Ahmad liked to think so. But there were no guarantees. Not when his initial outlay wasn’t recouped until after an order was filled. Even then, among the upper classes, it was often the custom to delay payment for months at a time. Indeed, many fashionable members of society lived off credit, maintaining a lavish lifestyle even as the tradesmen they owed went bankrupt.
“It’s early stages,” he said. “But yes. So long as nothing goes wrong.”
Mira pursed her lips. “Viscountess Heatherton hasn’t paid him.”
“I haven’t delivered her gowns yet,” Ahmad said. “Orders aren’t paid in advance.”
“And what of Miss Walters?” Mira asked. “Is her bill still outstanding?”
He privately cursed himself for having shared that bit of information with his cousin. “That’s not what I came here to discuss,” he said with growing impatience. “The fact is, I have orders—ample orders—and once Lady Heatherton wears one of my designs, I expect there’ll be more. In the meanwhile, I need assistance to finish her gowns—and the habits commissioned by Miss Maltravers.”
Mira gave him a puzzled look. “I thought she’d only ordered the one?”
“Today she ordered two more.” He’d all but encouraged her. If Miss Maltravers planned to cut a dash in Rotten Row, she’d require more than the one habit to do so.
“I intend to ride daily,” she’d told him. “It’s why I came here.”
To find a husband. A well-to-do husband. One of the droves of men who frequented Hyde Park, in fact. The ones who came to ogle the Pretty Horsebreakers.
Ahmad felt vaguely irritated to think of it.
Foolish of him.
The whole point of the habit he’d designed for Miss Maltravers was to make her an object of beauty, every stitch and seam placed to draw attention to her charms. It was why she’d sought him out.
Finchley regarded Ahmad with interest. “Who is Miss Maltravers?”
Ahmad had seen that look before. The one that said Finchley was inferring meaning where none existed. “A young lady from Sussex. She’s here for the season, making her debut.”
“She wants a riding habit like the one Ahmad made for Miss Walters,” Mira said.
“Not quite the same.” Ahmad crumpled his linen napkin next to his plate. “The point is, I don’t wish her to wait any longer than necessary. Which is why I need Mira. If you can spare her?”
“Certainly,” Mrs. Finchley answered. “If it’s what she wishes.”
“I do wish it.” Mira leaned forward in her chair. “When shall I start?”
“Tomorrow if you can,” Ahmad said. “I only require the week.”
“Is that all?” Mira’s eager expression vanished.
Finchley exchanged a glance with his wife. An unspoken communication seemed to pass between them. The two of them stood, practically in unison.
“Now that we have that settled,” Mrs. Finchley said, taking her husband’s arm, “we’ll give you a bit of privacy.”
“You may use my book room if you’d prefer,” Mr. Finchley offered. “And please, do make free with the port.”
Ahmad rose as the Finchleys exited the dining room. The door swung shut behind them, leaving him alone with Mira. She was oddly quiet. “Would you like a glass?” he asked her.
“Of port?”
“Why not?” He retrieved the decanter and two glasses from the mahogany sideboard. As a rule, ladies didn’t drink port. It was a masculine libation, enjoyed after dinner, when gentlemen lingered at the table to talk among themselves, free from the constraints of female company.
“Because it’s vile,” she said.
“You’ve never tried it.” Ahmad poured out their drinks. It was an old vintage by the look of it. The tawny liquid gleamed in the light of the crystal gasolier that hung overhead. He passed a glass to Mira. It was little more than a mouthful. “Here. Have a taste. It might make it easier.”
Mira raised the glass to her nose and gave it a wary sniff. “Make what easier?”
“Whatever it is you have to say to me.”
Her gaze snapped to his. Her green eyes were watchful, her mouth tugged into a sad little frown.
“I know you, bahan,” he said.
Even if he didn’t, the Finchleys couldn’t have been more obvious. Their sudden withdrawal. Their eagerness to give Ahmad and Mira privacy. It wasn’t exactly subtle.
He sat down next to her. “What’s wrong?”
Mira stared at her drink. Taking a small sip, she grimaced, choked, and blurted out: “I’m missing you.”
It wasn’t what Ahmad had been expecting to hear. Not put quite so bluntly, and with so much rawness lurking beneath her words. A knot formed in his stomach. He couldn’t think how to respond.
He supposed he knew that she missed him. It was why she was forever showing up at his rooms in what, he suspected, was a vain effort to re-create the closeness they’d shared at Mrs. Pritchard’s. Then, it had been just the two of them in the same attic bedroom, their twin cots separated by a tattered Chinese screen.
Far from ideal.
Given a choice, he’d rather have found work somewhere respectable. Somewhere safe. Unfortunately, there had been no other option. Not if he and Mira were to stay together.
“Keep her out of sight during working hours,” Mrs. Pritchard had commanded him on the day he and Mira had arrived. “I don’t want any of the gents getting any ideas.” She’d ushered them up the rickety stairs to their room. “And I’ll hear none of that gibberish you people like to talk. It puts the customers off. You’ll speak English here or you’ll keep your mouths shut.”
Ahmad had been but fifteen, and Mira little more than eight. She’d clutched weakly at his shabby wool coat, hiding her face against his sleeve. He remembered how he’d put a protective arm around her narrow shoulders.
That wasn’t all he remembered.
There was the smell of the place, dank and sour with sweat and sex. And there was the sensation of Mrs. Pritchard running her fingers through his hair as he passed through the door.
Just as Lady Heatherton had.
“We’ve always been together,” Mira said. “From the time we came to England. The same house, the same room. You were my whole world. And now you’re gone—”
“I’m not gone,” he said. “King William Street is only three miles from here.”