one last glance of Mr Evernden’s stern profile in the window.
The door opened to reveal a freckle-faced girl of about ten. Behind her, a passage led into the depths of the first floor and a narrow set of stairs wound upwards. Mary had never mentioned a child. She must be the maid.
‘Can I help you, miss?’ the girl asked.
Sylvia took a deep breath and smiled. ‘Is Miss Jensen home?’
‘There ain’t no Miss Jensen at this address.’
Sylvia frowned. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am. I live here, don’t I?’
‘Who is it, Maisie?’ a voice called from upstairs.
‘A lady looking for a Miss Jensen, Ma,’ Maisie yelled back.
A plump, dark-haired matron in a chintz gown, a chubby baby on her hip and a question on her face, clattered down the stairs.
Foreboding quaked in Sylvia’s chest. She took a shaky breath. ‘My name is Sylvia Boisette. I’m here to see Mary Jensen.’
The woman shook her head. ‘She’s gone, miss. The landlady said she fell ill and her brother fetched her back to London more than five months ago.’
The entrance to the Sussex Hotel at the back of the promenade hummed with activity. Coaches rumbled in and out, grooms struggled with frisky teams, ostlers ran to and fro and passengers, rich and poor, milled around in controlled confusion in a yard rich with the smell of horse manure and stale ale.
Sylvia tried to make sense of the bustling chaos. She dug into her meagre store of small coins and gave a ha’ penny to the boy who had carried her trunk from Frog Lane.
He touched his cap and dashed off, whistling a merry tune.
Oh, to be so youthful and carefree. Sylvia couldn’t remember a time in her life when she hadn’t been anxious about something. She clutched her reticule to her, where the slip of paper with Mary’s new address, which the plump matron had given her, resided. And right now she was about to embark on an exceedingly risky course. Respectable females rarely travelled by common stage. But then she had never been considered respectable.
She had no option. She would not waste her small store of guineas on expensive modes of travel. Nor could she afford to lose them to footpads or pickpockets. Since no one in the yard appeared to notice her, she unlocked the trunk and hid the purse of guineas in its battered depths. Rising, she caught the eye of a passing lackey in brown livery.
‘Can I help you, miss?’
‘Please take my trunk inside.’
He moved aside to allow a gentleman and his lady to pass through the entrance into the lobby. ‘Have you a room bespoke, miss?’
‘I just need one small chamber.’
‘I dunno. You best check with the master. Your luggage will be safe enough with the porter while you go and see what Mr Garge has to say.’
He hefted her trunk on his shoulder and staggered to the stable entrance with Sylvia marching behind. He dropped it beside an elderly porter seated on a wooden box outside the mail-coach ticket office and storeroom. Another carriage rattled into the yard and the lackey raced off to meet it.
Sylvia smiled at the porter. ‘I plan to catch the first coach to London tomorrow morning. If you would be so good as to see my trunk is placed on it, I would be most grateful.’
A pair of twinkling brown eyes looked at her from beneath straggly grey brows and the weathered face creased into a smile. ‘I’ll be more than pleased to oblige, miss,’ he said. ‘You gets your ticket in there.’ He jerked his head towards the office.
‘Thank you.’ She gave him a penny and went inside to pay for her ticket. By the time she had completed her purchase and come outside, the porter had dispensed with her trunk. The door to the storeroom seemed sturdy and there were bars at the window. Hopefully, her money and her small cache of jewellery would be safe enough. Valise and hatbox in hand, she entered the inn.
One side of the wide entrance hall housed a counter. Across the way, a confusing array of doorways and passages led off in various directions. A bell sat next to the guest book on the counter. She rang it.
Moments later, a short, fat, florid-faced landlord in a black coat and striped waistcoat bustled out of the dining room door. ‘Good evening, miss. Can I be of assistance?’
‘Good evening. I will be catching the six o’clock stage tomorrow morning and require a single room for the night.’
‘The name, miss?’ he asked, running a stubby finger down the list in his book.
‘I do not have a reservation.’
He looked behind her as if he expected someone else. ‘How many in your party, miss? We are very busy today. I am not sure I can accommodate you.’
‘There’s no one else in my party.’
He frowned. ‘Didn’t you just arrive with this gentleman?’
Sylvia glanced over her shoulder. A young sprig of fashion in a many-caped driving coat and stiff shirt points swept through door.
‘I am travelling alone. I… My maid took ill at the last moment.’
The landlord lowered his beetle brows. ‘This inn’s for Quality and their womenfolk don’t travel alone. You’d best take yourself off to the Two Aitches.’
She blinked. She must have misheard. ‘Where?’
‘The Hare and Hounds, on the London Road. It has rooms for the likes of you. Now be off.’
The likes of her? Was her past somehow written on her forehead or branded on her cheek? Heat scorched through her veins. He had no right to treat her like some low-class female because she travelled alone and the last thing she wanted to do was wander the town looking for a room. ‘My good man—’
She drew herself up to her full height and pierced him with a cool stare. ‘You must have something. A small chamber will suffice.’
The landlord tapped a sausage of a finger on his reservation book. ‘Well, I might have something,’ he allowed. ‘Not a very big room and no private parlour. I’ll have to check with the missus.’
The gentleman behind her coughed and the harried landlord looked past her. ‘If you’ll just stand aside, miss, I’ll look after this here gentleman and then I’ll see what can be done.’
A hot admonition jumped to her tongue, instantly quelled. Forced to be patient or lose her only chance of a room, she drew back into the corner and watched as the innkeeper folded his stout body in half. ‘Lord Albert, how good to see you again. What will it be today, a private parlour? We’ve got a nice bit of roast beef on the spit that might take your fancy for dinner.’
The fashionably attired young dandy with an elaborately tied cravat and rouged cheeks caught Sylvia’s scornful glance over the landlord’s bowed head. He winked.
Her stomach dropped. Foolhardy indeed, if she attracted the attention of this young fop. She schooled her face into chilly disdain and stared at the opposite wall.
Undeterred, the dandy gestured in her direction. ‘Why, Garge, I believe this young, er…lady was here before me.’ He spoke with a pronounced lisp.
Garge’s face darkened. ‘I’m looking after her, sir. She has to wait until I have some time.’
From the corner of her eye, she watched Lord Albert’s gaze rake her from head to toe. Damn him for his impudence. Tapping her foot, she favoured him with her iciest stare.
His smile broadened. ‘Perhaps I can be of some assistance, miss? I’d be delighted to be of service.’ He giggled.
He actually giggled. Sylvia opened her mouth to give him a set-down,