Heat rose in her cheeks. “Are you Mr. Doyle’s assistant?”
His eyes met hers. They were as dark as his hair. Black and luminous, like obsidian glass.
Which wasn’t possible, she knew. It must be a trick of the light.
“Something like that,” he said, a wry undercurrent in his tone that was just shy of amusement.
Her embarrassment swiftly gave way to irritation. It was one thing to be insulted and dismissed by Mr. Doyle, but to be laughed at by one of the man’s underlings was something else altogether. She fixed him with her most disapproving glare. “May I say, sir, that the service in this shop is execrable.”
“You have a particular complaint?”
“I have.” She returned to the counter, very much on her dignity. “You may tell your employer that just because a lady wears spectacles, and just because she’s new to London and hasn’t yet availed herself of a dressmaker, does not mean she’s a bluestocking.”
He was silent for a taut moment. “With respect, ma’am, a business has its reputation to consider.”
“And I have mine to establish.” She leaned over the counter. “I am not a bluestocking. I don’t attend intellectual salons or meetings on rational dress. I don’t secretly write novels or newspaper editorials. And I certainly don’t dabble in scientific experiments. I have only two passions in life: horses and fashion. I’m well-equipped to cut a dash with the former, but I need Mr. Doyle’s assistance with the latter.”
“Even if what you say is true, Doyle would still be obliged to refuse you. His female clients exist in a different sphere—”
“He outfits the Pretty Horsebreakers,” Evelyn interrupted. “Yes. I know. That’s precisely why I’ve come to him.”
The man’s gaze became even more intent. “These ‘Pretty Horsebreakers,’ as you call them, are no ordinary women.”
Her chin lifted a notch. “I know what they are.” They were courtesans. Famously beautiful courtesans who were also the most fashionable and accomplished equestriennes to ever canter down Rotten Row. “And I’m determined to outshine them all.”
“You?” He didn’t laugh at her, thank goodness. He merely looked at her in that same assessing way, examining her as if she were some variety of strange creature he’d encountered unexpectedly. “Have you seen Miss Walters and her ilk?”
“Nearly every afternoon since I arrived in London. Their riding skills are good, but not that good. Certainly not as good as my own.” Evelyn squared her shoulders. “Admittedly, they far surpass me in terms of dress. But I mean to remedy that.”
“With Mr. Doyle’s help.”
“With someone’s help. Mr. Doyle isn’t the only tailor in London.”
He regarded her thoughtfully. “Why him?”
She’d have thought the answer was obvious. “Because his riding costumes are beautiful. And because they make the ladies who wear them beautiful, too. It’s a sort of magic, I believe. To create clothing that can do that for a person. That can transform them into something extraordinary.” It was what she wanted for herself. A bit of Mr. Doyle’s magic to set her own fortunes on the right path. “But, as I say, he’s not the only tailor in town. I’m sure I can—”
“Where do you ride?” the man asked abruptly.
She blinked at him from behind the lenses of her spectacles. “I beg your pardon?”
“You claim to be an excellent rider—the very best. Better even than Miss Walters. Where is it that you exhibit your vast skill?”
Her lips compressed. “I wouldn’t characterize it as an exhibition.”
“Where?” he asked again.
“I haven’t yet ridden in London. My horse only arrived this morning. I meant to wait until I had my new habit. That way . . .” She stopped herself, aware of how calculating she must sound.
“You want to make an impression.”
“Something like that.” She tossed his own words back at him.
He didn’t seem to mind. “Tomorrow morning, at sunrise, I’ll be taking the air along Rotten Row. Not many are about at that hour.”
She stared at him. “You wish to see me ride?”
He looked steadily back at her.
And little by little the truth crept up on her. The confidence with which he carried himself. The way he’d looked at her figure so knowingly. And the way he spoke, not in the grating, obsequious manner of a shop assistant or a servant, but in a voice of authority.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Ahmad Malik,” he said. “I’m the habit-maker.”
“You?” Hope surged anew. She took an involuntarily step forward, nearly stumbling over her own half boots. “But I was told that Mr. Doyle—”
“At present, Doyle’s name is more palatable than my own.”
Her brow creased. Malik was an Indian name, wasn’t it? And yet, Mr. Malik didn’t appear Indian. Not entirely. Indeed, he might have been from anywhere—India, Persia, Italy, or Spain. He might even have been of Romany extraction, like the travelers who sometimes passed through her village in Sussex. It was difficult to tell. He had no discernible accent. All one noticed—all she’d noticed—was that he was tall and dark and rather unnervingly handsome.
“But they are your designs?” she asked. “You cut them and sew them yourself?”
He inclined his head.
“And you might consider making one for me? If my horsemanship is up to snuff?”
“I can make no promises.”
For the first time since Evelyn entered the shop, she knew that all would be well. Once he saw her ride—once he clapped eyes on Hephaestus—he would see she was worthy. More than worthy. “Tomorrow, then? At dawn?” She extended her gloved hand. “You won’t be disappointed, Mr. Malik.”
An odd expression passed over his face. As if she’d taken him off his guard. Surprised him in some way—or offended him. “You have the advantage of me.”
Her confidence wavered. “I’m sorry. I—”
“I don’t know your name.”
“Oh, that.” She instantly brightened, stretching her hand out still further. “Evelyn Maltravers.”
“Miss Maltravers.” His hand engulfed hers, large and strong.
And—good heavens. She felt it everywhere. That warm, pulse-pounding contact. It resonated deep within her, the strangest sensation. Something both alarming and exhilarating. As if a jolt passed between them. The spark of something new. Something important.