“I daresay. She always wants to run—and to win. Pity she has a reputation for being so difficult. She might have had a brilliant career.”
“Don’t say you’ve already exhausted the pair of them?” a lady’s voice called out.
It was Anne, riding toward them on Saffron. Julia trotted along next to her, mounted on her large black hunter. Two liveried grooms rode a distance behind them.
“Don’t be absurd,” Stella said. “I could run her all day and she’d still have another gallop in her.”
“I’m sorry we’re late,” Julia said.
Anne made a face. “It was my fault. I was very nearly out the door when my mother waylaid me. She’s been up all hours fretting. Apparently, she overheard Lady Heatherton saying that the annual Arundell ball has lost its luster.”
A breeze ruffled the feathers on Julia’s high-crowned riding hat. “It isn’t true.”
“Certainly not this year,” Anne said. “Mama has spared no expense. She’s even bringing in that fellow who writes the astrological almanac. He’s going to tell fortunes. Mama’s been giddy with anticipation over it. If not for Lady Heatherton—”
“I wouldn’t bother listening to Lady Heatherton on any subject,” Stella said. “She’s a spiteful cat who uses her claws indiscriminately.”
“True,” Anne replied. “But she can be counted on to set the fashion. Her words carry weight, however spiteful.”
“Who is Lady Heatherton?” Evelyn asked.
“The wife of Viscount Heatherton,” Julia said. “She’s very rich and very beautiful.”
“And her husband is very old,” Stella added.
Julia nodded. “Very old.”
“Which is why she’s constantly on the prowl.” Anne adjusted the folds of her riding habit. “We’d all do well to steer clear of her this season. Age hasn’t improved her disposition. If anything, it’s made her more unpleasant.”
Stella made a soft sound of disbelief. “That hardly seems possible.”
“I feel sorry for her,” Julia said.
“I’d as soon feel sorry for a cobra,” Stella retorted.
“I expect she’ll avoid the three of us,” Anne said. “It’s one benefit to having been colossal failures on the marriage mart.” She shot a pointed look at Evelyn. “It’s you she’ll perceive as a threat.”
“Me?” Evelyn echoed in surprise. “Why should she?”
“Lady Heatherton likes to sharpen her teeth on young ladies making their debut,” Stella said. “And you’re something new—something different.”
Anne exchanged a glance with Evelyn. “Stella’s right. Your ride Wednesday afternoon has already stirred people’s interest.”
Excitement flickered in Evelyn’s breast. She knew she’d made a provoking picture as she’d passaged Hephaestus down Rotten Row. She’d seen people’s reactions firsthand. But staring at a lady and being interested enough to actually talk about her were two different things.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“I have eyes,” Anne said. “And not only that, Mr. Fillgrave dined with Mama yesterday evening. It was under the guise of business for the Antiquarian Society, but he made a point of asking me about my ‘fetching equestrienne friend.’ ”
“Mr. Fillgrave.” Evelyn’s excitement dimmed as she recalled the gentleman with the profuse pair of side-whiskers. “The one with the Spanish mares?”
“The very same.” Anne clucked to Saffron, urging him forward. “He’s coming to the ball, you know.”
“Is he the best we’re to expect this season?” Stella asked.
Julia looked horrified at the thought. “I pray he’s not!”
“I don’t know,” Anne said. “Prince Albert’s death has cast a definite pall. I don’t suppose as many people will travel to London this year, and if they do, it won’t be until June or July.”
“So long as they come,” Evelyn said.
Julia guided Cossack up alongside Hephaestus. “Don’t despair. There’s always next season.”
Evelyn’s fingers tightened reflexively on her reins. “Not for me there isn’t.”
Sixteen
Later that day, Evelyn sat atop the wooden horse in the fitting room at Doyle and Heppenstall’s as Mr. Malik pinned the hem of her second riding habit. Made of lustrous black superfine, it was fashioned with a basque bodice that extended down past her waist in the back. In the front, the bodice was cut short, with wide lapels, known as revers, that opened to reveal a stylish vest underneath. The full skirts were gored, the sleeves cut close to her arms, and at her throat, she sported a claret-colored silk necktie.
Evelyn was so taken with the fashionable ensemble she almost didn’t notice Mr. Malik kneeling beneath her skirts.
Almost.
His head was bent as he worked, his black hair gleaming. He was in his shirtsleeves, just as he always was when he was pinning and marking her garments. It lent an intimacy to his actions that she felt to her core.
As if things weren’t intimate enough.
Good lord. The last time she’d seen him she’d told him that she liked him. That she was attracted to him. And he’d said he felt the same.
Everything should be different between them now, shouldn’t it? The two of them alone again in the fitting room, however briefly, while Agnes collected Evelyn’s order from the glovemaker.
“You’ve finished this one quickly,” she said.
“I had help,” Mr. Malik replied without raising his head.
“Oh?”
“I’ve employed two seamstresses to assist me. I expect you’ll meet them eventually.”
“They’re not here now?”
Mr. Malik shook his head. “Doyle refuses to allow women in the workroom.” He inserted another pin to mark her hem. “Until he relents, Mira and Becky will be working out of my lodgings.”
Mira and Becky.
Evelyn wondered if they were young and pretty. If they conversed with Mr. Malik on equal terms. She suspected they did. And now they were at his lodgings, privileged to see a side of him that Evelyn never would. “Do you live nearby?”
“I have rooms above a tea dealer’s shop in King William Street. Pity we can’t do your fittings there. I’ll need an extra pair of hands for your ball gown.”