Page 93 of The Siren of Sussex

The carriage came to a rolling halt. Drawing back the velvet curtain, Evelyn peered out the window. The magnificent stone facade of the Arundell’s town house lay ahead. A long line of carriages was backed up from the door.

Uncle Harris craned his neck. “What’s the delay?”

“The other guests, I assume. We might have to wait awhile.”

“Nonsense.” He tapped the head of his cane against the ceiling, summoning the footman. “We’ll get out here.”

It was a wise decision. The pair of them arrived at the front door of the town house before most of the other guests had disembarked from their carriages.

Lady Arundell was waiting to receive them in the marble-tiled entry hall. She was garbed in a black velvet gown, trimmed with heavy black lace at the bosom and sleeves. A large jet brooch encircled by a frame of plaited hair was pinned at her breast.

Anne stood behind her mother, partially obscured. Her glistening golden locks were caught up in a net of heavy black silk. It harmonized with her black silk ball gown, the only adornment of which was a subdued trim of thick black cord. It framed the modest décolletage, short sleeves, and hem. A dour dress, really. One more suited to a middle-aged lady in mourning.

“Fielding,” Lady Arundell said. “Miss Maltravers.” She pointed her black lace fan at Evelyn, motioning for her to turn around. “Come, girl. Let me have a look at you.”

Evelyn slipped out of her cloak and passed it to a waiting footman. She executed a quick pirouette for Lady Arundell. The glow from the gasolier hanging above caught the glass beading on her upper skirt, making the intricate embroidery sparkle and flash.

Anne’s eyes widened. “My word, you don’t exaggerate, do you.”

“What’s that?” Lady Arundell demanded of her daughter.

“Miss Maltravers said that her dressmaker was better than Mr. Worth. It seems she was telling the truth.”

Lady Arundell withdrew her lorgnette from her sleeve. She subjected Evelyn to a thorough inspection. “Extraordinary.”

“It’s by a new designer in Conduit Street,” Evelyn said. “Mr. Ahmad Malik.”

“An Indian? Hmm. I can’t vouch for the color. Rather gay, don’t you think, given the circumstances? But your dressmaker seems to have talent.” She snapped her lorgnette closed. “God’s truth, Fielding, I scarcely recognized the girl. There may be hope for her yet.”

It was as close to an outright compliment as Evelyn expected she’d ever receive from her ladyship.

“Quite, quite,” Uncle Harris acknowledged absently. “Has Zadkiel arrived?”

“A full hour ago,” Lady Arundell said. “He’s set up a table in the library. He requires complete silence to make contact.”

As Uncle Harris and Lady Arundell fell into conversation, Anne slid her arm through Evelyn’s and quietly guided her away from the busy entry hall.

“Aren’t you needed to greet the rest of the guests?” Evelyn asked.

“Not any longer. Not now your uncle is here. He and Mama will see to it.” Anne paused. “She’s right, you know. You look exceedingly grand. You’ll be the belle of the ball, I wager.”

Evelyn felt a flush of self-consciousness. “Do you truly like it?”

“Like it? I’m positively green with envy.” Anne led her down a wide corridor. Liveried footmen rushed by, hurrying to tend to the new arrivals. “Most ladies are wearing color tonight, but Mama has made me keep to my blacks as a sign of respect for Prince Albert. A black ball gown, I tell you. I look like some ancient nobleman’s young widow.”

“No, indeed,” Evelyn objected. “The color flatters you.”

“And there’s so much of it. Black bodice, black skirts, black trimmings. If you can call these trimmings.” Anne cast another glance at Evelyn’s gown. “I wonder what your Mr. Malik could do, limited to only black fabric and a few scraps of black embellishment?”

Evelyn answered without hesitation. “He could do magic.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know he can. He’d be honored to make a dress for you.”

“I would have to convince Mama,” Anne said. “She might allow it, so long as he adhered to her requirements.”

“Black?”