“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“No more than I am. Had she done her duty, I’d never have been obliged to come to London, or to enact this reckless plan.”
Mr. Malik’s brows lifted a fraction.
Evelyn belatedly registered that she’d said too much.
“What plan?” he asked.
She bit her lower lip, worrying the plump flesh between her teeth. Her plan for the season wasn’t a secret. Not entirely. And even if it was, why shouldn’t she tell him? He was her ally, after a fashion.
“To make my debut in Rotten Row,” she said.
“That’s your plan?”
“Well . . . yes. I can hardly impress people in a ballroom.”
“Even if that were true, which I take leave to doubt . . . young women don’t make their debuts on horseback.”
“Some do.”
“Not ladies.”
“Just because they haven’t done yet doesn’t mean it’s impossible. I’m an excellent rider.”
“You are,” he said.
Her insides pooled with unexpected warmth. He’d acknowledged it so quickly, and with such matter-of-factness. As if there were no argument to be made against her skill. “Yes, well . . . My mother always told me that, in a difficult situation, one must proceed from a position of strength.”
“Wise advice.”
“I’ve always thought so. And when I saw the story in the paper—” She broke off, explaining, “My aunt takes the Times. At the end of last summer, they printed an article about the scarcity of husbands in London. It said that eligible gentlemen were avoiding the ballrooms—and the young ladies on the marriage mart—in favor of the Pretty Horsebreakers.”
“And so, you thought . . . ?”
“I thought of a way I might find a husband.”
“Proceeding from a position of strength.”
“Exactly.”
He picked up the jacket of her habit from the table and returned to her, holding it as she slipped her arms into the overlarge sleeves. “The Pretty Horsebreakers aren’t offering themselves up for marriage. You do realize?”
“Yes, but it’s not only courtesans who frequent Rotten Row. There are many respectable young ladies there who endeavor to ape their style. The papers report on that, too. How none of them measure up. But I can. At least, in so far as my riding. As for the rest, I knew I’d need a little assistance.”
“Which is why you approached me.”
Some of her confidence left her. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. His face was void of expression, his attention focused more on pinning her bodice than it was on her. She wasn’t convinced that he wasn’t privately laughing at her. “Wearing one of your habits, I’m sure to make an impression.”
“Undoubtedly.” He lifted her arm.
She held it out of his way, sucking in her breath as he chalked a dart on the side of her bosom. “Rotten Row isn’t the only place I’ll be making an appearance,” she said in a rush. “I’ve received an invitation to Lady Arundell’s spring ball. That will be my official debut.”
He flashed her an interested look. “The Earl of Arundell’s widow?”
“My uncle counts her as a friend. She’s offered to help introduce me into society.”
“Does she know of your plan?”
“Indeed not. No one does.” Evelyn’s eyes met his. “No one except you.”
Something flickered in the depths of his dark gaze. “I’m honored.”
“You’re necessary.” It was the truth. She hadn’t really believed her plan could succeed until she’d set eyes on his riding habits. “You have a great talent.”
“You flatter me.” He lowered her arm gently back to her side. “What do you think thus far? Is it to your liking?”
“It’s hard to tell at this stage. The color is becoming, of course. Quite remarkably so. As for the rest of it . . .” She studied her reflection in the glass. A glow of warmth built within her.
The unfinished habit had only a vague shape to speak of, all chalk marks and metal pins, with no cuffs on the sleeves or buttons to close the jacket.
It didn’t mar her appreciation.
She could already see the lines of it coming together, the way it seemed to enfold her figure in a lover’s embrace, enhancing the curve of her waist and the swell of her bosom and hips. He was fitting it to her, molding it to her body as expertly as he’d done with the habits of the Pretty Horsebreakers.
Though it wasn’t completely the same.
“The skirt isn’t shaped like the one I saw Miss Walters wearing,” she said. “It seems less full, somehow.”
“It is. This is a different design.” He adjusted the pinned folds of her skirt, smoothing it over her abdomen and hips. “I’ve gored the fabric to lie flatter at the front and the sides. It has the effect of pushing some of the fullness to the back.”
Evelyn pivoted at the waist to get a better view of the fabric behind. “It’s perilously close to a train.”
“Indeed.”
She cast him a questioning glance. “Is that the style now?”
Mr. Malik’s face was set with resolve. “It will be.”
Seven
By the time Ahmad emerged from the workroom at Doyle and Heppenstall’s, it was half past six. Drawing his tall beaver hat down over his brow, he walked to Bond Street, where he hailed a hansom cab. “To Half Moon Street,” he said, climbing in.
The jarvey slapped the reins, and the rangy chestnut trotted off in the direction of Piccadilly. Half Moon Street lay just off the main thoroughfare—an elegant, if not ostentatious, address, tucked away from the ordinary hustle and bustle of Mayfair.
Ahmad sank back onto the poorly padded seat of the cab. The straw on the floor was damp from the rain, and the interior reeked of cheap perfume. In better weather, he’d have walked to Mr. and Mrs. Finchleys’ house. It was less than a mile away from the tailor’s shop. But he’d already lingered too long. First, taking his time with Miss Maltravers, and then, after she’d gone, taking his time with the adjustments to her habit.
She’d left him feeling inspired, just as she had the last several times he’d seen her. He didn’t fully understand it, this strange desire to help her achieve her potential. He was attracted to her; that much was clear. But it was something more than mere attraction. It was a variety of kinship. A mutual recognition that whispered to his soul.