Evelyn had seen the brief write-up in the society page this morning. It hadn’t referenced her by name. On the contrary, it had been framed as yet another report on the Pretty Horsebreakers:
Rumor has it that our titian-haired horsebreaker is no common incognita, but a marriage-minded miss from the humble home counties. She was observed at Lady A——’s ball on Friday, and your correspondent can report that she was as ravishing off her stallion as on it.
Evelyn had been pleased to be mentioned, however obliquely, but the whole of it had failed to excite any deeper emotion. It was difficult to muster enthusiasm for a plan that no longer matched up with the desires of her heart.
“You must be thrilled to be garnering such praise so early in your season,” Lady Heatherton said. “A girl like you, fresh up from the country.”
“I don’t know about thrilled,” Evelyn replied, smiling. She was glad, at least, that the write-up might do Ahmad’s business some good. The more acclaim she received, the more attention was brought to his designs.
If he became a great success, then perhaps . . .
Perhaps she might have a future with him.
A mercenary thought. And one she shouldn’t be indulging.
She didn’t even know if he felt the same way about her. Granted, he’d admitted to being inspired by her. To looking on her as a muse for his designs. But her own feelings had advanced beyond the realm of fashion. She’d recognized that at the ball.
“Come now,” Lady Heatherton replied. “You can’t pretend you don’t crave notoriety. I’ve had no less than three friends mention the gown you wore to Lady Arundell’s ball on Friday. According to them, it was a triumph.”
“All the credit goes to my dressmaker.”
“An Indian, people are saying.”
Evelyn’s smile dimmed. “I don’t know what that signifies.”
“As a point of interest, I find it fascinating.” There was an edge to Lady Heatherton’s voice, as sharp as a freshly stropped razor. “Who is this person?”
Evelyn felt a strange reluctance to tell her. For all her beauty, Lady Heatherton had a calculating, serpent-like quality to her expression that made her seem very much the cobra Stella had compared her to.
“You do know his name?” her ladyship pressed.
“Mr. Malik,” Evelyn answered grudgingly. “He works out of Doyle and Heppenstall’s in Conduit Street.”
Lady Heatherton’s eyes glittered. “He’s made more than your ball gown.” It wasn’t a question.
“He’s made several of my dresses,” Evelyn admitted.
“And this dress you’re wearing now? I suppose he made this for you, too?”
“Indeed, he did.” Evelyn wore a day dress of deep golden-oak alpaca. It lacked the lush adornment of Lady Heatherton’s dress, but it was impeccably fitted, the rich color flattering Evelyn’s hair and complexion to an extraordinary degree. “He’s very talented.”
“And very handsome, I understand.”
Evelyn didn’t reply.
“A young lady can’t be too careful,” Lady Heatherton said. “To permit a man to make her dresses—”
“Mr. Worth is a man.”
“An Englishman, trained in the French style. Where has Mr. Malik trained?”
Evelyn knew exactly where he’d learned his trade, but she had no intention of sharing that information with anyone, Lady Heatherton least of all. “I haven’t inquired,” she said. “It hardly seems relevant when a dressmaker exhibits such inherent skill.”
Lady Heatherton’s smile was as brittle as glass. “You are very young, aren’t you. Or is it only that you’re countrified? Girls from small villages know little of our London ways. You must permit me to advise you.” Her gaze was as rigid as her smile. “Take care where you give your custom. A lady’s reputation is a fragile commodity.”
The fine hairs rose at the back of Evelyn’s neck. Lady Heatherton’s words sounded alarmingly close to a threat.
Did she know about Fenny? About the scandal that had erupted three years ago?
Surely her ladyship could have no interest in such things?
No. She was only sharpening her claws, as Stella had said. Asserting her dominance in some twisted effort to dampen Evelyn’s nascent success.
Evelyn resolved to ignore it. When riding, one never prospered by stopping to focus on a horse’s naughtiness. The only way one ironed out disobedience and intractability was to keep moving forward. Things invariably worked themselves out along the way.
“My reputation is in good order,” she replied. “But I thank you for the advice.”
* * *
Ahmad dropped the stack of dress boxes down onto the morning room sofa. The drapes were open and the fire lit. Sunshine streamed through the high windows, suspending dust motes in shafts of light. It was half past ten. Most ladies of fashion were still abed. Were it anyone else, he would have delayed his call.
But Evelyn Maltravers wasn’t a typical London lady.
She was a country lass with country habits. He knew that much about her. She sometimes rode at dawn with her new equestrienne friends—Lady Arundell’s daughter and two other young ladies, Miss Wychwood and Miss Hobhouse.
Ahmad had seen them in Hyde Park this morning. He’d been out walking at sunrise to clear his head, and there they were, the four of them talking and laughing as they trotted past.
Evelyn had been wearing her newest habit. The one of mink-brown Venetian cloth he’d made for her. It was a sumptuous love letter of a garment. Every stitch and seam contrived with sensual intention. Indeed, the rich fabric embraced her with all of the care and reverence he longed to embrace her with himself.
Worsted wool was a poor substitute for his arms. But in Miss Maltravers’s case, it would have to do.
The alternative was nothing at all.
Soon, she’d meet someone and marry. It was inevitable. She was already garnering attention. He’d twice seen her mentioned in the society pages, the second time only yesterday. It had been in regard to her appearance at the Arundell ball.
Reading the report, Ahmad had felt a gnawing jealousy. He would have liked to have seen her at the ball for himself. He would have liked to have danced with her.
“Good morning.” Miss Maltravers entered the room as though his thoughts had conjured her. Her hair was rolled back in an invisible net, her spectacles settled on her nose. She wore a day dress of pearl-colored poplin.