Her gaze jerked to his, and she saw it there, reflected in his eyes. He felt it, too.
His black brows lowered. “It is miss, isn’t it?”
She nodded mutely, heart thumping hard.
He gave her a searching look. And then he released her hand. “Tomorrow at dawn,” he said. “Don’t be late.”
* * *
Ahmad climbed the creaking stairs to the set of bachelor rooms he rented above the tea dealer’s shop in King William Street. Far from the fashionable traffic of Mayfair, it was an undistinguished address in a neighborhood rife with warehouses and commercial enterprise. A place a man could lose himself among the bustling shoppers and the shouts of overzealous hawkers.
His door was located at the end of a narrow corridor. A soft strip of light glowed from beneath it. He heaved a weary sigh. He’d hoped to have a bit of privacy this evening to work on the dress he was making for Viscountess Heatherton.
It was the first of what promised to be many commissions for the season. A chance to see his creations displayed not by the courtesans of Rotten Row but by a high-ranking member of fashionable London society.
“Is that you, Ahmad?” Mira’s faint voice rang out.
“Who else?” Unlocking the door with his key, he entered the sitting room to find his cousin occupied at the round wooden table in the corner. She was hand-stitching a length of point appliqué lace onto the bertha of Lady Heatherton’s unfinished ice-blue muslin evening dress. He scowled at her. “What are you doing here?”
Mira glanced up from her sewing. At four and twenty, she was six years his junior. Like him, her hair was black, but where his eyes were dark, hers were a stunning shade of olive green. A testament to her mixed Pathan and English ancestry.
Her mother, Mumtaz, had been Ahmad’s aunt, an Indian lady residing on the outskirts of Delhi. After the death of his own mother, Mumtaz had taken Ahmad in, treating him as her own. A good, kind woman, she’d succumbed to a sweating sickness in the summer of ’46. On her deathbed, she’d made Mira’s natural father—a British soldier—promise to take Mira back to England with him. Ahmad had accompanied them, vowing to watch over his cousin.
And he had watched over her.
Her father had died of drink not long after they’d arrived in London, leaving Mira alone and penniless on the streets of the East End. Her survival had been completely dependent on Ahmad. He’d done the best he could for her, but he’d been only fifteen, still just a child himself.
Together, he and Mira had experienced some of the worst the metropolis had to offer. But their luck had changed of late, and much of that due to the kindness of Mira’s employers, solicitor Tom Finchley and his wife, Jenny. Mira acted as companion to Mrs. Finchley. Ahmad had worked for the Finchleys, too, until last year, when he’d finally been in a position to strike out on his own.
“Mrs. Finchley had no need of me today,” Mira said. “I was perfectly free to call on you this afternoon.”
“You’ve been here that long?”
“Since five o’clock.”
Of course she had. The fire was lit, coals glowing cheerfully in the hearth. She’d tidied the room as well. Plumped the cushions on the threadbare sofa and straightened his heaps of books and half-finished sketches.
She held up the bodice of the lace-edged evening dress. “I’ve nearly finished this part of the trim.”
Ahmad moved to the table to examine her work. “Very good.”
She gave him a smug smile. “I thought so.”
He chucked her under the chin. Over their long years together, he’d taught her nearly everything he knew about dressmaking.
In the beginning, it had been precious little.
He’d been apprenticed to a tailor in India, not a dressmaker. Working in the Chandni Chowk Bazaar in Delhi, he’d learned how to cut and stitch European-style shirts, coats, and trousers with efficiency and precision. But it wasn’t the garments of British gentlemen that had inspired him. It was the gowns of the British ladies. The elegance of a fitted bodice, and the sensual sweep of a voluminous skirt.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
Mira resumed her needlework. “And why not? Would you prefer spending your evening alone?” Her eyes briefly met his. “You were planning to be alone, weren’t you?”
“None of your business, bahan.” He removed his coat as he crossed the room, tossing it over the back of a chair. He stretched his arms wide. Sewing took a toll on a man’s neck and back. And he’d been sewing too much lately, trying to fit in his orders for evening gowns along with those for riding habits.
It was all part of the plan. A necessary sacrifice that would bring him one step closer to opening his own dress shop.
He stifled a yawn.
“Were you at the tailor’s all day today?” Mira asked.
“Most of it. Doyle had two orders for suits he needed finishing.”
“And you had to complete them, did you?” Her disapproval was evident. “He believes you work for him.”
Ahmad didn’t. Not officially. He and the elderly tailor merely had an informal agreement, one they’d been adhering to since the autumn.
After Heppenstall’s death, Doyle had been reluctant to continue on his own. He’d been equally reluctant to have an Indian for a partner.
With Finchley’s help, a compromise had been made.
Ahmad would work from the shop, lending his skill to gentlemen’s tailoring. In return, Doyle had agreed that, in one year’s time, he would retire, and—in doing so—permit Ahmad to buy out his lease.
Six months had already passed since they’d made their bargain. Which meant that, in six months more, Doyle and Heppenstall’s would he his. Ahmad already had the capital. All that was wanted was the clientele.
“And the rest of the day?” Mira asked.
“I spent the morning in Grosvenor Square, doing a fitting,” he said.
“For Lady Heatherton?” Mira frowned. “I don’t like her.”
“You don’t have to like her.”
Viscountess Heatherton had indicated that she might consider becoming his patroness. She’d already ordered three evening gowns from him to start the season. And once the ladies of the ton saw his work, they’d be clamoring for dresses of their own.
“The way she looks at you,” Mira said. “As if she wants to eat you.”
He grimaced. “The less said about that the better.”
Mira ignored him. “I suppose she asked you to measure her again.”