“Your prospects?” His fair brows elevated nearly to his hairline. “Is that why you’re here? Making a spectacle of yourself riding in the park?”
“I’m here for the season. What I do during that time is no business of yours, sir.”
“Quite so. But if you’d like my advice—”
“I would not.” Evelyn walked to the tasseled bellpull that hung near the fireplace and gave it a firm tug. “Now, unless you have any more intelligence to pass on, I will bid you good day.”
Stephen glowered. He never could stomach being refused the last word. His mouth opened to say something, only to shut again at the prompt arrival of Mrs. Quick.
“Mr. Connaught is leaving,” Evelyn informed the housekeeper.
“Very good, miss.” Mrs. Quick gestured to the door. “This way, sir, if you please.”
“Miss Maltravers.” Stephen bowed stiffly. “If you chance to hear from your sister, you may send a message to me at Brown’s Hotel.”
Evelyn watched him leave, her outrage only increasing as he disappeared from view.
How dare he come here and spoil her plans!
He’d been happy enough to ignore her for three years—to pretend she didn’t exist. What on earth did he mean by turning up now? Telling her that Fenny was here in London, of all places.
Evelyn didn’t know what to do with this information.
The only thing she knew with any degree of certainty was that she must write to Aunt Nora immediately. She’d have to tell Uncle Harris, too. And even Lady Arundell. The last thing any of them wanted was Fenny springing up from out of nowhere and damaging Evelyn’s prospects beyond all hope of recovery.
With that in mind, she descended the stairs, making her way toward Uncle Harris’s study.
Her thoughts were in turmoil. As she passed the morning room, she almost didn’t notice the man inside. She might have walked right by if he hadn’t stepped into the doorway to hail her.
“Miss Maltravers?”
Her footsteps were arrested by the familiar deep voice. “Mr. Malik!” The sunlight from the morning room’s windows shone at his back, temporarily dazzling her. “You and your cousin haven’t been waiting for me?”
“I sent Mira back to King William Street with your ball gown.”
Her brows knit. “But you’re still here.” She searched his face. With his broad shoulders spanning the door frame, Ahmad Malik was all at once more imposing—altogether more formidable—than any other gentleman of her acquaintance.
The effect he had on her was equally powerful.
Her temperature rose and her insides trembled.
Good gracious, only a short time ago she’d been holding her breath while he pinned gauze trimming to the low neckline of her bodice. Suppressing hot blushes every time his fingers brushed the swell of her bosom. If not for the brisk efficiency with which he worked—the stoic professionalism that allowed him to handle her without giving offense—she might very well have burst into flames.
No doubt she shouldn’t think of such things outside of her fittings. But looking at him now, it was impossible not to.
“I was concerned about you,” he said.
“You shouldn’t have been.”
“You nearly fainted.”
She folded her arms, feeling a trifle defensive. “I told you, I was light-headed, that’s all.”
“From not eating.”
“That’s right.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. Lady Arundell’s ball was tomorrow evening and nerves were just beginning to set in. Evelyn’s stomach had been in knots all morning. She’d scarcely had anything at breakfast. “I’ve been so busy—”
“Who is Stephen Connaught?” he asked.
Her gaze jerked to his.
It was an impertinent question. One a tradesman had no business asking a lady customer.
But Mr. Malik was no longer strictly her habit-maker, nor even her dressmaker. He was her partner.
That had been their agreement, hadn’t it?
If her reputation was at risk, then his was, too. He had a right to an explanation.
“He’s someone from my village,” she said. “It’s rather complicated.”
A smile curved Mr. Malik’s mouth. There was no trace of humor in it. “Isn’t everything?”
“Yes. Quite.” She fell silent for a moment. “Do you truly want to know? I warn you, it’s a long, unhappy story. And worse.”
His brows lifted.
“There’s a romance at the heart of it,” she said.
Something flickered in his gaze. An emotion that was difficult to read. “Your romance?”
“No. Not mine.” She and Stephen had never had a romance. She realized that now. “Would you like to accompany me for a walk in the garden? We can speak freely there. Though I daresay you haven’t the time—or the inclination. I wouldn’t blame you on either account.”
“On the contrary,” he said. “I’m completely at your service.”
* * *
Ahmad waited while Miss Maltravers dashed back upstairs to fetch her shawl. Upon returning, she led him into the back garden.
Accessed through a set of doors at the rear of the house, it was a thoroughly ramshackle scrap of acreage, in desperate need of a proper gardener. Trees grew at odd angles, and roses and shrubbery ran wild, encroaching over the path and hanging from the garden gates that opened out to the mews.
It was private, Ahmad allowed that much. And that was all that mattered to him.
Hands clasped at his back, he strolled along the uneven garden path at Evelyn Maltravers’s side as she relayed to him the origins of her sister’s disgrace.
“Near to my family’s cottage in Combe Regis is a great estate called Babbington Heath. It’s the property of Sir William Connaught—a baronet. His two sons, Anthony and Stephen, are practically the same age as my sister Fenny and myself. We all but grew up together.”
“You were childhood friends?”
They walked beneath an arch of branches. Sunlight shone through the leaves to dapple Miss Maltravers’s face.
“More than that,” she said. “From an early age, Anthony and Fenny behaved as sweethearts. Nothing could come of it. Anthony was just a lad. But as the years passed, he continued to exhibit a preference for my sister. A boyhood fancy, my aunt Nora called it. She didn’t believe it anything serious. Certainly nothing to prevent Fenny from making her come-out in London.”