Page 2 of Rules for Ruin (The Crinoline Academy #1)

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Effie was met by the unsettling prospect of a darkened sitting room. The curtains had been drawn shut, and no candles had been lit. There remained only enough light to see the heavy mahogany furnishings, the vases filled with crumbling bouquets of dried flowers, and the shrouds of black fabric that covered the pictures on the walls and the mirror hanging over the fireplace.

For all Miss Corvus’s progressive views, for all her insistence on looking to the future, this was a chamber firmly enshrouded in the past. A veiled room, all stale darkness and decay.

Miss Corvus had been similarly veiled the first time Effie had seen her that fateful day eighteen years ago in the London slum of St. Giles.

But Miss Corvus wasn’t veiled now.

She sat in a green damask–upholstered armchair by the window, her uncovered face as white as wax. She was clad in stark black, just as Effie was—a plain, but impeccably tailored, silk dress worn over an abundance of petticoats and a formidable wire crinoline. A jet brooch gleamed at her throat, and an embroidered lace handkerchief was clutched in her pale hand.

There was a low inlaid malachite table beside her chair. A tray sat upon it, holding a pitcher of water, a single glass, and a small, stoppered brown bottle with a label pasted on it. Some sort of medicinal tonic, Effie suspected.

Shutting the door behind her, she crossed the room to join her former teacher.

Miss Corvus watched her come with a raptor-like intensity. In appearance, she was all but unchanged from the enigmatic lady who had entered her life when Effie was a child. Only the threads of silver in her hair, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, and the grooves bracketing her perpetually disapproving mouth betrayed the truth of Miss Corvus’s age. She was approaching fifty. A great age for a woman, especially an unmarried one whom the years had made peculiar.

Effie stopped in front of her. She dropped a graceful curtsy, honed to a perfect degree of fashionable elegance in the drawing rooms of Paris. “Miss Corvus.”

“Miss Flite,” Miss Corvus replied in the same icy tones. “I see my money has not been wholly wasted.” She motioned for Effie to step back. “Let me look at you.”

Effie remained standing, back straight and chin lifted, silently submitting to Miss Corvus’s cold perusal. She examined Effie from top to bottom. The thick ebony hair worn back in a stylish plaited roll. The catlike blue eyes so dark they might be mistaken for violet. The solemn face, with its black arching brows, high cheekbones, and wide, voluptuous mouth. And the figure—lithe and athletic, but not lacking in curves.

Taken along with Effie’s striking complexion (a clear rich hue that lingered somewhere between dark ivory and olive), the whole of her appearance made her less a traditionally pretty girl and more a compellingly seductive mystery. People couldn’t help but stare. Couldn’t help but wonder. Who was she? they whispered. Where did she come from?

The very questions Effie had begun to ask herself. The ones that had resulted in her being sent away five years ago.

“I rarely get things wrong,” Miss Corvus said when she’d finished taking Effie’s measure. “But I readily own my mistakes.” She signaled for Effie to sit with an impatient flick of her hand.

Effie gave Miss Corvus a sardonic bow of acknowledgment before taking the seat across from her. She was confident enough in her own attributes to recognize the hidden compliment in her former schoolmistress’s words.

“You were a pretty child, but had no promise of great beauty,” Miss Corvus went on. “Not like Miss Trewlove. It was she who was meant to grow into my Aphrodite incarnate.”

“Hence her name,” Effie said.

“While you…You were meant to soar.”

“Hence mine.” Effie’s voice held no humor. This wasn’t the first time Miss Corvus had expressed such sentiments. She’d had fixed intentions for both Effie and Nell when she’d taken them. She was a woman who was rarely without a plan. One for whom an orphan girl was a tool rather than an object of Christian charity.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Miss Corvus mused. “To think, I reared up a falcon who is afraid of heights.”

Effie concealed a flinch. She had wondered how long it would be before Miss Corvus brought up her prevailing flaw. The very one that had resulted in Nell being so grievously injured all those years ago.

