Page 17 of Rules for Ruin (The Crinoline Academy #1)

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Effie sat alone in the back of the hired hackney at the corner of Ellis and Sloane Streets. The thought of how much money she was expending in cab fare ticked steadily at the back of her mind. But there was nothing for it. She didn’t know the precise time on Thursday mornings that Lord Compton arrived at his mistress’s house for their weekly tryst. Indeed, she wasn’t even entirely sure this was his mistress’s house.

It stood at the end of the street, as commonplace as the homes that surrounded it. None were too grand, neither were they overly modest. They were just the sort of respectable, vaguely elegant brick homes one would expect on the fringes of fashionable London. A perfect place for a busy politician to house his mistress. It was but two miles from Westminster.

Effie had already been watching the house for nearly an hour, waiting for the viscount’s carriage to arrive. It was a good thing she’d hired a hackney rather than resorting to her original plan—strolling the street with Franc. While it might have been nice to obtain a closer view, one couldn’t walk a poodle up and down the same street for an hour without drawing unwanted attention.

As it was, Effie hoped to remain invisible. She’d worn her widow’s weeds and veil again. And there was enough through traffic, both by riders and passing carriages, that a hackney parked at the end of the street shouldn’t draw too much notice.

She was just beginning to doubt her plan when a glossy black carriage entered the street. Leaning forward in her seat, Effie peered out the greasy window of the hackney. The carriage had no crest or other insignia on its side. It was unmarked—and unidentifiable. It was an expensive vehicle for all that, from the luster of its paint to the sheen on the copper coats of its perfectly matched set of bays.

Effie knew how much Compton enjoyed his luxuries.

She held her breath as the carriage slowed to a halt at the end of the street, stopping in front of the very address Effie had found in the lease agreement. She tried her best to discern the carriage’s occupant. Drat it! They were too far away.

There was no time to waste. Coming to a swift decision, Effie pulled the black net veil of her bonnet down over her face, collected her parasol, and opened the door of the hackney. “Wait for me,” she said as she stepped down into the street unassisted.

“Right-o, ma’am,” the aged jarvey said with a weary tip of his hat.

Effie crossed to the same side of the street as the house. She walked toward it with an even step—neither too fast, nor too slow. There weren’t enough other people out strolling to hide her presence, but there was some activity. Children were playing nearby under the care of a pinafore-clad nurse, and several footmen were busily occupied sweeping doorsteps and polishing brass knockers.

Still a distance away, she watched as the hulking driver of the luxurious carriage jumped down from the box. He shot a look up and down the street before turning to open the carriage door.

Effie’s heart stopped beating. It was Parker, Compton’s butler. She’d know his ogreish countenance anywhere. She came to an immediate halt.

Good gracious. Had he seen her?

He undoubtedly had. But he hadn’t appeared to recognize her, or register her as a threat. If he had done, he wouldn’t be helping his master down from the carriage.

Compton emerged, the high collar of his wool overcoat pulled up to shield his face, and the brim of his gray silk top hat tugged down over his eyes. Despite his efforts to obscure his identity, it was indeed the viscount. Even a glimpse of his profile was enough for Effie to identify him.

Like his manservant, Compton cast a glance up and down the street.

In the same moment, Effie opened her parasol and, tilting it to camouflage her upper body, turned toward the brick residence next to her. It was but five houses away from where Compton stood. A young footman holding a broom was at the top of the steps. A cloud of dust billowed around him.

“Did I get you, ma’am?” he asked anxiously.

Effie smiled up at him from behind her veil. “Only a little,” she lied. “My skirts can withstand it.” As she spoke, she tipped her parasol back an inch, just far enough to watch Compton walk to the door of the house.

“I didn’t see you there,” the footman said, “or I’d never have swept at you.”

Compton rapped on the door. It was at once opened—and not by a servant. A striking lady in a lace-trimmed peach morning gown leaned out to greet him. Her hair was black and her skin porcelain pale. She grasped the lapel of his coat with one ruffle-draped hand, drawing him into the house. The door shut behind them. Parker returned to the carriage, still surveying the street with a scowl.

“Pray don’t regard it,” Effie replied to the footman absently. She turned her head to him. “Indeed, perhaps you might help me.”

The young footman came down the steps to join her, still holding his broom. He was in his shirtsleeves. An intelligent-looking lad, but rather young for his position. “Yes, ma’am?”

“I fear I’ve got my street numbers turned around. Does the house at the end of the street not belong to Mrs.Gibbons?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I was sure the lady I just observed was she.”

“No, ma’am,” the footman said again. “That’s Mrs.Naismith.”

“Not Debra Naismith?” Effie asked, taking a stab in the dark.

“Can’t say for certain,” he replied, chewing his lip. “But I think it’s Dora, not Debra. I can ask the housekeeper—”

“No, no,” Effie said hurriedly. “It’s my mistake.” She cast a lost look back at the hackney. “I seem to be at the wrong end of Cadogan Place.”

