Page 14 of Rules for Ruin (The Crinoline Academy #1)

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Effie posted her first sampler to the Academy the following morning. It contained no lengthy message, only a single line that could be deciphered in code: HE HAS A MISTRESS .

Even as she dispatched the parcel to the London post office with one of Lady Belwood’s footmen, Effie knew the effort to be in vain. What man of rank didn’t keep a mistress? So long as he was discreet, his peers forgave him the sin.

Then again, not every man was known as Lord Solomon.

Effie was resolved to go to Ellis Street on Thursday to confirm her suspicions. She would see if there was any intelligence there worth relaying to Miss Corvus. In the meanwhile, Effie had other lines of inquiry to pursue, both for the Academy and for herself.

She was in her bedroom, collecting her hat and gloves, preparing to leave Brook Street with Franc, when one of the Belwoods’ housemaids tapped on the door. It was Mary.

“Beg pardon, Miss Flite,” she said, “but you have a caller.”

Effie paused in the act of putting on her little jet-trimmed black velvet hat. “At this hour?” It was half past ten in the morning. She wasn’t accustomed to receiving callers until one. “Who is it?”

“It’s Miss Compton,” Mary said. “I’ve put her in the drawing room. Shall I bring in tea for you?”

Effie frowned. Carena Compton? What on earth could she want? And why could it not wait until normal receiving hours?

But there was no avoiding the troublesome call. To be sure, Effie might well turn such an inconvenience to her benefit. She was, after all, at pains to cultivate an acquaintance with the arrogant girl.

“Tea would be excellent,” Effie said. “Thank you, Mary. Please tell Miss Compton I shall be down directly.”

“Yes, miss.” Mary curtsied before withdrawing, closing the door after her.

Casting aside her hat and tugging off her gloves, Effie unclasped Franc’s lead from his collar. The little poodle looked up at her with profound disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” she told him. “Our outing will have to be postponed.”

His lips quivered in a semblance of a snarl.

“My thoughts exactly,” Effie said. She picked him up and placed him on the bed. “Perhaps a nap until I return?”

Franc grudgingly went to Effie’s pillow.

“Faire le tour,” she encouraged him.

He obediently turned three times in a circle before lying down. His sides heaved with a weary sigh.

Effie felt the sentiment echo in her own weary soul. Too many of the preceding days had been spent in stifling drawing rooms, parlors, and ballrooms, cramped together with other ladies and gentlemen under the gaslights.

It hadn’t been without purpose. With every introduction made to her, every conversation she had and every dance she shared, Effie was gaining a greater and greater foothold into London society. People were beginning to see her as one of them. To accept her and—more importantly—to include her.

This was why Miss Corvus had summoned her back from Paris. Not because Effie was the most impressive of the girls at searching rooms or breaking into locked desks, but because Effie knew how to be a lady. She could blend in with the fashionable elite, move among them, be one of them.

For now, it was as much her job as it had been being lady’s companion to Madame Dalhousie. Effie consoled herself that at least this position had a worthy prize at the end of it—her complete independence. It was no minor thing. On the contrary. It was everything .

She gave Franc a consoling scratch on the head. “One day soon,” she promised him, “you and I will be at liberty to do as we please.”

But not today.

Smoothing her cherry red caraco jacket and giving her black poplin skirts a shake, she departed her bedchamber and descended the stairs to the drawing room.

Miss Compton was seated on the tufted settee, clad in a berry-colored silk dress trimmed with a staggering amount of pink chenille fringe. She stood when Effie entered.

“Miss Compton,” Effie said, exchanging a curtsy with the girl. “This is a surprise.”

Miss Compton’s beautiful face was unsmiling. She opened her fringe-trimmed reticule. “I came to return this to you.” She extracted Effie’s dragonfly pin.

Effie affected a look of relief, even as her senses sharpened with alertness. “You found it? How splendid.” Taking the pin from Miss Compton, Effie blithely tucked it into one of the side rolls of her upswept coiffure, placing it alongside the dragonfly hairpin that was already there. She was never without one. “Thank you for returning it to me.” She gestured for Miss Compton to sit. “But you needn’t have brought it yourself, surely.”

Miss Compton resumed her seat on the settee. “I presumed it was something of value to you, else you wouldn’t have been searching my rooms for it during the musicale.”

Effie smiled. She had nothing to hide in that regard. It was the whole reason she’d left the hairpin behind. Its presence had given her an excuse to poke about upstairs during the musicale. “It’s of great value to me.” She sat down across from her. “I was quite distressed when I couldn’t find it.”

“Sentimental value, I expect you mean. For it’s only cut glass.” Miss Compton’s eyes took on a spiteful gleam. “Or perhaps you weren’t aware?”

Effie’s smile remained, undimmed. Of course, she knew it was glass. All of her hairpins, brooches, and ornaments were similarly made. She could afford nothing else.

