Page 11 of Rules for Ruin (The Crinoline Academy #1)

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Effie spent the next several courses in conversation with Lord Mannering. It wasn’t by preference. Talking to each of one’s seat partners was a polite requirement at a dinner party. That much had been drilled into Effie’s head during Miss Pascal’s classes at the Academy.

“One must never commit the sin of speaking to only one seat partner all evening,” Miss Pascal had said. “Vary your partner, just as you vary your conversation.”

“If our seat partners are all men,” Gemma Sparrow had retorted with a mutinous scowl, “what conversation can possibly be had?”

“You may discuss the weather,” Miss Pascal had replied, unruffled. “Or the character of the wine.”

“Or the character sitting on your opposite side,” Gemma had said under her breath.

“On no account,” Miss Pascal had shot back sternly. “Never talk about other people. It is the mark of a small and common mind. And never discuss religion or the politics of the nation. Your opinions on such weighty subjects are your own concern. Don’t inflict them on strangers through the vehicle of speech. Your power lies in your ability to conceal.”

By that reckoning, Effie had just spent the first half of her meal giving away her power to Gabriel Royce. She’d been so thoroughly engaged in speaking with him, she hadn’t thought to conceal her feelings at all. Not on the subject of women’s welfare. She’d spoken to him candidly, honestly, and with a distinct lack of self-restraint.

If not for Miss Pascal’s dratted rules for dining etiquette, Effie would be speaking to Gabriel still. Indeed, their conversation had just started to get interesting.

He was, it transpired, exactly what she’d suspected him of being: a dangerous man. Worse, even. A merciless man, as he’d confessed himself.

And yet, nothing so straightforward as that. A true villain wouldn’t be attempting to reform the Rookery. He wouldn’t be here at all, subjecting himself to the snubs and slights of his supposed betters, all so he might gain influential patrons to affect his ideas for reform.

“A betting shop,” Lord Mannering confirmed in a low voice in Effie’s ear. “What does Compton mean by inviting him here? He may as well have invited my tailor and bootmaker as well.”

“You object to keeping company with working men?” Effie asked as she finished her small portion of curried lobster.

“I’m no relic,” Lord Mannering said. “I’m as open-minded as the next fellow. But I say…one doesn’t expect to meet a villain of that sort across the table. It puts a man off his feed.”

Effie hadn’t noticed any lack of appetite on his lordship’s part. He’d eaten everything placed in front of him with remarkable gusto. Effie herself had taken only a light sustenance. She didn’t want rich sauces and heavy starches weighing her down as she embarked on her mission this evening.

A gentleman’s study could be located anywhere in a house—downstairs, upstairs, or even in the attic. Time would be of the essence. Though Miss Compton had claimed her father would remain in the drawing room for the entire musicale, the viscount was only guaranteed to be fully occupied for as long as his daughter took to perform her aria. Any additional minutes after that would be a gift.

Effie would have to work quickly.

It was some relief Gabriel would be engaged in the library with Lord Haverford once the music started. Effie didn’t much fancy a repeat of what had happened when she was searching Compton’s desk during the ball. As it was, her path would be almost entirely clear. She’d only have to manage the servants, and that should be easy enough. Providing one of those servants wasn’t the Compton’s butler, Parker.

“Good thing m’sister didn’t come tonight,” Lord Mannering went on. “Shouldn’t have liked her to be exposed to the lower orders. Not that she’d object, mind. Always going to lectures and radical whatnot, she is.”

“Was she otherwise engaged this evening?” Effie asked.

“Some committee meeting or other. Claimed it couldn’t be missed. Not as if she’d be performing in any case. Ruth don’t like singing to people. She prefers talking at them.”

“I’m sorry not to see her again.” Effie meant it. It would be nice to have a like-minded acquaintance or two in town. Someone to talk to with something like candor. Thus far, she’d only revealed her views to Gabriel. A bluestocking, he’d called her. The name was surely tame in comparison to Effie’s and the other Academy girls’ true predilections.

“Will you be performing this evening, Miss Flite?” Lord Mannering asked.

