Evelyn refused to be one of them.
Turning on her heel, she made for the front counter, where she hastily paid for her book, and then, with as much of her remaining dignity as she could muster, promptly fled the shop.
Nine
I can come with you,” Mira offered. She was seated at the table in Ahmad’s rooms above the tea dealer’s shop, a needle and thread poised in her hand. She’d almost finished basting together the pieces of Miss Maltravers’s second riding habit.
“I don’t need you there,” Ahmad said. “I need you here.” He slipped on his coat. “The habit I’m fitting this morning is almost done. It’s these habits that must be completed.”
Mira resumed her sewing. She was a diligent worker, with a neat, even hand. Someone accustomed to stitching for hours. The occupation seemed to lift her spirits, as had the novel he’d given her. She’d been reading it during her breaks—when she deigned to take them.
“And Lady Heatherton’s evening gown?” she asked. “You must deliver it tomorrow.”
“I’ll finish it when I get back.” He pressed a kiss to Mira’s cheek as he passed. “Keep the door locked.”
He bounded down the stairs and out to the busy street below, where he hailed a hansom to take him to Doyle and Heppenstall’s.
Miss Maltravers was due for her final fitting at ten o’clock. He’d have rather seen her in the evening, after the shop was closed. They’d have had more privacy. Something he’d never have imagined he would have wished for with any of his clients.
But time was of the essence.
The truth was, he’d taken on too much. Even with Mira assisting him, it was all he could do to stay on top of his work. To finish his commissions on time—without dropping his standards.
If business continued in this vein, perhaps he could hire another girl? It needn’t wait until he had somewhere to put her. Many seamstresses worked out of their lodgings. He already knew the right one for the job. Becky Rawlins, formerly of Mrs. Pritchard’s establishment, was a dab hand with a needle. He should know. He’d taught her himself.
“You’ve just missed Mr. Fillgrave,” Doyle said when Ahmad arrived at the shop in Conduit Street. “He asked for you expressly.”
“Did he?” Ahmad walked through to the back.
Doyle followed after him into the workroom. Two young men—Mr. Beamish and Mr. Pennyfeather—were busily engaged there, cutting and stitching the components of gentlemen’s suits. “He placed an order for a new frock coat and trousers. He insisted that you be the one to make them.”
Ahmad collected Miss Maltravers’s habit from his worktable. He’d been at the shop until all hours last night finishing the last of the alterations. “How soon does he require it?”
“By next week. Earlier if you can contrive it.” Doyle cast a frowning glance at the habit.
It wasn’t the first time Ahmad had caught him examining his work.
The old tailor often lingered around Ahmad’s worktable, watching him sew with that same look of scowling consideration. Once Ahmad had even discovered Doyle holding up one of his designs to the light of an oil lamp, his rheumy gaze inspecting every stitch and seam.
“I can’t.” Ahmad carried the habit to the fitting room, where he draped it over the table in preparation for Miss Maltravers’s appointment. “I have more commissions than I can handle at the moment.”
Doyle hovered at the door. “What am I to tell him? I’ve already taken the order.”
“Tell him he’ll have to wait,” Ahmad said.
Doyle’s lips thinned. He withdrew back to the workroom, muttering under his breath.
Ahmad paid no attention to him. Doyle wasn’t his employer, no matter how much he might like to think so.
Returning to the showroom, Ahmad spent the next few minutes straightening the bolts of cloth on the shelves, waiting for the clock to strike ten.
Miss Maltravers arrived precisely on the hour, accompanied by her maid.
He felt a flash of disappointment.
Stupid of him.
Of course Miss Maltravers had her maid with her. What had he thought? That it would be just the two of them again, alone together in the fitting room? Not at this time of the day. Not unless they wanted to start a scandal.
“Good morning,” Miss Maltravers said. “You did say ten, didn’t you?”
“I did.” He showed her into the fitting room. “Your habit is just there.”
She went to it immediately, picking up the pieces to examine them. “Shall I change into it?”
“If you please. I’ll return momentarily.” He withdrew back to the workroom, where he paced, restlessly, until a decent amount of time had passed.
Beamish and Pennyfeather eyed him as they worked. Ahmad rarely interacted with them, not trusting them with his commissions. They didn’t trust him, either, seeming to regard him with an equal measure of awe and contempt, never truly certain of his position in the hierarchy of the shop.
Ahmad saw no need to explain it to them. Glancing once more at the clock, he returned to the fitting room. Entering, he found Miss Maltravers standing in front of the cheval glass, staring at her reflection.
She was alone, her spectacles hanging loose in her hand.
His pulse quickened. “What’s happened to your maid?”
“She’s gone to fetch a package from the milliner.” Miss Maltravers continued looking into the glass. She seemed transfixed.
Ahmad couldn’t blame her. He took in the fit and drape of her dark green riding habit in one comprehensive glance.
Pride rose within him.
The habit was as flattering to her figure as he’d intended.
Slightly sprung over her hips, the jacket bodice was made with a blunt point in front and short basque behind, trimmed at the top with gilt buttons. Artfully placed darts lent a fullness to her bust, and the waist was gracefully curved, giving her a pronounced hourglass shape as the jacket gave way to the voluminous swell of her trailing bell-shaped skirts.
When combined with the singular loveliness of her face and the warm vibrance of her thick auburn hair, the finished picture was one of sensual elegance. Of a lady—undoubtedly a lady—but one of beauty, mystery, and bountiful charms.
Miss Maltravers turned faintly to the right to examine herself. A peculiar shimmer glinted in her wide, doe-like gaze.
A jolt of alarm went through him. Good lord, there were tears in her eyes. He moved toward her, only to stop short, uncertain what he should do. “You’re upset.”