Page 112 of The Siren of Sussex

“To Sussex? To live under Aunt Nora’s thumb?” Fenny sat down on the unmade bed. The sheets were rumpled and the pillows askew, as if she’d only just risen moments earlier. “Combe Regis hasn’t been my home for a long time.”

“And France has?”

“Not France,” Fenny said. “Anthony.” She curved one arm around her belly. “You’ll understand one day when you fall in love yourself. If you fall in love. Some ladies never do.”

“Is this what love is?” Evelyn gestured at the dilapidated room. “Giving up everything for one man? Abdicating your responsibilities? Disappointing your family?”

Fenny’s cheeks flushed. “It wasn’t what either of us wanted.”

“Then why—”

“Because there was no other way,” Fenny said. “I had to choose.”

Evelyn didn’t want to believe it. Surely love wasn’t an either-or proposition. It couldn’t be. There must be a way to have it all. For a lady to both fulfill her obligations and to be with the man she cared for.

Just because Fenny hadn’t found it didn’t mean it didn’t exist.

Evelyn was oddly quiet as Ahmad herded her back through the dining room of the Jolly Tar and out onto the darkened street. There wasn’t time to inquire into her state of mind. On leaving the inn, Ahmad had registered a noticeable shift in the atmosphere. With every passing minute, the docklands became more dangerous. Emboldened by drink and the cover of night, the worst of the region’s inhabitants were out looking for sport. Unsavory types who wouldn’t blink at committing violence.

Ahmad guided Evelyn toward the waiting brougham. A group of sailors in the street watched them pass.

“Where you headed to, love?” one of the men called.

“Don’t be shy,” another said. “Let us see your face.”

The men followed after them, moving as one.

Evelyn’s hand tightened on Ahmad’s arm.

“Ignore them,” Ahmad said. Opening the door of the brougham, he quickly assisted her in.

The coachman had a horse pistol. They’d be safe enough. In the meanwhile, all that was needed was to make an example of one of the sailors.

Ahmad was more than ready to do so.

“Don’t look back,” he said to Evelyn.

“Ahmad—”

He shut the carriage door on her before she could object.

Turning, he faced the three ruffians. Fog from the river billowed about their legs as they advanced on him. Their faces were revealed in the light of the carriage lamps—not foreign faces from a distant land, but Englishmen. One of them grinned to see that Ahmad was Indian.

“That’s a fine carriage for a chichi,” he remarked.

“And a fine woman,” the second sailor said. “How much for her company?”

The third and biggest of the three sailors stepped forward. “Let’s have a look at her.”

“I wouldn’t,” Ahmad advised.

The sailor only laughed. He reached to shove Ahmad out of the way.

Ahmad caught the man easily by his collar. Twisting the fabric in his hand, he hoisted the sailor up nearly off his feet. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me.”

The sailor struggled against Ahmad’s grip, choking out a stream of oaths and threats.

His friends hastened to assist him.