“Indeed not,” Effie replied. “I rarely perform for strangers.”

As she spoke, she felt the weight of Gabriel’s gaze. He’d looked at her more than once since she’d turned her attention to Lord Mannering. Doubtless he was bored. The lady on his left was Miss Whitbread. What they could have to converse about was anyone’s guess.

“But you do play and sing?” Lord Mannering asked.

“A very little,” she said. “I prefer needlework.”

It was lately the truth. On the rare nights when she and Lady Belwood weren’t engaged elsewhere, Effie had been spending her evenings working on a series of samplers. They contained the alphabet in neat lines at the bottom, various scenes from town at the top, and the requisite raven with its white-tipped wing.

Effie didn’t enjoy the exercise as much as Nell surely did, but the samplers were ready should Effie require them. All that remained was to add in the necessary code. It could be numbers stitched outright, or numbers displayed in the form of a flock of birds, depending on the length of the message. To make it less easy for strangers to solve should the sampler fall into the wrong hands, the special girls at the Academy knew to transpose threes and sixes, nines and twelves, and the letters E and W.

With luck, Effie would be sending off a sampler to Nell within a day. It all hinged on what she might find in Compton’s study.

After the final course had been served, and the guests had partaken of even more wine, Lady Compton rose from her place at the top of the table and signaled for the ladies to join her in retiring to the salon for coffee. The gentleman stood, remaining on their feet until the ladies had withdrawn from the room. As Effie passed Gabriel, their eyes met. There was no sign of warmth or familiarity in his gaze. To be sure, he looked at her rather as he had on the first occasion they’d met. There was a certain coldness and distance about him, which she hoped was more for the other guests’ benefit than it was for her alone.

Either way, it was the least of Effie’s concerns. She had her visit to the library with Miss Compton to get through, and then a short period spent with the other ladies in the salon, before she could set her plan in motion.

Miss Compton dutifully—and rather impatiently—collected Effie on the way out of the dining room. “We don’t have long,” she said.

True to her word, her tour of the library was both brief and perfunctory. Effie had expected nothing less. She wandered obediently behind her young hostess, taking private note of the room’s cabinets, corners, and groupings of overstuffed leather sofas and chairs. Among them was the same chair Gabriel had been seated in last week, watching her from across the room, his face lit by the infernal smolder of his cigarette. A prickle of awareness lifted the fine hairs on the back of Effie’s neck to recall it.

But the library wasn’t dark this time, and there was no ravening wolf lurking in the shadows. The gaslights were turned up, revealing a room that was, in essentials, no different from the libraries in dozens of other fine houses.

“These are the books you were asking about,” Miss Compton said boredly. She indicated a single row of ten large, flat-spined leather volumes lining a shelf near the fireplace. “Dry old things, and all in Latin. Heaven knows what they’re about. Some long-dead flora or fauna, I’m told.”

Effie joined Miss Compton at the shelf. She didn’t have to feign interest. Old books were a subject of fascination to her. “May I?” she asked.

Miss Compton granted her permission with a flick of her white hand. “If you wish.”

Effie carefully extracted one of the tall books from the shelf. The medieval binding was sewn on with some manner of cord. It was infinitely fragile in her hand as she opened it. The book’s thin vellum pages were equally fragile—as delicate as butterfly wings. She handled them with care, turning to the book’s first page. It contained a small illumination. Time had faded it, but the image of a man, a snake, a raven, and a lion was still discernable. The illustration was surrounded by handwritten text.

Effie had been taught enough Latin at the Academy to decipher some of the words. “It’s a translation of Aristotle’s Historia Animalium. ”

Miss Compton lifted her brows. “I wouldn’t know.”

Effie turned another dry page and another, examining the images and the words. A faint fragrance stirred from within the bindings. The smell of ash, smoke, and leather. And something else.

It was a scent Effie knew, but couldn’t seem to recall. A trace of dusky floral intrigue, edged with the unmistakable sweetness of decay.

“Where did your father find such treasures?” Effie asked.

