Page 67 of The Siren of Sussex

It was opened by a balding footman in canary-yellow livery.

“Good morning, Jenkins,” Anne said. “We’ve come to see Miss Wychwood. She’s in her room, I take it?”

“Yes, my lady.” He stood back to allow them entry. “The doctor has just been.”

“That bad, is it?” Anne removed her black silk hat and stripped off her gloves, handing them to the footman.

Evelyn followed suit. Her gaze drifted over the entry hall. It was too dark to properly make out the wall coverings or furnishings. Not only that, the interior of the house was distinctly over warm.

A shiver of uneasiness went through her.

Mama’s sickroom had been just the same. Dark and close in the aftermath of giving birth to baby Isobel. Evelyn could still recall the coppery smell of blood. There had been so much of it.

The memory only served to drive home the urgency of her mission. Her sisters were depending on her. She had to marry well for their sakes. For Gussie, Caro, Bette, and Izzy. Each of them was due a chance at happiness and security. A chance for love. And if Evelyn had to marry without it in order to give them that chance, then by God, she’d do it.

And why shouldn’t she be the one to make the sacrifice? She was the most unsentimental of them all.

At least, she had been until she’d met Mr. Malik.

But those feelings would pass, surely. The way butterflies fluttered in her stomach whenever she saw him. The way her breath caught and her pulse quickened. Soon she’d meet someone else. Someone suitable. Life would go on, and if she never felt those exquisite palpitations again—

Well.

She’d forget she ever had, wouldn’t she? She’d be precisely as she was when she’d first arrived in London. Sensible and pragmatic. Decidedly unromantic.

“Sir Eustace is beside himself,” Jenkins confided in low tones. “He’s taken to his bed.”

“What a shame.” Anne headed for the curving oak staircase. “No need to accompany us. I know the way.”

Evelyn ascended the steps after her. “It sounds as though Miss Wychwood may be too ill for company.”

Anne gave a very unladylike snort. “Julia has the constitution of a horse.”

“But—”

“You’ll see.” Anne led Evelyn down a carpeted hallway to a large, wood-paneled door. She knocked on it twice.

There was a frantic rustling from within. At length, a weak voice answered: “Come in.”

Anne flashed Evelyn a speaking glance as she opened the door.

Miss Wychwood’s chamber was as dark and warm as the rest of the house. Velvet curtains were drawn shut over the windows, and a dying fire crackled in the grate. At the center of the room stood a carved four-poster bed draped in blue damask. Julia Wychwood lay inside of it, tucked deep beneath her bedcovers, her head resting on a stack of feather pillows. She turned her face to the door as they entered. Her countenance was pale as wax.

“You sound as though you’re about to cross through the veil,” Anne said dryly.

“Anne!” Miss Wychwood struggled to a sitting position. Her blankets slid down to her waist, revealing her ruffled white nightgown. “Thank goodness you’ve come. And is that Miss Maltravers?”

“It is,” Anne said. “Shut the door, won’t you, Evie?”

Evelyn closed it behind her. She approached the bed. “I didn’t know you were ill, Miss Wychwood. I hope you’re feeling a little better?”

“Enormously better now,” Miss Wychwood said. “Fancy your calling on me. Mind you, I did wonder when we might meet again. Though I never thought it would be in such circumstances as these.” Her cheeks pinkened. “Forgive my state of undress.”

Evelyn smiled. “Not at all. I’m pleased to see you again, in any state.”

“For goodness’ sake, Julia. How can you bear this stifling heat?” Anne crossed the room. “We must open a window.”

“Yes, do. But only a little. If Papa were to see—”