“It’s for the best,” Doyle said wearily. “Suit orders have dried up. Perhaps if you—”
Ahmad slowly shook his head. “I have no interest in making gentlemen’s suits anymore.”
“No. Why would you when you can work with fabrics like that?” Doyle’s rheumy gaze rested briefly on the folded grenadine. “Muslins and velvets and sheer silk weaves. It’s a pleasant change from black and gray superfine.”
Ahmad gave him a long look. He recalled all the times he’d caught Doyle examining his work. “Do you really believe that? What you said about my talent?”
Doyle’s face was set in the same bleak lines as it always was. He showed not a glimmer of warmth. “I suppose I do,” he admitted. “Why else would I have agreed to let you have my shop?”
Twenty-Six
A letter for you, miss,” Mrs. Quick said, entering the breakfast room.
Evelyn looked up from the morning paper. She was alone at the table, the remnants of her breakfast arrayed in front of her—cold tea and a half-eaten serving of eggs, toast, and jam. “The post doesn’t come this early, does it?”
“It didn’t come with the post.” Mrs. Quick gave Evelyn the letter. It was little more than a carelessly folded note, sealed with a crude blob of red wax. “A boy brought it round.”
Evelyn was instantly alert. Setting aside the newspaper, she broke the seal of the letter, casting a grateful glance at the housekeeper as she did so. “Thank you, Mrs. Quick.”
Mrs. Quick inclined her head. “I’ll send in a fresh pot of tea,” she said before withdrawing.
Evelyn scarcely heard her. The letter was from Fenny. A hastily written missive in her characteristic scrawl.
Dear Evie,
I should chastise you for interfering, but find I cannot. We were on the brink of despair when your note arrived. How in heaven did you manage to persuade our uncle to part with his money? However you did it, I thank you and Anthony thanks you.
He’s booked us passage on the next steamer to France. By the time you receive this letter we’ll have arrived in Calais and be well on our way to Paris. I’ve given the tavern owner strict instructions to hold delivery until Anthony and I are safely across the Channel. We can’t be too careful with Stephen lurking about.
Once we’re settled in our new lodgings, I’ll send you our direction. Perhaps we might write to each other? It would be nice to have someone to tell when the babe arrives.
Faithfully, your sister,
Fenny
Relief coursed through Evelyn as she finished reading. Fenny was gone from London, safely on her way back to France, having done a minimum of damage to the Maltravers name in the process.
Evelyn privately wished her well. She couldn’t condone the extremes Fenny had gone to in order to be with Anthony, but Evelyn understood her sister’s motivations now better than she ever had.
When given the opportunity, what else could a lady do but follow her heart?
* * *
The following Monday, Evelyn stood atop the elevated platform in the fitting room at Doyle and Heppenstall’s as Ahmad pinned the bodice of her new green grenadine day dress. They hadn’t been alone since the night they’d gone to the docks.
But they were alone now.
She’d seen to that. Only minutes ago, she’d sent Agnes off on an errand in Bond Street. It had been the veriest pretext and Ahmad knew it.
“You’re determined to flout propriety,” he said. His thick black hair was rumpled, the cuffs of his white linen shirt rolled up nearly to his elbows as he worked.
Evelyn’s gaze lingered on his muscled forearms. She felt a familiar tightening in her belly. “You could have come to Russell Square. I’m amply chaperoned there.”
“I’m too busy to leave the shop today.” He sank a pin into the edge of her sleeve. “If I don’t finish fitting your gowns this morning, I won’t have time for the rest of the week.”
Evelyn had three gowns waiting for their final fittings: the day dress she wore now, an afternoon dress, and a ball gown. The latter two garments were draped on the table in the corner, waiting their turn. All three were due to be delivered on Wednesday.
She had nothing else on order. No other dresses or riding habits were required. She was amply outfitted for the remainder of her time in London, and dared not test her uncle’s generosity.
Besides, she wasn’t really participating in the season any longer. Certainly not in the way she’d originally intended. Though she still went out with regularity—attending dinners, dances, and evening entertainments—it wasn’t with the goal of finding a husband. Now she was merely displaying Ahmad’s gowns. Praying that other ladies would admire them enough to order gowns from him of their own.
Given that, it would have felt dishonest to keep spending her uncle’s money. As if she was taking advantage of him.
Thus far, he’d been fairly openhanded when it came to her wardrobe. More openhanded still now that he expected her to accompany him to some of his spiritualist events. But even he had his limits.
It meant no more visits to Doyle and Heppenstall’s. No more chances to be alone with Ahmad.
She was painfully conscious of the fact.
“Work has been good?” she asked.
“It’s been unending. Not to mention that the new seamstresses are settling in, and the workroom is in chaos.”
“New seamstresses?” She was briefly diverted. “Are they more friends of yours, like Becky?”
“Not quite like Becky. But yes. I knew them before. They’ve been working for Madame Elise for the last year and were anxious for a change.”
“Is that how you knew about the conditions at her shop?”
He nodded. “They thought they were bettering themselves, taking employment in Regent Street. Madame Elise soon disabused them of that notion.”
“They’re lucky you could take them on.”
“I’m lucky to have them. I have more commissions than I can manage, even with Becky’s and Mira’s help. New customers are coming in nearly every day.”
“They must be impatient for their orders,” she said. “I don’t mind waiting on my gowns if you need to finish theirs first.”
He flashed her a dark glance. “You come first.”
The words sparked a warm glow in her breast. She hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear them.