Page 47 of The Siren of Sussex

Her heart swelled with sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I lost my parents, too.”

He gave her a dry smile, as fleeting as it was brittle. “It was a long time ago. But thank you.”

She sensed she’d hit a nerve. That her questions had probed into something he never spoke of—never thought about. Something dark and painful. It hadn’t been her intention. “I expect your tailor was grieved to lose you,” she said lightly.

Her words had the desired effect.

Mr. Malik uttered a short laugh. “I’d wager not. I hadn’t as much interest in stitching men’s waistcoats as I had in designing ladies’ gowns. Mr. Khan was glad to be rid of me.”

“Is that when you learned to be a habit-maker? When you came to England?”

“Yes, though not formally.” He seemed little inclined to elaborate.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she said. “I know it’s none of my business.”

He shrugged one broad shoulder. “It’s no great secret.” He pinned another section of her habit skirt. “When I arrived here, there was little employment to be had, save the kind that required brute strength. I was only fifteen, but already quite tall and strong. A woman encountered me as I sought work on the docks and offered me a position at a house she ran in the East End. She allowed me to bring my cousin with me—to share room and board. It was the only opportunity of its kind.”

“She wanted you to sew?”

“No. She wanted me for the same reason the men at the docks did. For my size and strength. It was my job to throw out the men who misbehaved and to see that no one gained admittance who wasn’t welcome.” He was quiet again for several seconds. “A bullyboy, they call it. A chucker-out.”

She’d never heard either phrase before. “I don’t understand. What kind of place—”

“It was a house of ill repute, Miss Maltravers.”

Her mouth nearly fell open. She dropped her voice. “A house for courtesans, do you mean?”

“Nothing so exalted as that. But yes. They were working women.”

It was all she could do to keep her countenance. Great goodness. He’d worked in a brothel. And not only worked there. He’d lived there, too.

If he was embarrassed by the fact, he didn’t show it. He merely continued pinning her skirt.

“They served as models for my early designs,” he said. “If a hem tore, or a bodice needed taking in—or letting out—I’d see to it for them. Sometimes I’d make alterations. Little adjustments to improve the appearance of their gowns. In time, I could make their gowns over completely.”

“You taught yourself all of this?”

He sank back on his haunches. “I had the basics from Mr. Khan, but as for the rest . . . yes. I suppose I did. Fortunately, there were enough women about at Mrs. Pritchard’s establishment who didn’t mind my practicing on them.”

Evelyn bet they hadn’t. “Did you, ah, practice very much?”

“Every free moment I had. My skills improved in time. And now, I am as you see me.”

“A habit-maker at Doyle and Heppenstall’s.”

He smiled. “Something like that.”

It was the same thing he’d said to her on the first occasion they’d met. A nonanswer, really. One that indicated he was unwilling to reveal anything more. Not to her, anyway.

She felt oddly deflated.

It served her right for asking so many questions.

Did she imagine she was the only woman to interact with him thus? She already knew about Miss Walters and the other Pretty Horsebreakers. He’d worked his magic for them just as he had for Evelyn. What were a few women more to the total?

A whole brothelful of women.

She adjusted her spectacles. “Have you finished the hem?”