She approached a loose box in the corner. Her giant blood bay stallion stood inside, munching a serving of sweetly scented clover hay. He greeted her with a soft nicker, swinging his head over the door. Sticks of hay hung from his mouth.
“Here,” she murmured, taking his muzzle in her hands. She pressed a kiss to his nose. “This is my reason.”
Ahmad came to stand beside her. Before now, he’d only seen her stallion at a distance, in the park when she was riding. The great bay beast had looked formidable enough under saddle. Here, he looked even larger and more powerful. He was easily over sixteen hands in height, with a broad, muscular build, a Roman nose, and an abundant black mane and tail. His liquid brown eyes gleamed with intelligence.
“May I?” Ahmad asked.
“Of course. He’s quite gentle.”
Reaching out, Ahmad ran a hand over the stallion’s glossy neck. It was as solid as velvet-covered marble.
“My father was an adventurer,” Miss Maltravers said. “After my mother’s death, he spent the rest of his days traveling. It was during his time in Southern Spain that he bought Hephaestus. He intended to train him in the Spanish fashion, and then send him home to England to be put out to stud.” She scratched the stallion’s long-whiskered chin. “Instead, my father died in Spain after a prolonged fever. His groom brought Hephaestus back to England with the rest of his effects.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I didn’t know my father half as well as I should, and he didn’t know me at all—save one small detail. He knew I was a rider. On his deathbed, he scrawled a note, leaving Hephaestus to me. ‘For my daughter, Evie,’ it said, ‘God willing she can make something of him.’ ”
Evie.
Ahmad added the affectionate diminutive to the private list of things he’d already learned about Evelyn Maltravers. It was a list that was growing by the minute, each new fact registered and cataloged for him to revisit during his long hours in the workroom, or at night when he lay awake, restless and wanting, in his bed. “You trained him yourself?”
“Not right away. Hephaestus was just a two-year-old at the time. Still a baby. He and I spent the whole of that first year getting acquainted. After that, yes, I did train him, with Lewis’s help. He knows the basics of the haute école from traveling with my father, and assisted me on the ground with long lines. But it was I who broke Hephaestus to the saddle and bridle. I who taught him how to listen to my seat and legs and hands. He’s only ever known one rider. If I were forced to sell him—”
“Your family has suggested it?”
“No. They wouldn’t dream of it. But how selfish would I be not to consider it myself? Saddle horses are expensive, and Hephaestus is more valuable still. Were I a man, I’d do as my father wished and offer Hephaestus at stud. But I’m not a man. I’m an unmarried lady in a house full of other unmarried young ladies. Such a scheme would make us notorious.”
“Have you no other alternative?”
“None. Not when all of my family knows that Hephaestus could be sold for a hefty sum.” She dropped her hand from the stallion’s muzzle. “We haven’t sunk that far yet, thank God. But there will come a time when I’ll no longer be able to justify keeping him. Not with the rest of us sliding rapidly toward ruin. When that day arrives, it will break my heart.”
“Does riding mean so much to you?”
“It’s means everything to me. It’s the only thing I’m truly good at. The only thing I love. I can’t envision my life without him in it.” Moving away from the loose box, she removed her spectacles, giving Ahmad her back. “Perhaps you feel the same about dressmaking.”
Ahmad didn’t know that he did.
He was passionate about his designs, certainly. He felt a sense of fulfillment in his work, and in seeing his creations worn by someone like Miss Maltravers. But he’d learned from a young age that there was very little in a man’s life he couldn’t do without.
“It doesn’t compare,” he said. “The fabric I work with isn’t a living creature. I wouldn’t be heartbroken if it was taken from me.”
She wiped at her face. “But you’d be disappointed to lose an opportunity for your designs, wouldn’t you? It would distress you if your plans all came to nothing?”
He couldn’t tell if she was dashing away tears or merely clearing the stable dust from her eyes. He feared the former.
His chest constricted.
It was all he could do not to go to her. Not to grasp her arms and compel her to face him.
But he didn’t go to her.
He remained where he was, his emotions under ruthless control. “Naturally I’d be disappointed.”
“Which is why my sister’s arrival in town is as much a danger to you as to me.” She settled her spectacles back on her face. “After the Arundell ball, your reputation will be inextricably linked with mine. And if I’m disgraced—”
“You won’t be,” he said. “You’ve done nothing to merit censure.”
She turned back to him. “When has that ever mattered? A woman is easily tainted by association.”
“What do you propose to do about it?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do. I’m not going to sit around, waiting for the roof to come crashing down on my head.” Arms folded, she walked back to the loose box, the hem of her full skirts brushing the hay-strewn floor. “If I could discover them first, I might be able to persuade Fenny to go away from London before she does any further harm.” A notch worked its way between her brows. “But how am I to find her? It seems impossible.”
“It’s not impossible. Not if one knows their way around the city.”
“But I don’t. And I haven’t the means to hire an inquiry agent.”
Ahmad rapidly weighed the various possible outcomes of the situation. None of them would be to the good. Not unless someone intervened on Miss Maltravers’s behalf.
It took him but a moment longer to come to a decision.
“You don’t need to hire anyone to find your sister,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
She gazed up at him in surprise. “You?”
“Why not?” He’d helped locate the missing Earl of Castleton, hadn’t he? And that search had covered a continent thirteen times the size of England. London was nothing in comparison.
She slowly shook her head. “I’m obliged to you for the offer, but . . . I can’t accept it. Not in good conscience. You’re already overwhelmed with making my gowns. I can’t ask you to go haring off after my sister. For one thing, you haven’t the time.”