The young man’s face lit with understanding. “There’s your trouble, ma’am. This is Ellis Street. Cadogan Place is that way.” He pointed in the opposite direction.

“Good heavens,” Effie said. “My driver must have misunderstood my directions.” She withdrew a coin from her reticule, placing it into his hand. “I’m obliged to you.”

“Happy to help.” He doffed his cap to her.

Effie felt Parker’s gaze burning into her back as she returned to the corner. It wasn’t because he knew her, she told herself; it was merely that she was an object of curiosity. Her pulse nevertheless jumped with every step, fully expecting that Parker would overtake her and—

She knew not what.

All she knew was that she had no desire to find out.

She could defend herself well enough, it was true, but even so…Parker was a large man, and despite her exhortations to Gabriel about the value of inventiveness and the power of surprise, brute strength at its utmost was still a force to be reckoned with.

The jarvey awaited her ahead, hunched on his perch. He appeared to be dozing.

Effie strode up to the door of the hackney. She was just about to open it when she caught sight of a familiar figure strolling past on Sloane Street. It was that odious boy! The one who had followed her to the Rookery that day.

Her temper flared.

“Another moment,” she said to the jarvey. He snuffled in reply as she marched off after the lad.

He was wearing dark trousers and a neatly buttoned dark coat, and held a brown paper–wrapped parcel in his hand. He wasn’t doing a very good job of following her this time. If he were, she wouldn’t have been able to get behind him.

“Well, well,” she said quietly, overtaking him halfway down Sloane Street. “If it isn’t my chivalrous St. Giles shadow.”

The lad spun around with a start. He gaped at her. “Miss Flite!”

“I thought it was you,” she said. “No, don’t run. I’m not going to hurt you. Though I do have a mind to box your ears.”

He flinched, backing up a step.

Effie closed the distance. “How dare your master send you to follow me again? I should have thought he’d learned his lesson.”

“I’m not following you! I swear it. I work here.” He jerked his head in the direction of a handsome red brick house with a black-painted door. “I’ve just come from fetching a new pair of gloves for Mr.Royce in Bond Street. I didn’t even know you was anywhere near here!”

A dawning suspicion came over Effie. She stared up at the tall house. “That isn’t…?”

“Mr.Royce’s residence in town,” the lad confirmed. “He ain’t there now, but he’ll be back this evening.”

Effie’s gaze drifted over the elegant brick facade. A strange tremor went through her—the slightest trilling of butterfly wings. It was an odd sensation, and one totally incongruous to her present occupation. But to think that this was his home . Where he entertained his friends. Where he dined. Where he slept .

She hadn’t really imagined Gabriel living anywhere. Certainly not someplace as traditional as this. He was so vital. So dangerous. And yet, he doubtless maintained the same habits as other gentlemen, reading the paper over his morning coffee or indulging in a glass of port after dinner. He obviously shaved over a washstand at the start of his day, and he inevitably retired at night to a bed somewhere. If not here, then—

No.

No.

She didn’t wish to think of him in someone else’s bed. Not after the kiss they’d shared, and the friendship they’d almost had.

But almost was as bad as never. The end result was precisely the same.

Effie willed the butterflies in her stomach to cease fluttering their wings. They went still at her command. She had the grim idea that she’d killed them.

Oh, why must she be at odds with him when she liked him so much? Why must he be Compton’s protector, and not the viscount’s enemy like she was?

It wasn’t fair.

But nothing was fair.

Effie collected herself. “You’re his house servant, are you?”

“His valet. And I truly ain’t following you,” he said again. “Not after you spotted me like you did.”

“No, I suppose not,” she allowed. “Your master will have sent someone else to do the job.”

Gabriel had admitted as much two days ago during their confrontation in Hyde Park. How else could he have known that Effie visited the Courant ?

The lad lowered his eyes with a sheepish flush. “I don’t know about that.”

“Forgive me if I take your professed ignorance with a grain of salt.” She looked the boy up and down. His hair was lank, and his face slightly spotty, but he didn’t appear neglected. “What’s your name? Ollie, isn’t it?”

“Ollie O’Cleary, miss.”

“Well, Ollie O’Cleary,” she said, donning her most severe expression. “You be sure to tell anyone else your master sends my way that I see everything , and I don’t take kindly to spies.”

“Yes, miss.” Ollie shifted from foot to foot, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

“That’s all,” Effie said, adding ominously, “For now.”

Ollie immediately bolted off to Gabriel’s house.

Effie didn’t remain to watch him go in. She returned to the hackney on the corner, settling safe in the cab. She could just make out Parker at the end of the street, still waiting with the carriage while Compton finished his lascivious business.

The swine.

Effie leaned back in her seat as the jarvey returned her to Brook Street. She was in a foul mood. Both frustrated and heartsick. Angry, too, though she didn’t know at whom.

