“Why, this is rather pretty.” She preened herself in front of the glass. “I look quite youthful, don’t I? And yet it exposes far more of my bosom than my last evening dress.”
“It’s the coming fashion.”
“You’ll hear no objection from me on that score. Though it could do with more in the way of trimmings. There isn’t a flounce or frill, nor a single ribbon bow. Nothing like the gowns my friends have ordered for the season.”
“Lavish trimmings are popular at the moment,” he conceded.
No thanks to Charles Worth.
The famed dressmaker’s luxurious Parisian gowns, sold at his fashionable salon in the Rue de la Paix, were adorned with acres of expensive lace, glass beads, and silk bows and fringe. It was what Worth was known for. Garments as costly as they were coveted. His designs were copied by modistes from London to New York.
“But excess ruffles and ribbons don’t flatter everyone.” Ahmad straightened the finely sewn seams of her bodice. “This gown does far more to emphasize your figure than an evening dress weighted down with tinsel.”
“Hmm. Perhaps it does. Though I wonder if it would be as flattering on an ugly lady? I imagine not. You see”—she turned to the right, gazing at herself over her shoulder—“it’s my own beauty that draws the eye.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” he said.
Lady Heatherton was an acknowledged beauty. More than that, she was regularly written about in the society pages.
A fact that Ahmad hoped would accrue to his benefit.
If she wore a new design to a ball or soiree, fashionable ladies would pay attention. Many of them would be quick to follow her lead.
“Of course I’m right.” Glancing down at her skirts, a frown of disapproval etched her brow. “I shall trip on these.”
“I’ve yet to hem them.” He gestured toward the upholstered stool on which she usually stood when he made alterations. “If you please, my lady.”
“Yes, but do be quick about it. I have engagements this afternoon and can’t be troubled to stand about all morning.” She extended an imperious hand.
Taking it, he assisted her up onto the stool.
And he felt nothing.
Nothing, save a deep desire to get on with things.
It wasn’t anything like what he’d experienced when he’d clasped Miss Maltravers’s hand. There was no warmth. No crackle of electricity. No quickening heartbeat or swiftly skipping pulse.
He was entirely unaffected.
Strange to think of it. Out of all the women he’d known—all the riding habits and dresses he’d made for courtesans and for the working girls at Mrs. Pritchard’s establishment—it was a bluestocking who had finally moved him. A bespectacled bluestocking from Sussex, of all places.
But no. Not a bluestocking.
An equestrienne.
Smiling to himself, Ahmad knelt to pin Lady Heatherton’s hem.
Five
Evelyn drew off her gloves as she entered the hall of her uncle’s town house in Russell Square. Agnes and one of the footmen trailed behind her, arms filled with boxes—the result of a morning shopping excursion in Bond Street.
“You may take them to my room,” Evelyn said.
“Yes, miss.” Agnes hurried the footman up the stairs. “Careful with those! Miss Maltravers don’t want your grubby mitts crushing her linens.”
Evelyn sighed. She’d spent all of yesterday visiting the names on the list Mr. Malik had given her. First the modiste, where she’d ordered a small selection of day dresses and afternoon gowns, and then the corsetiere, where she’d purchased two new corsets and a pair of short-boned riding stays.
This morning had been the draper’s shop for gloves, parasols, and stockings, followed by the milliner, and—finally—the hairdresser.
Drawing out the long hatpin that secured it, she carefully removed her new leghorn hat and placed it on the hall table. A gilt-edged looking glass hung above it. She surveyed her reflection.
Like Mr. Malik, Monsieur Phillipe had been all business. The mustachioed little Frenchman had examined her this way and that, turning her head to all angles. And then, at last, he’d cut, wielding his scissors with all the decisiveness of a master.
Her hair was still long, falling well past her shoulder blades, but it was no longer an unruly mass of bushy curls. Now what curls she had appeared soft and glossy, gently framing her face in a flattering style.
And such a style!
He’d rolled her hair at the sides and wrapped it up at the back over a cushion to make a large roll at her nape. The whole of it was gleaming and thick, secured with an invisible hairnet and more than a dozen metal hairpins, and then lightly misted into place with a clear, liquid gum solution called bandoline.
Agnes had watched the process with keen attention, knowing she’d be required to replicate the coiffure in the days to come.
Evelyn smoothed back a stray curl with her hand. She still couldn’t quite take it in. When paired with one of her new dresses from Madame Lorraine, she was beginning to feel like quite another person.
“Miss Maltravers.”
Evelyn turned from the glass to find her uncle’s housekeeper descending the stairs.
Mrs. Quick was an older woman of keen efficiency, as thin and sharp as a whittled branch. She wore a spotless starched cap over her iron-gray hair. “It’s half past one.”
“Is it?” Evelyn glanced at the long walnut-case clock that stood in the hall.
“Mr. Fielding informed me you would be receiving from one to three.”
“Eventually. Once I’ve been introduced to people.” In the meanwhile, Evelyn hadn’t thought it necessary to make herself available for receiving hours, certainly not on a Saturday. “Why? Did someone call?”
“Lady Arundell and her daughter have come.”
Evelyn stilled. “To see me?”
“And Mr. Fielding. Though at the moment, he’s nowhere to be found.”
“He’s not in his study?”
“He’s not in the house.”
“Perhaps he’s gone to the museum?” Evelyn suggested. He sometimes did. The British Museum was practically next door. An easy walking distance if he had a bit of research to do.
“He might have done.” Mrs. Quick didn’t appear overly concerned. No doubt she was accustomed to Uncle Harris’s strange behavior. “I’ve put your guests in the drawing room and brought in the tea tray. If you’d care to join them?”