Miss Compton was occupied in smoothing her skirts. She cast the book a disinterested glance. “They’ve been in our family for generations.”

“Hmm.” Closing the book, Effie slowly returned it to the shelf. Whatever the fragrance was that had tugged at her memory, it was of little consequence at present. She had a more important mystery to solve. “I’m astonished your father doesn’t keep them in his study,” she said, “as precious as they are.”

“It would hardly be convenient for guests to view them there,” Miss Compton replied as though Effie were a half-wit.

“Oh?” Effie gave her young hostess a suitably guileless look. “Is his study so far removed from the rest of the house?”

“It’s adjacent to his bedchamber.” Miss Compton moved toward the door with sharp impatience. “If you’re quite finished?”

Effie’s mouth curved into a slow smile. “Not quite. But don’t worry. I shan’t keep you any longer.” She followed Miss Compton into the hall.

Miss Compton looked back at her with grudging civility. “If those old books truly interest you, you may come again another day. My father wouldn’t mind it, and I daresay you and I will be seeing more of each other during the season. The connection is scarcely avoidable.”

Effie registered the insult, but took no offense from it. She must have a reason to return here, and no number of balls or dinners would ever provide sufficient enough excuse. For that, she needed to cultivate an acquaintance with Compton’s daughter. “I should like that very much,” she replied.

She and Miss Compton returned to the salon. By that time, the gentlemen had joined the ladies, along with dozens of other guests who had come expressly to hear the music.

Effie didn’t see Gabriel in the crowd. Nor could she find Lord Haverford. She presumed they had already taken themselves off to have their discussion about St. Giles.

That was one problem dealt with.

She accompanied Lady Belwood to the drawing room for the musical portion of the evening. Best to keep near her hostess for this part. It was less risk than sitting with Miss Whitbread or Lady Lavinia, either of whom might take undue notice when Effie slipped away.

The Comptons’ large, Japanese silk–papered drawing room had been transformed for the event. The doors between it and the connecting room had been thrown open, making one enormous, high-ceilinged space. Row upon row of upholstered chairs were arrayed around a makeshift stage on which stood a piano and a harp. Two footmen at the entrance of the room distributed printed programs to each of the guests as they entered.

Effie urged Lady Belwood to a pair of straight-backed chairs near the exit.

“So far from the stage,” Lady Belwood said. “Should we not sit closer?”

“No indeed,” Effie replied, taking her seat. “These chairs are perfect.”

Lady Belwood appeared doubtful, but she didn’t argue. Sitting down beside Effie, she opened her program. “Oh, look! Miss Compton is singing ‘Com’è bello! Quale incanto.’?”

“How delightful.” Effie opened her own program, perusing the order of pieces to be performed. Four young ladies were preceding Miss Compton with lighter works, and several more would come after her, singing both classical and popular pieces in solos and duets.

Glancing up from her program, Effie scanned the crowd for Lord Compton. She found him by the door on the opposite side of the room. He appeared just as solemn and respectable as on the previous occasions they’d met. There was no sign of the monster lurking within. Except…

Except that earlier, when he’d come to greet his daughter in the salon, he’d given Effie the same variety of ominous, glittering look he’d bestowed on her at the ball and at Hatchards. A look that only seemed to increase in heat each time Effie crossed his path.

Whatever else he was hiding, Lord Compton couldn’t hide he was attracted to her.

It wasn’t a crime in and of itself. Still, it was something.

He stood across the room, the gracious host, poised next to his fashionable wife as she smiled and fluttered her fan. They remained on their feet until all their guests were seated. Only then did Lord Compton sit down in the first row.

Effie breathed an inward sigh of relief. There would be no missing him there. So long as he remained as he’d promised his daughter, Effie would count it safe for her to leave.

Lady Compton mounted the stage, her crystal-beaded silk dinner dress glimmering in the candlelight. She introduced the first performer—an insipid-looking child barely out of the schoolroom. Her accompanists joined her on the stage, one on the piano and one playing the violin. Her stilted performance was followed by another young lady and then another, possessed of varying degrees of talent.

