One of his designs.
It was trimmed with Solferino velvet, sewn in banded waves along the edge of the full skirt and up one side of it to form a bright purplish-pink velvet bow at the edge of her waist.
A sweetly feminine gown, with none of the fussiness of a typically fashionable day dress. There was no unnecessary bulk. No profusion of flounces, fringe, or ribbons. There was only her. The soft lines and the shape of her, honored rather than obscured.
“When Mrs. Quick told me you were here, I feared I’d forgotten one of our appointments,” she said, smiling warmly. “We haven’t one this morning, have we?”
“Not today, no.”
Her attention was diverted by the stack of dress boxes. “Is this my latest order?”
“Part of it. The skirts and blouses, and several more of the day dresses.”
Moving to the sofa, she lifted the lid from the first box. “How quickly you’ve finished them.”
“Some designs are less time-consuming than others.” Less still with Mira’s and Becky’s assistance, and with the aid of the sewing machine at Doyle and Heppenstall’s. “The garments with more intricate trimmings and embroidery will take longer.”
She gave him a curious glance. “You don’t usually deliver them yourself.”
No, he didn’t. He hadn’t the time. Not when there was so much work to be done.
But today was different.
“I needed an excuse to see you,” he admitted.
She stilled. “You’ve had news of my sister?”
“I have. Finchley sent a note round less than an hour ago.” Ahmad withdrew the folded sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his coat.
She returned to his side in an anxious rustle of petticoats and poplin skirts. “What does it say?”
He handed it to her. “It’s an address near the docks. An inn.”
“And Fenny’s there? With Anthony?”
“It appears so.”
Evelyn pressed a hand to her midriff. “Oh, thank God.” She exhaled an unsteady breath. “I didn’t dare believe it.” Unfolding the paper, she read the address. “I must go to her.”
Ahmad steeled himself. This was the tricky part. The moment he must overstep his role. She wasn’t going to like it.
But there was nothing for it.
“You can’t go there,” he said.
“Of course I can,” she replied. “I must.”
“You can’t,” he said again. “It’s not a safe place for you.”
“Fenny’s there. Surely it’s safe enough.”
“I can’t speak for your sister’s security, but I know that part of London. It isn’t safe for a lady—not even in daylight. You run the risk of being murdered. Or worse.”
She huffed. “What could possibly be worse than being murdered?”
He gave her a hard look.
Her cheeks colored in sudden comprehension.
He was relieved he didn’t have to spell it out.
“I don’t intend to stay there long,” she said, a little defensively. “Only enough time to speak with Fenny. I shall be in and out in a flash.”
“Do you think that matters? There are people there. Desperate people. Men who would as soon slit your throat as look at you. It wouldn’t take above five minutes.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“You should be. And if you don’t fear for your life, you must consider your reputation. How do you imagine it would look to be caught wandering about the dockland slums? Your honor would be forfeit. Your hopes of making a prosperous marriage damaged beyond repair.”
Her lips compressed. Her features etched with a growing frustration. She slowly refolded the note. “What do you suggest?”
“Let me go. I’ll speak to her on your behalf.”
“Why would she listen? You’re a stranger. She’s not likely to even receive you.” Evelyn shook her head. “No. It must be me. I can take Lewis with me, or—”
“Your aged groom? Good God, Evie, this isn’t your village in Sussex.”
Her gaze flew to his.
He belatedly realized that he’d not only used her given name, he’d used the affectionate diminutive reserved for those closest to her. An intimacy upon an intimacy.
Damn and blast.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t—”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind it. It’s just—”
“You’re worried about your sister. I understand.” He raked a hand through his hair. “If you insist upon going there—”
“I do insist.”
“—you’ll need an escort who knows what he’s about. Who isn’t going to blunder into the place and get you both hurt.”
“An escort.” She looked at him steadily. “Do you mean . . . yourself?”
Bloody hell.
He supposed he did.
She wasn’t his responsibility. Not by any means. He was her dressmaker, not her protector. Having delivered his note, he should back away and be done with it. He knew that.
But he couldn’t trust her safety to anyone else.
“It would have to be at night,” he said. “Under cover of darkness. Otherwise, you run the risk of us being seen together.”
A defiant flush bloomed in her face. “I’m not ashamed of being seen with you.”
An answering warmth threatened in his own. He ruthlessly suppressed it. “It’s not about that. It’s about the fact that being caught with me outside of the tailor’s shop will cause as much damage to your reputation as your being seen in a dockside inn.”
She didn’t argue the point.
He was grateful for that much. Determination she had in abundance, but she was no fool.
“After dark, then,” she said. “But let it be soon.” A weighted pause. “Let it be tonight.”
Ahmad stared down at her in silence, his heart thudding an unmistakable warning.
He had the sense they were breaching some unspoken barrier. A wall they’d been gradually chipping away at. It had stood between them from the first moment they’d met. The same impenetrable barrier that separated every man and woman of different races, different classes. One forged long ago, fortified with centuries of fear, resentment, and mistrust.