Page 5 of The Siren of Sussex

It was all part of the plan. A necessary sacrifice that would bring him one step closer to opening his own dress shop.

He stifled a yawn.

“Were you at the tailor’s all day today?” Mira asked.

“Most of it. Doyle had two orders for suits he needed finishing.”

“And you had to complete them, did you?” Her disapproval was evident. “He believes you work for him.”

Ahmad didn’t. Not officially. He and the elderly tailor merely had an informal agreement, one they’d been adhering to since the autumn.

After Heppenstall’s death, Doyle had been reluctant to continue on his own. He’d been equally reluctant to have an Indian for a partner.

With Finchley’s help, a compromise had been made.

Ahmad would work from the shop, lending his skill to gentlemen’s tailoring. In return, Doyle had agreed that, in one year’s time, he would retire, and—in doing so—permit Ahmad to buy out his lease.

Six months had already passed since they’d made their bargain. Which meant that, in six months more, Doyle and Heppenstall’s would he his. Ahmad already had the capital. All that was wanted was the clientele.

“And the rest of the day?” Mira asked.

“I spent the morning in Grosvenor Square, doing a fitting,” he said.

“For Lady Heatherton?” Mira frowned. “I don’t like her.”

“You don’t have to like her.”

Viscountess Heatherton had indicated that she might consider becoming his patroness. She’d already ordered three evening gowns from him to start the season. And once the ladies of the ton saw his work, they’d be clamoring for dresses of their own.

“The way she looks at you,” Mira said. “As if she wants to eat you.”

He grimaced. “The less said about that the better.”

Mira ignored him. “I suppose she asked you to measure her again.”

She had, actually. And in her boudoir, too. As always, he’d ignored her flirtatious remarks and the familiar way she’d touched him. What choice did he have? At this stage, he needed a patroness. One who would show off his designs to the best effect, and to the best people.

Mira clucked her tongue. “Between her and your soiled doves, it’s no wonder you’re so tired all the time.”

“My soiled doves,” he scoffed.

“Aren’t they? Those creatures who wear your riding habits?”

He loosened his cravat. “What do you know of them?”

“I read the papers. I see what people are saying about that Miss Walters person. They call her ‘Incognita’ or ‘Anonyma,’ but everyone knows who they mean.”

“I expect they do,” he said dryly.

Catherine Walters was the most famous courtesan in England. A skilled equestrienne, she’d taken society by storm, as much on the bridle path as in the ballroom. Her slim figure, enhanced by the dashing riding habits she wore, had made her a sight worth seeing by anyone frequenting Hyde Park. Every day, during the fashionable hour, people gathered along Rotten Row just to watch her pass.

After seeing one of his habits on Mrs. Finchley last season, Miss Walters had approached Ahmad with an order of her own. She’d commissioned one riding habit to start, and then another five upon completion of the first. It had been something of a sartorial coup. The best sort of advertising, considering the crowds she drew. Almost worth the cost he’d expended in time and materials.

Indeed, since Miss Walters had first worn one of his designs, two additional courtesans had ordered their riding habits from him as well. The Pretty Horsebreakers, the newspapers called them. Their style and skill were emulated by women from every strata of society.

“You may set your mind at ease,” he said. “Miss Walters is selling up. She’ll soon be leaving London.”

Mira’s brows lifted. “She’s found a new protector?”