It didn’t mean she must forsake her love of fine things. Even if it was only playacting at being a lady of wealth and refinement. The desire was no less real. To be a well-to-do lady was to have beautiful clothes. To eat delicately iced petits fours and pastel-colored macarons. To smell of French parfum and to ride in lacquered carriages with velvet-upholstered seats. Being a lady meant safety, satiety, luxury.

If Effie hadn’t a weakness for the accoutrements of the role, she wouldn’t be here. Miss Corvus had recognized that weakness only too well. It’s why she’d promised that, if Effie was successful in her mission, she could keep all of her clothes.

“Sentimental is exactly how I would describe my attachment to it,” Effie said. “I was certain it must have fallen on the floor of your dressing room. Is that where you found it?”

“It wasn’t on the floor. It had slipped between the cushions of a chair. My maid, Meacham, discovered it last night before I retired.”

“Then you must convey my thanks to Miss Meacham.” Effie paused for a long moment, still holding Miss Compton’s challenging gaze. “Is that the only reason you’ve come?”

“No,” Miss Compton said, raising her chin a notch. “It is not.” She said nothing more, only glared at Effie with a look of kindling fury.

She plainly expected Effie to question her further on the subject, or—more likely—for Effie to offer up some clumsy, premature apology for whatever imagined offense she’d caused.

Effie did neither.

A taut silence vibrated between them.

Effie felt no great urgency to fill it. There was power in saying nothing. It generally prompted one’s opponent to stumble into the conversational breach, saying too much. Revealing too much.

In the end, Miss Compton couldn’t resist.

“You left the drawing room during my performance,” she said accusingly.

Effie’s brows lifted slightly.

“And I know you weren’t searching for that hairpin, for you didn’t return until the end of the musicale.” Twin spots of color blazed in Miss Compton’s cheeks. “Neither did Lord Mannering.”

Ah.

Effie began to understand. “Oh?” she replied. “Were we the only ones absent?”

Miss Compton’s gloved hands clenched into fists on her lap. “There were others,” she acknowledged. “But you and Lord Mannering have a prior connection. You were sat next to him at dinner.”

“For that, you must blame your mother. I had no control of the seating arrangement.”

“It isn’t only his placement at the table. It’s what’s been happening while I’ve been in Hampshire.”

Effie recalled Miss Compton referencing Lord Mannering and Lord Powell when Effie had come to her dressing room. Something about Effie entertaining the two gentlemen in Miss Compton’s absence. Then, Effie had presumed the comment to be cattiness. Now, she recognized it as jealousy.

“Do you deny that he’s called on you here?” Miss Compton asked with building impatience. “And more than once?”

“Cordial visits made during Lady Belwood’s receiving hours,” Effie said dismissively. “There have been many such calls since I arrived in London.”

“Doubtless there have been. And doubtless someone will have told you that Lord Mannering and I have had a secret understanding for nearly a year.”

Effie resisted remarking that it couldn’t be very secret if everyone knew about it. “Indeed, they have not,” she said instead. “And even if they had, it wouldn’t have changed my behavior.”

The color in Miss Compton’s cheeks darkened. “So, you admit it.”

“That I’ve met the gentleman? Yes. It doesn’t follow that I have designs on the poor man.”

“Then where did you go during the musicale? Where did he go?”

“Perhaps he went to play billiards?” Effie suggested. “Or to smoke a cigar? Or perhaps he was availing himself of the necessary?”

Miss Compton flushed scarlet. It was the height of indelicacy to mention anything even remotely related to the privy.

Effie gave her a faint look of sympathy. There was no point in baiting the girl. And no sport in it, either. Miss Compton may have wealth and power, but in this moment, she was wholly at the mercy of her own emotions. It didn’t serve Effie’s aims to prolong her misery.

“I can think of a dozen reasons he might have left the drawing room, and none of them have anything to do with me searching for my hairpin,” Effie said. “Indeed, if I were a betting sort, I’d wager he was in the library with Mr.Royce and Lord Haverford, discussing their charitable endeavors.”

“Mr.Royce?” Miss Compton was incredulous. “That strange man my father invited? The one with the pale dead eyes?”

A twinge of indignation took Effie unaware. She had thought the same about Gabriel’s eyes on first meeting him. His gaze had been so cold, glassy, and distant—almost cruel in its detachment. But she didn’t like to hear anyone else describing him so, particularly this spoiled young lady. Not now that Effie knew him better. And not after what had happened between them on the terrace.

Effie had been up half the night replaying the kiss they’d shared.

And not only the kiss.

She had relived the way he’d rescued her, too, both cursing her helplessness and puzzling over his gentleness. The way he’d braced her with his body on the wisteria. The strength of his arms. The fierce burr of his voice in her ear as he’d returned her safely to solid ground.

She hadn’t seen him after they parted in the garden. He’d never returned to the musicale. He’d simply gone, leaving behind his ominous promise: “I’ll find you again.”

Even now, it made her knees quiver to think of it. Her knees , for heaven’s sake!

