Page 82 of The Siren of Sussex

“Miss Maltravers,” he said, bowing.

Her expression tightened.

Once he had called her Evelyn. Apparently, she was no longer worthy of being addressed by her given name.

“Mr. Connaught.” She returned his formality like for like. “What are you doing here?”

He motioned toward a chair. His manner was commanding, but at only four and twenty, he lacked the innate authority possessed by a man of Mr. Malik’s years. “Will you not sit down?”

She didn’t move. “What are you doing here?” she asked again.

His lips thinned. “I have news of your sister.”

Evelyn drew back as if he’d struck her.

Of all the things he might have said, this was the last she expected.

She braced one hand on the back of the scroll-armed sofa. “You’ve heard something from Fenny and your brother?”

“Indeed.” He straightened from the mantel. “I have reason to believe the two of them are in town.”

Evelyn sank onto the sofa’s damask-cushioned seat. Better that than have her knees give way beneath her. “In London?” She could scarcely credit it. “Have you seen them?”

“I have not.” He sat down in the chair across from her. “Anthony wrote to my father, proposing a reconciliation. He didn’t say where he and your sister were staying, only that they were here in London. He requested my father reply care of Hoare’s Bank. And he’s done so, but not to Anthony’s satisfaction. That’s why father has sent me. I’m to find my brother and talk some sense into him. Pray God he hasn’t already returned to France.”

Evelyn was stunned. “Is that where they’ve been all this time?”

“That surprises you?”

“We suspected they’d crossed the Channel, but we had no proof of it.”

“Nor did we, until my brother wrote from Paris, begging permission to marry your sister. Naturally, my father refused out of hand.”

“When did this happen?”

“Two years ago, or thereabouts.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “Do you mean to say . . . your family has been in correspondence with them all this time?”

“With my brother, yes. Though one can hardly term it correspondence. He writes from various locations abroad when he requires money. My father wires it to him, care of whichever bank Anthony specifies—so long as Anthony hasn’t married without his blessing.”

A tide of outrage rose in Evelyn’s breast. All these years of waiting and worrying, and all the while, the Connaughts had known where Fenny and Anthony were? “Why on earth did you never say anything?”

“We presumed you knew. It’s why I’ve come. To tell you that if you receive word from your sister, you must let me know immediately.”

It was all Evelyn could do to keep from raising her voice. “My family hasn’t heard from Fenny in three years!”

His eyes narrowed. “Then why are you in London?”

“Not on Fenny’s account.”

“Why else? You’ve never shown any interest in visiting town. Only a sense of familial obligation could have prompted you to do so. If not your sister—”

“I had no idea where Fenny was. She’s never written so much as a word to any of us.”

The truth of her assertion seemed to finally sink into Stephen’s brain.

“Well,” he said at last, “if that’s the case, then I can’t say I’m shocked. Your sister was never the most sensible of girls.”