“You’ll do it, then?” he asked.
“Of course,” Finchley said. “But one thing puzzles me.”
Ahmad regarded his former employer from across the desk. He knew that look, and he didn’t like it. “Which is?”
“You told me that Miss Maltravers was just a young lady from Sussex. A customer who commissioned riding habits from you in the style you made for Catherine Walters.”
“She is.”
“And that’s all?”
Ahmad didn’t reply.
“She clearly means more to you than that,” Finchley said. “If you’re exerting yourself on her behalf—”
“Exerting myself. Is that what I’m doing? This from the man who followed the lady he cared for across France and Egypt, by ships, trains, and dak cart, all the way to the farthest reaches of India?”
A smile glimmered in Finchley’s eyes. “It’s like that, is it?”
Ahmad wished he could deny it. But he couldn’t. Not if he was honest with Finchley—and with himself. “Yes,” he admitted. “I suppose it is.”
* * *
Evelyn stood staring into the shining surface of the full-length pier glass in her bedroom. Her reflection shone back at her in its entirety, from the top of her gracefully rolled coiffure to the toes of her silk dancing slippers.
It was the first time she’d seen herself dressed in all of her evening finery. The first time she’d fully appreciated the splendor of Ahmad’s design.
She’d spent most of the day in the clutches of a relentless anxiety, imagining the many things that could go wrong tonight.
Foolish, really.
It was only a ball, not the Battle of Waterloo. She’d consoled herself that, though it was the first she’d been invited to, it wouldn’t be the last.
Not unless she made a complete fool of herself.
The prospect seemed less likely now.
With its daring bodice, voluminous silk skirts, and overlay of sparkling embroidered gauze, the ball gown Ahmad had made for her was lovelier than any garment Evelyn had ever seen. More than any she’d ever been privileged to wear, certainly.
But it wasn’t only how it looked that made her catch her breath. It was how she felt when wearing it. As if her body wasn’t something to be squeezed, pinched, and pushed into a desirable shape, but something desirable in and of itself.
She felt beautiful. Powerful. Just as she did when she was cantering down Rotten Row in one of Ahmad’s riding habits.
“How does he do it?” she wondered aloud.
“Don’t rightly know, miss.” Becky Rawlins adjusted the ball gown’s silk belt at Evelyn’s waist. She was a young woman with a world-weary quality that lent a hardness to her features. Her open thread case sat on the end of the bed behind her, alongside the now empty dress box. “Mr. Malik’s got a rare gift.”
“He has at that.” Evelyn lifted a hand to smooth her hair. The rolls at the sides of her face were drawn back to culminate in an even larger roll at her nape. Agnes had secured it with jeweled combs, metal hairpins, and half an atomizerful of bandoline. “And you and Mira, too. You both helped.”
“Aye. Mira’s got talent. But me—” Becky made a scoffing noise. “I’m just an ordinary needlewoman. I wouldn’t know how to do more than plain mending if Mr. Malik hadn’t taught me.”
Evelyn gave her a curious look. “He taught you how to sew dresses?”
“He did.” Becky busied herself arranging the ball gown’s upper skirt. She didn’t appear disposed to chatter.
Her reluctance only piqued Evelyn’s interest. “Have you known him long?”
“Since I first came to London. We worked at the same establishment for a time. He were always good to me.”
Evelyn waited for her to elaborate, but Becky didn’t volunteer anything more. Evelyn suspected she knew why. There was only one establishment where Ahmad had mentioned working. A house of ill repute, he’d said. A brothel.
Was Becky one of the women who had worked there with him? One in whom Ahmad had a particular interest?
Evelyn felt a sickening flicker of jealousy. “The two of you aren’t . . . ?”
“Oh no.” Becky laughed. “Not that all the girls wouldn’t have jumped at the chance. He were the handsomest man we ever saw. I wouldn’t have shrunk from him myself, but he were always more like a brother to me. Besides, Mr. Malik don’t go in for that kind of thing.”
“He didn’t have anyone special?”
“Special?” Becky scrunched her nose. “Like a sweetheart, you mean?”
Evelyn nodded. She was ashamed of how keenly she wanted to know. She had no right to be jealous—or curious. Ahmad didn’t belong to her. No matter that his lips had brushed against hers. That he’d touched her and held her and seen her in her knickers. It was artistic proximity, nothing more. The purview of a dressmaker. Just as it had been when he’d smoothed a lock of hair from her face.
“Not that I ever heard,” Becky said.
“No?”
Becky shook her head. “He’s a rare one, he is. Keeps himself to himself. But he respects women. He were always looking out for us. If not for him—” She stopped herself, seeming to realize she’d said too much.
“What?” Evelyn asked, meeting Becky’s eyes in the glass.
Becky straightened the gauze trim on Evelyn’s bodice. “There were a gent once. A right big brute. He lost his temper with me over a trifle. Might have killed me if Mr. Malik hadn’t stepped in.”
Evelyn listened with bated breath. “This happened at the place where you worked?”
A look of embarrassment briefly crossed Becky’s face. “A sort of tavern, it were. Not the finest place you ever heard of, but Mr. Malik made it safe enough. If he hadn’t broke that bloke’s shoulder, he might be there still. Strange how things happen. I thought he’d be sent away for sure. Now he’s making gowns for the likes of you.”
“Yes. Very strange.” Evelyn wasn’t sure she entirely understood. Ahmad had rescued Becky from a violent man? He’d tossed the man out of the brothel and broken the fellow’s shoulder in the process? “Forgive me . . . Do you mean to say Mr. Malik was in some kind of trouble for hurting this man?”
“I should say so. The gent were a baronet, weren’t he? Wouldn’t be satisfied ’til Mr. Malik was punished.” Becky made one final adjustment to the ball gown. “There, that should do for you. And very fine, too.” Satisfied, she went to her thread case, and after returning her needle and thimble, closed the lid with a snap. “Will you be needing anything else, miss?”