But this was different.
This was Evelyn.
Heat rose beneath his collar.
“Can I help you, my lady?” he asked.
“I trust you can.” Lady Anne set her gloved fingertips on the edge of the polished wood counter. “I require a black ball gown. Something with minimal trimmings—no flounces or frills. Miss Maltravers assures me you’re the man for the job.”
“Black,” he repeated, frowning.
“Quite. And a black riding habit as well. The same style as the green one you made for Miss Maltravers.”
“I, too, require a riding costume,” Miss Hobhouse chimed in. “But one like Miss Maltravers’s mink-colored habit.”
“I can make something similar,” he said, “but not identical. I don’t duplicate designs. Whatever you order will be made for you alone.”
“As to that . . .” A shadow of uncertainty crossed Miss Hobhouse’s face. “Miss Maltravers did say you had an evening gown that another lady had returned. She said I might ask about having it made up for me as a ball gown at a discount.”
His frowned deepened. “Did she, indeed.”
“If the color suits me, that is,” Miss Hobhouse added.
Ahmad thought of the ice-blue muslin gown, folded neatly in the storage chest at his lodgings. He’d resigned himself to taking a loss on it. It had been made so particularly for Lady Heatherton. But that shade of cool blue would also suit someone of Miss Hobhouse’s complexion. In fact, with her gray hair and silver-blue eyes, it could—with a few minor adjustments—be quite stunning.
“Has Miss Maltravers any other message you wish to relay to me?” he asked.
Lady Anne smoothed her gloves. “I trust our dress orders are message enough.”
They were, at that.
Evelyn hadn’t forgotten him. Not only had she given his particulars to the ladies who had admired her dress at the Arundell ball, she was sending her friends to order gowns from him, too.
He was touched by the gesture.
Deeply touched.
And grateful. Business was business, after all.
Lady Anne and Miss Hobhouse weren’t the leaders of the fashionable elite by any means, but they were moving in fashionable circles this season. Were they to wear his designs, it could only accrue to Ahmad’s benefit.
He spent the next hour showing the young ladies some of his sketches and discussing fabrics and trimmings. By the time he finished taking their measurements, it was past one o’clock. He returned to the workroom, his head full of ideas for Lady Anne’s ball gown.
Strange that that would be the order to catch his creative interest.
Black. It was unheard of. No lady in mourning would dare attend a ball. But Lady Anne wasn’t in mourning, no more than her mother. Not in the strictest sense of the word. They were spiritualists, honoring the passing of Prince Albert. And black was a universal sign of respect for the dead.
He would have to approach the design as he did his riding costumes. Much like a lady’s habit, mourning dress was distinguished by its lack of embellishment. If there was any style to be expressed, it was achieved through the luxury of the fabrics and the elegance of the cut.
This, Ahmad flattered himself, was where he excelled.
It was what the Pretty Horsebreakers had admired in his work. It was what Evelyn admired, too.
Fortunately for him, they weren’t the only ones.
The next day, another lady called at Doyle and Heppenstall’s, and then, the next day, three more ladies altogether. It set the pattern for the week that followed—a busy Monday and Tuesday, and an even busier Wednesday. When the last customer had gone, Ahmad once again retreated to the workroom to attend to his commissions. He was contemplating shades of claret velvet for a dowager’s dinner dress when Doyle stepped in front of him, blocking his path.
“A great many ladies visiting the premises this week,” he said. “They’re beginning to outnumber the gentlemen.”
Ahmad moved around him to get to his worktable. “That was the idea when we made our agreement.”
Doyle followed after him. “Has it come to that already?”
“Near enough.” Ahmad sat back on the edge of his worktable. “I’ll need to hire another seamstress. Two, possibly.”
Beamish and Pennyfeather paused at their work, looking up at Doyle and Ahmad with twin expressions of anxiety.
“And you wish to house them here?” Doyle asked.
“Naturally.”
“What about Beamish and Pennyfeather? What’s to become of them?”
“That depends,” Ahmad said, “on whether or not they’re willing to learn to make my designs.”
Beamish was immediately on his feet. “Mr. Doyle, I heartily object. I won’t be taught my trade by a . . . by a . . .” His face took on a ruddy hue. “By a foreigner.”
“I object, too, sir.” Pennyfeather rose in solidarity with his fellow cutter. “Since Mr. Heppenstall’s death, the tone of this establishment has lowered to such a degree I can no longer—”
“Then go,” Ahmad said quietly. “You’re not obliged to stay.”
“I don’t take my orders from you,” Pennyfeather retorted, his voice wobbling. “I work for Mr. Doyle.”
Doyle sighed. “You disappoint me, lads.” Walking to Ahmad’s worktable, the old tailor picked up a section of the now cut and basted grenadine barege. His gnarled thumb moved over the gauzy weave of the fabric, his expression contemplative. “Did neither of you ever ponder why so many of our customers request that Mr. Malik make their suits? Or why ladies call, demanding he design their riding habits?”
Beamish and Pennyfeather stood mute.
“Our customers recognize his talent,” Doyle said. “And so would the two of you if you had an ounce of talent of your own.” He dropped the fabric back on the table. “It’s why I’ve agreed that he’ll take over on my retirement.”
“Mr. Doyle, no!” Beamish exclaimed.
Pennyfeather surged forward. “You’re not really giving him Doyle and Heppenstall’s?”
Doyle held up a hand. “Mr. Malik has said you can stay. I advise you to consider it. You might learn something of value. But if you can’t bring yourself to work for him, I’ll pay out your wages for the week and bid you good fortune.”
Ahmad had no illusions about which path the two young cutters would choose. They’d never looked at him except with suspicion. Never shown any interest at all in his work. When they stiffly exited the room, he watched them go, unmoved.