Page 102 of The Siren of Sussex

“Show her in, Mrs. Quick,” she said at length. And then she waited, expecting the very worst.

But if her ladyship had claws, they were—for the moment—well sheathed.

She swept into the drawing room, a smile fixed on her perfect porcelain face. She was an extraordinarily beautiful woman—slim and delicate, her corseted waist cinched to mere inches. “Miss Maltravers,” she said, inclining her head in a regal bow.

Evelyn rose to return the greeting. “Lady Heatherton.”

“You’ll think me impertinent calling on you in this fashion. We haven’t been properly introduced. I am, however, acquainted with your uncle.”

Evelyn offered her a seat. “He’s not here, I’m afraid.”

“No matter. It’s you I wanted to see.” Sitting down on the sofa, Lady Heatherton occupied herself with arranging her skirts. It was no small task. Her silk afternoon dress was a marvel of tassels, fringe, flounces, and ribbon bows. A testament to her wealth. Only someone of means could afford so many elaborate trimmings. “I’ve come to assuage my curiosity.”

Evelyn resumed her seat. “Oh?”

Lady Heatherton’s mouth curved in a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. “After the report in this morning’s paper, I simply had to look at you for myself.”

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.”