Her three friends exchanged knowing glances. They weren’t subtle about it.
“I agree,” Anne said. “One must defer to one’s own conscience.”
“And one’s own heart,” Julia added.
“Speaking of hearts . . .” Stella looked to Evelyn. “Has Mr. Malik called on your uncle?”
Evelyn was silent. It had been two days since Ahmad’s visit to Russell Square. Then, he’d come not to see her uncle, but to see her. She’d sensed a reluctance in him. Not exactly a change of heart, but something else.
It was that dratted article.
No doubt Ahmad thought it would be the end of everything. Not just of his business, but of their future together, too.
“It’s complicated,” she said.
Julia’s ebony brows notched. “But . . . you do love him, don’t you?”
“I do,” Evelyn said. “Unfortunately, there are other obstacles.”
Anne met her gaze. “Insurmountable obstacles?”
“Of course not,” Evelyn said.
“You have a plan, I suppose,” Stella said. “A glorious plan.”
“I don’t know about glorious . . . But yes,” Evelyn admitted. “I do have the first few legs of a plan in mind.”
Up ahead, Mr. Fillgrave appeared around the bend, riding toward them on his glossy chestnut gelding.
“Oh no,” Julia whispered.
“Pray, no one look at him,” Anne said. “He won’t engage us if we don’t make eye contact.”
On any other occasion, Evelyn would have been the first to take her friend’s advice. But not today. As Mr. Fillgrave approached, she looked him straight in the eye.
“Oh, Evie, no,” Stella said under her breath. “What have you done?”
“Ride on,” Evelyn told her friends. “I must have a private word with him.”
“One of the legs of your plan, I gather,” Anne said.
“Precisely.” Giving Hephaestus a kick, Evelyn rode to meet Mr. Fillgrave, while behind her, her three friends rode at speed in the opposite direction.
“Miss Maltravers,” Mr. Fillgrave said. “A pleasant afternoon to you.” His pale eyes swept over Hephaestus. “Such an impressive beast. On every occasion I see him, I’m struck anew. Did I perchance tell you, during my last call, about the Spanish stallion I encountered on the Continent during my grand tour . . . ?”
Evelyn listened to him in silence for several minutes. Mr. Fillgrave rarely stopped to draw breath. It was his habit to overwhelm his conversational counterparts with an impenetrable wall of words.
In Evelyn’s experience, the only way to combat such an overbearing technique was to construct a rival wall. Eventually one of the parties would have to relent and stop building.
She didn’t intend it to be her.
“As to that,” she said, talking over him. “I do wonder about the quality of these Spanish horses you describe. And the diversity of them, too. The majority are gray, aren’t they? And many of the stallions are no bigger than fifteen and a half hands, with short necks and equally short leg action. I daresay many view this style as baroque, but I ask you, how can any of these qualities benefit our English horses? A cross would only serve to impart shorter legs and greater bulk to our Thoroughbreds. And as for riding horses, we would gain none of the Andalusian’s more famous qualities. The smoothness of stride and the elegance of appearance—that particular regal beauty. On the other hand, if you had a stallion like Hephaestus—”
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Fillgrave replied, at last curtailing his own speech. “Just so. I’ve thought the same myself from the moment I first saw him. A bay of his size, with his leg action and extension—”
“There’s no finer Andalusian stallion outside of Spain,” Evelyn vowed. “And none with a sweeter temperament.”
Mr. Fillgrave rode closer. His muttonchop whiskers trembled with excitement. “You would consider selling him?”
The mere thought—however remote—was enough to make Evelyn recoil from the man. Her fingers tightened on the reins. Hephaestus stamped restlessly beneath her. She easily brought him back under control.
“No,” she said firmly. “He’s not for sale. But I am planning to put him out to stud at the end of the summer.”
Mr. Fillgrave reddened. “Miss Maltravers. I beg your pardon, but—”
“It’s what my father wished for him.”
“Your father was a gentleman. That is to say, a man. A lady shouldn’t speak—”
“Of putting a stallion out to stud? Why not? The Queen has a Royal Stud. I’m sure she’s aware of the goings-on there. And it isn’t as though I’d be handling the particulars of the actual servicing.”
Mr. Fillgrave made a choked noise.
“My groom will see to that, of course,” she said. “The financial arrangements, however, will be entirely in my hands.”
“If I may make bold to say, ma’am, this is a matter for men to arrange. You are a young lady. An unmarried lady.”
“But not, in either case, an ignorant one,” she said.
She wished she felt as confident as she sounded.
The fact was, Mr. Fillgrave was right, to an extent. The Maltravers family was already on thin social ice as it was. Evelyn wasn’t going to help matters by doing something as eccentric as this. Indeed, she’d never even dared consider it before.
But things were different now.
She was no longer seeking acceptance by fashionable society. She was fighting for love. For her very future.
“I take it you’re interested? You’ve mentioned your Spanish mares on several occasions.”
“Quite so. Quite so. I can’t deny it.” Mr. Fillgrave rode alongside her down the row, his bewhiskered face the color of a Sussex tomato. “Have you a fee in mind?”
Her palms were damp beneath her gloves. “As a matter of fact, I have.”
Thirty-Four
Ahmad finished Evelyn’s dress for the séance the following week. When the final stitches were placed in the hem, and the last silk-covered button affixed to the back of the bodice, he delivered it to her in Russell Square himself.
There was precious little else to occupy him.
Since the publication of the article, orders for new dresses had decreased nearly by half. Not only that, several ladies who had already commissioned ball gowns had canceled their orders.