Page 66 of The Siren of Sussex

“Because,” Lady Anne said, “Mama prides herself on her ability to read people. She recognized right away that you were trustworthy—or so she claims. I suspect it’s because you wear spectacles. It would never occur to her that a bluestocking could be dangerous.”

Evelyn couldn’t stop herself from bristling. “I’m not a bluestocking.”

“Don’t be offended. I count myself as a bluestocking, too.” Lady Anne paused. “Bluestocking adjacent, anyway.”

Evelyn had cause to doubt it. With her flawless alabaster face and enviable figure, Lady Anne appeared the polar opposite of a bluestocking. She was too poised. Too elegant. A perfect English lady.

“Mama will be expecting us to leave soon,” she said.

Evelyn cast a glance at the door. “Your mother is here?”

“She went straight from the carriage to your uncle’s study. The pair of them are in rhapsodies over a new report from Birmingham. Some boy claiming he’s received a message from Prince Albert. If it’s true—”

“You think it might be?”

“I’m not a believer myself. But who knows? ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,’ and all that.”

Evelyn recognized the quote from Hamlet. Among the books remaining in her family’s modest library was a tattered copy of The Collected Works of William Shakespeare. As a girl, she’d read it from cover to cover, equally enamored of the romantic plays and thrilled by the gruesome ones. “If Prince Albert had a message to send from the great beyond, wouldn’t it make more sense for him to send it directly to Buckingham Palace?”

“Rather. Unless Birmingham is more convenient for some reason.”

“Why would it be?”

“Because of the boy. Mama says he must have a powerful spiritual antenna. Like a telegraph pole.”

Evelyn’s lips quivered.

Lady Anne’s eyes glimmered with answering humor. “You may laugh, Miss Maltravers. But I have to live with this flummery.”

“Oh, do call me Evie.”

“And you must call me Anne. I never use my honorific if I can help it. Not with my friends.”

Evelyn smiled. A friend. Her first one in London, and she hoped not her last.

Anne stood suddenly. “Would you like to do something else?”

Evelyn rose from her chair. “Instead of shopping?”

“Mama expects us to go somewhere. We may as well do so. The coachman won’t tattle on us, nor will the footman. We can direct them where we will.”

“And where is that?”

“Why, to call on Julia Wychwood, of course.”

Twenty minutes later, the Countess of Arundell’s black lacquered carriage came to a stop in front of the Wychwoods’ residence in Belgrave Square. The windows of the grand white stuccoed house were covered with cloth and the door knocker had been removed. The place looked all but abandoned.

“Are you certain they’re at home?” Evelyn asked as the footman handed her down from the carriage.

Anne climbed out after her. She shook her skirts. “Pay no attention to its outward appearance. The Wychwoods are always battling some sickness or another. Julia’s father, Sir Eustace, has even been known to put straw on the steps on occasion, when he feared the end was near.”

Evelyn eyed the town house warily. “What kind of sickness?”

“Biliousness, apoplexy, green fever, megrims, palsy, the ague. Any number of unfortunate conditions, and even more of them undiagnosed.” Anne climbed the stone steps to the front door. “Julia’s parents keep half of the physicians in London in business.”

“So long as it’s not anything contagious.” Evelyn couldn’t afford to become ill. Not at this stage of her plan.

“Heavens, no. You’ll never catch so much as a cold from the Wychwoods.” Curling her gloved hand into a fist, Anne rapped sharply on the door.