“Is that man involved in a charitable scheme with Lord Haverford?” Miss Compton asked.

“I believe he is,” Effie said. “Is Lord Mannering a charitable fellow? You know him far better than I.”

“He concerns himself with charitable matters, naturally.”

“There you are, then.”

A frown creased Miss Compton’s brow. “I suppose you might be right.”

Mary silently entered carrying the tea tray. It held a silver tea service, a set of painted porcelain cups and saucers, and a plate containing what appeared to be a small seedcake. She brought it to them.

Effie smiled again. “Thank you, Mary,” she said. “You may put it down here.”

“Yes, miss.”

“I hadn’t intended to linger,” Miss Compton said after the maid departed.

“Nonsense,” Effie replied. “You must tell me all about your understanding with Lord Mannering.” She reached for the silver teapot to pour out their tea. “Do you know, I suspected he had a prior attachment. On the few occasions I met him, he had a faraway look in his eyes, as though he was thinking of someone else.”

Some of the tension left Miss Compton’s face. “Did he?”

“Assuredly so. But tell me, why such a long engagement?”

Miss Compton’s hands slowly unclenched. “Papa doesn’t approve of him for me,” she said. “Something about Lord Mannering having unfavorable vices.”

“Oh?” Effie passed her a cup of tea. She remembered Gabriel saying that Lord Mannering had once been at his mercy. If that were so, his lordship’s vice must have to do with gambling. “I wouldn’t have believed so.”

“Nor do I believe it,” Miss Compton said, accepting the cup. “And nor does my mother. She agrees that someone as handsome and affable as his lordship is would never behave in an ungentlemanlike manner.”

Effie wasn’t sure what handsomeness had to do with it. “So, you continue to hold out hope?”

“I see no reason I shouldn’t.” Miss Compton took a sip of her tea. “Do you expect him today?”

“I don’t expect anyone,” Effie said. “I’m still so very new here. Every visit is a surprise.”

Miss Compton’s eyes narrowed. “If he does come—”

“I shall talk only of you,” Effie promised.

“And if he should ask you to join him for a drive or a walk in the park—”

“I shall suggest we make a foursome of it with you and…” Effie stopped. “Who else should I mention inviting?”

“Mr.Royce or Lord Haverford, I daresay, if they’re involved in a charity together.” Miss Compton lowered her cup. “I far prefer Lord Haverford, though he is old and stuffy.”

“Excellent,” Effie said. “We have a plan.”

Having satisfied herself that Effie was in some small degree an ally rather than an out-and-out rival, Miss Compton soon departed. Effie bid her good day with a sense of accomplishment. She was gradually managing to assemble the necessary pieces on the board. One of the most important of those pieces was Carena Compton.

A friendship with her would enable Effie to visit Lord Compton’s house in Grosvenor Square with regularity. It would also, with a little strategy, result in Effie obtaining an invitation to Rawdon Court. All Effie had to do was use Miss Compton effectively. It shouldn’t be difficult, given the lady’s weaknesses.

After finishing her tea, Effie returned to her room, where she donned her hat, gloves, and mantle, and collected Franc. Within ten minutes, they were out the door, walking down Brook Street together, Effie’s hat ribbons fluttering and Franc prancing ahead of her at the end of his lead.

She turned down Park Street, and from thence to Upper Grosvenor Street, avoiding the necessity of passing Grosvenor Square. From there, she hailed a hackney to take her and Franc as far as the Strand. Their destination was some three miles distance. Effie had studied the route on her map this morning before getting dressed. On arriving there, she and Franc disembarked from the hackney, heading toward Fleet Street with a purposeful step.

She was gradually learning her way about London. That was the first rule nearly fulfilled. Know your surroundings.

And she already had the third rule mastered. She knew herself. Her strengths, her weaknesses, her prevailing desire. She wanted to secure a decisive victory for women. What Academy girl didn’t? She also wanted— desperately wanted—a home of her own, safe and snug somewhere with Franc, beholden to no one.

It was the second rule that was proving difficult. Know your opponent.

But just who was her opponent? Was it Lord Compton? Or was it Gabriel Royce?

After their kiss last night on the terrace, she’d been too flustered to consider the matter properly, but the stark light of morning had brought cold common sense. He’d kissed her, yes. And he’d enjoyed kissing her, obviously. But that didn’t preclude him being her enemy. Indeed, the kiss itself may have been the first shot fired in the battle to come.

“You don’t want me to act, my lady,” he’d warned her that night in Compton’s library.

Had this been the action he’d been threatening? But if it had, why had she seen a crack in his cold facade? That brief, flickering glimmer of baffled vulnerability? It made her stomach tremble to recall it.

She shook off the feeling, refocusing her attention on the task at hand. Tipping her head back, she gazed up at the gray stone building ahead. A painted sign proclaimed its name: The London Courant .

“Ah,” she said to Franc. “Here we are.”