Page 121 of The Siren of Sussex

Now all that was left was for Evelyn to resolve the remainder of her problems. It was no small feat. Not when Ahmad was ready to quit the field before the battle had even begun.

He was being noble. She recognized that much. It was why he’d told her about his mother and about the burdens Evelyn would face if she became part of his life. He was trying to shield her from pain. To prevent her from throwing everything away on his account.

Little did he know, his story of adversity had only made her admire him more.

“Will your sister truly go back to France now?” Stella asked.

“I believe so.” Evelyn had confided a little about Fenny’s predicament. Just enough to illustrate the danger presented by her remaining in town.

Stella had a way of inviting confidences. Perhaps it was because, like Evelyn, she came from relatively humble origins. Whereas Anne’s and Julia’s parents were wealthy, Stella had only enough funds from her clergyman brother to keep her horse and to purchase a modest wardrobe for the season.

Or perhaps it was the way Stella had of looking at one with such tender gravity. Her silver eyes steady, her gray hair lending her an air of uncommon solemnity.

Not that Evelyn could see her friend’s hair at the moment. Whenever they were riding together, Stella concealed it with a hat, paired with a closely-woven silk hairnet.

“It seems, then,” she said, “that the crisis has been averted.”

Evelyn cast her a glance. “This crisis, anyway.”

Stella laughed. “Have you so many others?”

“Several,” Evelyn said. She guided Hephaestus around an open carriage. He was in fine form today, his thick neck arched and his ears pricked forward. Bristling with energy, he intermittently sprang into a lofty passage. It took most of Evelyn’s attention to keep him to a walk.

She used her leg and her seat, along with the steadiness of her hands, encouraging him to engage his hindquarters. It was a delicate balance of weight and pressure. A conversation, of sorts, in a language Hephaestus could understand.

It was a language she spoke with fluency.

There was infinitely more to riding than simply kicking a horse to go faster or pulling on his mouth to slow him down. A fact that appeared to be unknown to many of the other riders out today. Lady Heatherton among them.

She trotted by on an elegant mare. She was glamorously clad and ruthlessly tight-laced, applying her whip to her horse’s flank with no little force. Her gaze locked onto Evelyn as she rode past. “Miss Maltravers.”

Evelyn inclined her head. “Lady Heatherton.”

Her ladyship rode on, without so much as a word of greeting to Stella.

Stella didn’t appear offended. “Thank goodness she didn’t stop to converse with us.”

“I don’t think she likes me very much,” Evelyn said.

“Indeed. She looked at you as though you were her rival.”

“I’m certainly not.” Before Evelyn could say anything more, another rider approached. She stiffened slightly in her sidesaddle.

“Miss Maltravers.” Stephen Connaught tipped his hat. He was mounted on a rawboned bay.

Evelyn swiftly dispensed with the introductions.

Stella greeted him civilly, if not warmly.

Stephen didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy admiring Hephaestus. “He’s looking fit,” he said. “How is he acclimating to town life?”

“Wonderfully,” Evelyn said. “As am I.”

Stephen’s gaze drifted up over her figure before coming to rest on her face. “It suits you.”

Once, the compliment might have meant something. But not anymore. “What about you?” she asked. “How long do you intend to remain in London?”

“Until my business is concluded,” he said.