Still, the morning hadn’t been a complete waste of her time. She’d learned the name of Compton’s mistress, as well as the lady’s address and the time of their weekly assignations. Mrs.Dora Naismith, a woman with the same striking coloring as Miss Corvus. Apparently, Compton had a weakness for raven-haired beauties. Which put Effie in a strong position, all things considered.

And Mrs.Naismith’s name wasn’t the only information Effie had garnered.

Like it or not—useful or not—she now knew where Gabriel lived.

· · ·

Gabriel’s address proved to be of value to Effie much sooner than she had anticipated.

Later that afternoon, during Lady Belwood’s receiving hours, Lord Mannering called with his sister, Ruth.

Effie had just completed her latest sampler and sent it off to the Academy. It had spelled out Dora Naismith’s name in code. Whether that name would mean anything to Miss Corvus, Effie could only guess.

After straightening her skirts and smoothing her hair, she joined Lady Belwood to greet their guests in the drawing room. Her ladyship was often present when Effie had visitors. It was as much out of anxiety, Effie suspected, as out of a desire to provide proper chaperonage. She sat down beside Effie on the settee as Lord Mannering and his sister took their seats on the brocade sofa opposite. Formal calls were brief affairs, lasting only between ten and twenty minutes. Most visitors didn’t even remain long enough for a cup of tea.

“We’ve come on a mission,” Lord Mannering said, his hat and gloves in hand. “Tell her, Ruth.”

Miss Mannering was sensibly clad in a plain brown wool dress, with no visible sign of a wire crinoline. The older of the pair, she had the look of a girl who had been cursed with far more intelligence than her male relations and had long been obliged to endure their prattling with good grace. “My brother has got it into his head to attend Mr.Galezzo’s high-wire performance at Cremorne Gardens tomorrow evening. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Effie wasn’t acquainted with Mr.Galezzo’s act, but she’d often read about Cremorne Gardens. It was a famous twelve-acre pleasure garden located on the northern bank of the Thames. The newspapers regularly featured stories on the entertainments offered there, everything from its famous Chinese dancing pagoda to concerts, balloon ascents, and military exhibitions.

“A high-wire act,” Lady Belwood murmured. “How thrilling.”

“The fellow traverses a six-hundred-foot wire suspended fifty feet in the air,” Lord Mannering relayed eagerly. “There’s a ballet afterward, and a supper. Fireworks, too, if you and Ruth aren’t done in. That is…” He bestowed a sheepish smile on Effie. “If you’ll consent to come.”

“Is it safe, sir?” Lady Belwood asked. “One hears things about Cremorne. Alarming tales of what goes on after dark. One wonders if it’s still quite a respectable place?”

“It’s safe enough with an escort,” Lord Mannering said. “I wouldn’t let the ladies out of my sight.” He looked to Effie. “Do say you’ll join us. I’m told that Galezzo crosses the wire both forward and backward. Imagine!”

Effie recalled her promise to Carena Compton— and her reasons for making it. “Lady Belwood is right. It does sound thrilling. But surely such a death-defying display deserves a larger party?” She brightened. “I know! We could invite Miss Compton.”

Miss Mannering’s thin brows lifted at the suggestion. She noticeably refrained from comment.

Lord Mannering shifted in his seat. “Don’t mean to be ungracious, but…not much fun for a chap to host a large party of females. Hadn’t we best keep it just you, me, and m’sister?”

“Yes, I see.” Effie nodded in thought. “Naturally, we shall have to add two more gentlemen to the group to even the numbers.”

Miss Mannering’s mouth curved with quiet understanding. She doubtless suspected that Effie desired to convert a potential tête-à-tête with Lord Mannering into a less intimate affair, without outright rejecting the man. “Lord Powell might be willing,” she said. “He and my brother often go about together to these sorts of events.”

“Not quite the same, Ruth,” Lord Mannering said under his breath.

“Lord Powell will do nicely.” Effie’s thoughts turned to the red brick house in Sloane Street, with its black-painted door. To the way she’d felt looking up at it this morning. A wild idea took hold of her. “And I know just the gentleman to complete our party,” she said. “Miss Compton mentioned him particularly.”

“A gentleman for Miss Compton?” Lord Mannering perked up. “Oh, well that’s all right.”

“You’ll join us then, Miss Flite?” Miss Mannering asked.

“I would be delighted,” Effie said.

She told herself later, as she wrote out the invitation to Gabriel, that she was only doing it to vex him. It was important to keep one’s enemies close. More important still to keep them off-balance. If she played her hand well, a visit to Cremorne Gardens tomorrow night would do both.

But as she sealed the envelope and rang for a footman to deliver it to Sloane Street, Effie knew herself to be a liar. There was only one reason for inviting Gabriel. It had nothing to do with strategy, and everything to do with her heart.