She had, actually. And in her boudoir, too. As always, he’d ignored her flirtatious remarks and the familiar way she’d touched him. What choice did he have? At this stage, he needed a patroness. One who would show off his designs to the best effect, and to the best people.
Mira clucked her tongue. “Between her and your soiled doves, it’s no wonder you’re so tired all the time.”
“My soiled doves,” he scoffed.
“Aren’t they? Those creatures who wear your riding habits?”
He loosened his cravat. “What do you know of them?”
“I read the papers. I see what people are saying about that Miss Walters person. They call her ‘Incognita’ or ‘Anonyma,’ but everyone knows who they mean.”
“I expect they do,” he said dryly.
Catherine Walters was the most famous courtesan in England. A skilled equestrienne, she’d taken society by storm, as much on the bridle path as in the ballroom. Her slim figure, enhanced by the dashing riding habits she wore, had made her a sight worth seeing by anyone frequenting Hyde Park. Every day, during the fashionable hour, people gathered along Rotten Row just to watch her pass.
After seeing one of his habits on Mrs. Finchley last season, Miss Walters had approached Ahmad with an order of her own. She’d commissioned one riding habit to start, and then another five upon completion of the first. It had been something of a sartorial coup. The best sort of advertising, considering the crowds she drew. Almost worth the cost he’d expended in time and materials.
Indeed, since Miss Walters had first worn one of his designs, two additional courtesans had ordered their riding habits from him as well. The Pretty Horsebreakers, the newspapers called them. Their style and skill were emulated by women from every strata of society.
“You may set your mind at ease,” he said. “Miss Walters is selling up. She’ll soon be leaving London.”
Mira’s brows lifted. “She’s found a new protector?”
“I believe so. With any luck, he’ll settle her bill before he spirits her away.”
“Don’t say she hasn’t paid you yet?”
“Not for this season’s order.” In truth, Miss Walters had only just settled her bill for last year’s habits. Like most fashionable ladies, she saw no issue with letting her accounts go unpaid for months at a time.
“How much does she owe?” Mira asked.
“A substantial sum.”
“How substantial?”
“One hundred pounds.” Ahmad felt a bit queasy to admit it. It was no small amount, especially to a man in his position. When Miss Walters hadn’t paid, he’d been obliged to dip into his savings to cover expenses. The very money slated to open his dress shop.
“One hundred pounds?” Mira’s face clouded with outrage. She received only thirty pounds a year in her position as a lady’s companion, and that was considered a generous wage. “I knew you shouldn’t have accepted an order from her. She has a reputation for leaving creditors in her wake. I read only yesterday that—”
“Does Mrs. Finchley know about your penchant for reading the scandal sheets?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
He squeezed her shoulder as he walked past her chair on the way to the cabinet where he kept his liquor. “Have you eaten?”
She nodded. “Have you?”
“Not yet.” He withdrew a bottle of brandy and a single glass. “A drink,” he said. “And then I’ll see you into a hackney. I have an early day tomorrow.”
“Lady Heatherton again?”
He shook his head. “A new client, potentially.” Sitting down at the table, he told Mira about the peculiar young woman who had come into Doyle and Heppenstall’s today.
“Another soiled dove?” Mira asked when he’d finished.
“I don’t know,” he said, frowning. “She spoke and acted like a lady, but . . .”
“But?”
“She didn’t have a maid with her. And she didn’t have a carriage waiting. I suspect she must have walked to the shop from the omnibus stop.”
“Was she very beautiful?”
He stared into his glass of brandy. “Possibly.”
It had been difficult to tell. What charms Miss Maltravers possessed—if any—had been well hidden.
Still, he’d caught glimpses of potential.
Her eyes, behind the lenses of her spectacles, had been a velvet-soft hazel, wide and doe-like, framed by impossibly long black lashes. And the hair curling from beneath her dowdy flat-brimmed hat had appeared a lustrous brown, threaded with strands of red and gold that glittered in the gaslight. Auburn hair. A great, thick mass of it, twisted into a singularly unflattering knot at her nape.
As for her figure, it had seemed well proportioned beneath the shroud of her loose-fitting caraco and skirt. She stood at least five and a half feet tall, a respectable height for a lady, with hints of a generous bosom.
All the rest, at this stage, was so much guesswork. He wouldn’t know for certain until he’d seen her with her clothes off.
The prospect sent a rare flush of heat creeping up his neck.
Mira’s eyes twinkled. “You couldn’t tell? You must have thought her pretty enough to have agreed to make a habit for her.”
“I haven’t agreed to anything. I’m merely curious.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “She has possibilities.”
“She’s probably nothing more than one of those ladies who attempt to copy the courtesans’ style.”
Ahmad supposed that she might be. There were enough of them about these days. Even so, thus far, none of those young ladies had yet had the ingenuity to visit Doyle and Heppenstall’s.
Until today.
Miss Maltravers had recognized that his designs were something out of the common way. “Magic,” she’d called them. He’d been ridiculously flattered.
“Or perhaps,” Mira said, “she’s looking to go into business for herself?”
“As a courtesan?” He thought it unlikely. And yet . . .
And yet the mere touch of her gloved hand had sent a startling shock of arousal through him. His breath had jammed up in his chest, and his blood had swiftly heated to a simmer.
He’d wondered, in that moment, what manner of strange creature she was, this frumpy female who had the power to beguile a man as surely as a siren.