“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” Fenny’s gaze flickered with sisterly condescension. “Gussie might be happy with a London season, but Caro? Bette? The last I saw of them, they were as eager to join the ranks of bluestockings as you were.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
Evelyn’s posture went rigid. But she refused to be drawn into an argument. She’d come here to discuss Fenny’s troubles, not her own. “I wish you’d written,” she said. “I was afraid for you.”
“You shouldn’t have been.”
“I feared you might have met the same fate as Mama.”
Fenny’s expression sobered. She’d been only sixteen when Mama had died in childbed, and had taken the loss very hard. “There was no chance of that. Up to now, I’ve managed to keep myself tidy. The French have ways of doing so, you know.”
Evelyn gave her sister a blank look.
“Things to prevent a child from coming,” Fenny said impatiently. “We thought them reliable. They weren’t, obviously, which is how I find myself in this state. It’s all very inconvenient.”
Inconvenient.
That was one word for it.
Evelyn rose from the chair. She didn’t have much time left. She’d promised Ahmad she would be quick. “You do intend to marry him?”
“The moment Anthony turns twenty-six, we’ll be up before the parson. He’ll have access to his mother’s funds then. It’s more than enough for us to live on.”
“And until that happens?”
She shrugged. “So long as we don’t wed without his permission, Sir William will keep sending Anthony an allowance. It will have to do for us.”
“Where will you live?”
“In France, naturally. Steamers leave for Calais twice a week. We’ll depart as soon as Anthony procures our passage. And then, I shall have my baby, and you can have your season. Though I suggest,” Fenny added with some asperity, “if you’re truly concerned about your reputation, you refrain from visiting places like this in future.”
“I came here to see you.”
“At night. In company with a man. Your dressmaker, of all people.” Fenny laughed. “Wouldn’t Aunt Nora be interested to know that.”
“I don’t see why either of us should burden Aunt Nora with any of this.”
Fenny stilled. “You haven’t told her about me?”
“Not yet.”
“I don’t expect she’d want to know anyway. Not after what I did.”
Evelyn felt a stab of compassion for her sister. “Do you truly wish to go back to France? To have your baby so far from home?”
A shadow of a smile touched Fenny’s lips. “I thought you wanted me to leave? The better for you and your marriage prospects.”
“It would be best. But I’ll not drive you away. Not when you’re in this condition.” Evelyn meant it. It wouldn’t be easy for her sister to return to Combe Regis. Not for any of them. But it was plainly the best option for Fenny and her child. “You must come home.”
“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.”