Page 70 of The Siren of Sussex

“I’m riding this afternoon, and Julia isn’t riding at all today unless we can persuade her to get out of bed.” Anne pulled Miss Hobhouse into the room. “Here. Come and meet Miss Maltravers. She’s newly arrived from Sussex. Evie? This is Stella Hobhouse, the best rider among us.”

Miss Hobhouse smiled. “She only says that because I ride so often. And that owes more to my horse’s nervous temperament than to my skill.” She extended her hand to Evelyn. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

Evelyn shook it. “And I you.”

“Miss Maltravers has a bay Spanish stallion,” Miss Wychwood said. “When first I saw her, she was riding him in nothing but a snaffle.”

“Oh? He must be very well trained.” Miss Hobhouse pushed back her hood.

Evelyn’s eyes widened. Stella Hobhouse’s hair was twisted back in a series of plaits, rolled and pinned within an inch of its life. It was glossy and shining with good health. It was also completely gray.

She caught Evelyn’s gaze. Her mouth hitched at one corner. “Don’t be alarmed. It’s been this color since I was sixteen.”

“My mother suspects it has something to do with the spirit world,” Anne said.

“And that’s exactly what I shall tell any gentleman who asks me this season.” Miss Hobhouse sat down on the edge of the mattress. “The trouble is, they never do ask. They only gape at me in horror.”

Anne perched next to Miss Wychwood at the top of the bed. “Evie is here for the season, too.”

“Her first season,” Miss Wychwood said.

“Only your first?” Miss Hobhouse gave Evelyn a curious glance. “You’re not fresh out of the schoolroom?”

“No, indeed.” Evelyn resumed her seat. “I’m three and twenty.”

Miss Wychwood gasped. “That old?”

“Really, Julia,” Anne said. And then to Evelyn: “Ignore her. We none of us are much younger.”

“Yes,” Miss Wychwood countered, “but you and I are already on our third season, and Stella’s on her second. Miss Maltravers is just getting started.”

Miss Hobhouse’s brow furrowed. “Maltravers. I feel I’ve heard the name before. You don’t have a sister, do you?”

“Several. Four of them younger than me.” Evelyn steeled herself before adding, “And one of them older.”

“That must be it,” Miss Hobhouse said. “There was some incident attached to her, wasn’t there?”

Evelyn exchanged a glance with Anne. She was the only one of them who knew. And if she didn’t, her mother certainly did. Not because Evelyn had confided in her, but because Uncle Harris had. Goodness only knew how many of the details he’d shared.

“It was years ago,” Anne said. “Long past and best forgotten.”

“Was there a scandal?” Miss Wychwood asked.

“A scandal.” Miss Hobhouse’s eyes lit up. “Now I remember. She ran off, didn’t she? With a baronet’s son or—” She stopped short, her cheeks reddening. “Oh, I am sorry. It must be painful to recall it. And here I am running on.”

“Not painful,” Evelyn said. “Inconvenient.”

“I can understand how it would be.” Miss Hobhouse gave her a sympathetic grimace. “I apologize again, Miss Maltravers.”

Evelyn believed she meant it. None of the ladies seemed cruel or malicious. Indeed, they appeared to be exactly what Evelyn was herself—ladies who didn’t quite fit. “Please,” she said. “I wish you would all call me by my given name. Or Evie, if you prefer. It seems silly to stand on ceremony.”

Miss Hobhouse promptly agreed. “I’d be honored if you would address me as Stella.”

Miss Wychwood nodded. “And you must call me Julia.”

“Now that we’ve dispensed with the niceties,” Anne said, “perhaps we can focus on the week ahead? My mother’s ball is next Friday, after which our seasons will have officially begun. That leaves us eight whole days of freedom—not a single one of which can be wasted in bed.”

A notch formed between Julia’s brows. “But, Anne—”