Effie bided her time. Only when Carena Compton was standing atop the stage, and her three accompanists along with her, did Effie prepare to make her move.

The first notes of the aria from Lucrezia Borgia sounded, and Miss Compton’s mouth opened in impeccably trained harmony. She had a fine soprano voice. Rather more than fine, if Effie was being generous. The guests sat up straight in their seats, some leaning forward, listening to the hypnotic notes of the aria with rapt attention.

Effie chose that very moment to touch a hand to her hair. “Oh no,” she breathed.

Lady Belwood gave her a distracted glance. “Is something wrong?”

“I’ve lost one of my hairpins,” Effie said.

Lady Belwood flashed a dubious look at the cut glass dragonflies in Effie’s hair. “Have you?”

“I had three of them and now there are only two.” Effie lowered her voice to an urgent whisper. “I believe I know where I left it. If you will excuse me?”

“Must you go looking for it now ?”

“I won’t be five minutes.” Clutching her skirts in her hand, Effie stood and, as Miss Compton hit a high note, slipped silently out the doors of the drawing room.

A small crowd of servants had gathered in the hall to listen to the music. At the sight of Effie emerging, they scattered like a herd of frightened deer. Parker wasn’t among their number. Effie’s heartbeat quickened. If he wasn’t here, where was he?

There wasn’t time to discover it.

She walked purposefully toward the stairs. As she moved to ascend them, she was nearly bowled over by a harried housemaid racing down the steps with her sewing box.

“Beg pardon, miss!” the servant gasped, coming to an unsteady halt.

Effie recognized her. It was the younger of the two maids who had been attending to Miss Compton’s torn hem earlier. “Not at all,” she said. “Where are you off to in such a rush?”

“The ladies’ retiring room,” the maid replied. “Lady Fiona is performing after Miss Compton, and she’s just discovered that the trimming on her sleeve has come loose.”

“An emergency to be sure.” Effie mounted the stairs. “Don’t let me keep you.”

The maid flashed a desperate look toward the ladies’ retiring room as she followed in Effie’s wake. “Do you need help with something?”

“Nothing to trouble you.” Effie glanced back with a smile of explanation. “I believe I may have left my jeweled hairpin in Miss Compton’s room.”

“Shall I send Miss Meacham to assist you? She’s in the retiring room, but—”

“No, indeed. I can retrieve it easily enough myself.” Effie paused. “Providing you remind me which door it is?”

The maid’s brow puckered. “Fourth from the right, miss.”

“Thank you.” Effie affected a look of relief as she entered the upstairs hall. “I thought I’d recognize it myself, but you know how it is in a house of this size. All the doors look alike.” She again smiled back at the maid. “I shouldn’t like to wander into his lordship’s room by mistake.”

The maid gave a weak smile in return. “No danger of that, miss. The master’s room is at the end of the hall.” She hovered at the top of the steps. “Are you certain you don’t need—”

“Never mind me,” Effie said. “Hadn’t you best make haste to Lady Fiona? She’d never forgive either of us if she was obliged to perform with a loose piece of trimming.”

Relief washed over the maid’s worried face. She bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, miss,” she said gratefully, and turning, she dashed back down the steps with her sewing box clasped in front of her.

Effie waited until the maid was gone from sight before continuing down the hall. If Lord Compton’s private study was adjacent to his bedchamber, the door to that chamber was the obvious point of access. She headed for it with single-minded intent. It was a large door. One that rather put her in mind of the door to Bluebeard’s chamber.

And well it should.

Herein slept the man who had stolen Miss Corvus’s fortune. Who had tricked her and betrayed her, and who—if permitted to—might use his position to affect the safety and security of all women. Effie had her own private reasons for wishing his destruction, but she was still keenly sensitive to the larger picture.

She stopped at the door and listened, one hand resting lightly on the doorknob. There was no sound from within. If Parker or his lordship’s valet were inside, they were taking pains to disguise their presence, and Effie knew of no reason why they should.

Steeling herself, she opened the door to Compton’s room and entered.