Page 109 of The Siren of Sussex

Evelyn concealed a wince.

Oh, Fenny. How far you’ve fallen.

“Keep your head down,” Ahmad said. “And let me do the talking.”

She didn’t argue. He’d already explained that she must do nothing to make herself memorable. It was why she’d slipped her spectacles into her pocket.

On entering the inn, they were greeted by a blaze of oil lamps. Every table in the smoke-filled dining room appeared to be full. Loud conversation was punctuated by cackles of laughter and the clink of heavy glasses and tankards of ale.

A grizzled man stood behind the wooden counter, filling a row of dirty glasses from an equally dirty bottle. He flicked a glance from Ahmad to Evelyn and back again as they approached. His thick mouth curled into a leer. “Looking for a room?”

“For a guest staying here.” Ahmad withdrew a half crown from his pocket. He set it down on the bar. “A lady and a gentleman of quality.”

The barman took the coin without hesitation. He resumed pouring his drinks. “Upstairs. Third room on the right.”

Evelyn exhaled a breath. “That was easier than I anticipated,” she murmured as she accompanied Ahmad up the narrow staircase at the back of the bar.

She didn’t know what she’d been expecting. More danger, perhaps. A threat of fisticuffs—or worse.

No doubt things would have transpired differently had she been alone. She was exceedingly grateful she wasn’t.

“We may yet have some excitement,” Ahmad said. “Stay on your guard.”

“I will,” she promised.

He stopped outside the door of the third room on the right of the corridor. “I’ll wait here.”

“You needn’t—”

“This is between you and your sister,” he said.

He was right. Fenny wasn’t likely to listen if Ahmad was present. Gathering her courage, Evelyn knocked softly on the door.

There was no answer.

She was just raising her hand to strike again when a woman called out sharply from inside: “Who’s there?”

It was Fenny’s voice.

At the sound of it, Evelyn’s eyes burned with unexpected moisture. Bowing her head, she rested her brow against the paneled wood of the door, her own voice sinking to a whisper. “Fenny? It’s Evie.”

“Evie?” Seconds later, the door was flung open. Fenny stood there, her dark hair loose about her shoulders and her rosebud mouth parted in horrified surprise. The bodice of her dress strained over her swollen belly. “By all the saints. What in heaven are you doing here?”

Twenty-Two

Evelyn folded her hands in her lap to stop their trembling. Seated in a shabby armchair situated beside an equally shabby washstand, she watched her heavily pregnant sister pace the confines of her rented room. Fenny was clad in faded linen, wearing neither corset nor stockings. Her bare feet padded silently on the ash-singed carpet.

She looked older than when Evelyn had last seen her.

And not only in years.

There were lines on Fenny’s face that spoke of hardship and dissolute living.

“How far along are you?” Evelyn asked.

“Six months,” Fenny said.

“Is that why you came back?”