ignoring Lady Heatherton’s advances. She was the kind of woman who relished flirtation. A product of her class, he supposed. Romantic entanglements were a game to ladies of the ton.
“The question is,” Lady Heatherton continued, “are you ready for me?”
As she drew closer, he couldn’t help but contrast her calculated manner with the frank openness of Evelyn Maltravers.
Lady Heatherton didn’t fare well in the comparison.
Miss Maltravers bested her in every regard save one: Lady Heatherton was no untried country debutante. She was a lady who set the fashion. A lady whose wealth and patronage were necessary in order for Ahmad’s own reputation to flourish.
One day, he’d have his own shop, staffed by a dozen seamstresses. Then, he’d have the luxury of making dresses for any lady who inspired him.
Ladies like Miss Maltravers.
Until then, he must choose his commissions with care.
Evening dresses and ball gowns were both time-consuming and expensive to make. And he had little time or money to spare at present. His hours were already stretched thin with his tailoring commitments—making riding habits and the occasional gentleman’s suit. What time he had left could be spent on only one lady’s gowns. The one best poised to help him achieve his goal.
That he didn’t like her very much mattered not a whit.
“Your gown isn’t quite finished yet,” he said. “But all of the alterations from your last fitting have been made.” He drew the dress from the box, holding it up so that the full ice-blue skirts swept the richly carpeted floor.
She ruffled the fabric with her fingers, temporarily diverted. “How plain it is.”
Ahmad repressed a surge of annoyance. The evening gown wasn’t plain. The delicate muslin was cut and sewn to fit the viscountess like a glove, every piece of costly lace positioned with calculated intention. “You must try it on to appreciate it.”
“If you insist.” She gave a delicate shrug, sending her peignoir slipping off her shoulders to slide down her arms. It dropped to the floor in a frothy puddle around her stockinged feet. “How many petticoats did you say it would require? And what sort of crinoline? You must help me into them, sir, since I have dismissed my maid.”