Suppressing her guilt, Effie affected an air of unconcern. “Even the great Achilles had a single weakness.”

“His undoing, as I recall. In your case, it has so far only been the ruin of Miss Trewlove. See that it isn’t yours as well.”

“Is that why you summoned me back?” Effie asked. “Do you want me scaling walls and peeping into high windows? If that’s your grand idea, I take leave to tell you that you have chosen the wrong girl.”

“Don’t be impertinent,” Miss Corvus said. “Remember to whom you are speaking.”

Effie fell quiet. She regarded Miss Corvus in mutinous silence.

“That’s better.” Miss Corvus blotted her lips with her handkerchief. Droplets of perspiration had gathered on her brow, and there was an unhealthy flush in her cheeks, as though the simple act of conversing had overtaxed her.

Nell had mentioned an illness, but she hadn’t put a name to it. It occurred to Effie that the complaint might be something rather more serious than a trifling cold or fever.

“Madame Dalhousie has sent regular reports of your conduct,” Miss Corvus said, lowering her handkerchief. “She claims you have left your propensity for chaos behind. That you have been a diligent companion; a keen observer and a quick learner. She also says you have garnered a legion of admirers. I trust you have not become entangled with any of them?”

Effie scorned at the suggestion. “Indeed, I have not.”

Any flirtation she’d indulged in during her time abroad had been in the manner of practice, not an exercise in passion. She’d been honing her skills, toying with the very gentlemen who sought to heartlessly toy with her. It had been no great feat. Quite the opposite, the male sex made it all too easy. They insisted on underestimating women. On believing young ladies were prey, rather than predator.

“I would expect nothing less,” Miss Corvus said. “You were always adept at transforming yourself to suit your company. It will serve you well in your next position.”

A flare of disappointment caught Effie unaware. “A new position?”

“You were expecting something else?”

“I have been nearly five years in Paris. I thought—”

Miss Corvus’s mouth curved. “That you had earned your stipend?”

Effie didn’t answer. It was, in truth, what she had thought. She could see now she was stupid to have believed it. Five years spent as a lady’s companion wasn’t precisely the same as a five-year teaching contract. Naturally, the same terms wouldn’t apply.

She felt a fool to have ever supposed they might. Worse than a fool, for she had lately built her dreams on the promise of that elusive stipend. She’d dared to imagine she and Franc might find a place for themselves somewhere. A home that would be theirs alone.

“What have you done to earn it?” Miss Corvus asked. “You have been in school, merely learning your trade.”

“I did not attend school in Paris.”

“On the contrary. If the Academy was your Eton, then Paris was your Oxford. I’ll allow that you have been a most devoted student. But a student is all you have been. It is now your work begins.” Miss Corvus looked at her steadily. “What have you to say to that? A position in another household?”

Effie swallowed the surge of bitterness that swelled in her throat. Whatever her private feelings, she refused to allow Miss Corvus to see them. A lady’s primary strength lay in keeping her composure. “What can I say?” she asked. “As ever, I exist purely at your pleasure.”

Miss Corvus didn’t dispute the fact. It had been her coin that had enabled Effie’s life in France these past five years. Her contacts, too. It was she who had made the arrangement for Effie to act as a companion to Madame Dalhousie.

Purchasing Franc had been Effie’s single stroke of independence. Unlike the clothes or the lodgings or even the acquaintances she’d made abroad, Franc belonged entirely to her.

“Then we are agreed,” Miss Corvus said. Opening the drawer of the table beside her, she withdrew a note card. A postal direction was written on it in black ink. She handed the card to Effie. “This afternoon, you will travel to London. You will go to that address in Mayfair. I have a contact there, Lady Belwood. She will sponsor your entry into society.”

Effie kept her countenance through pure force of will. It was one thing for an orphan girl to move in fashionable society as a lady’s companion. It was quite another for her to be introduced into that society as an equal. Such was the fate of the daughters of gentlemen, not former street children from the Rookery.

“To what purpose?” she asked.

“No one is yet acquainted with you in London,” Miss Corvus said. “You are a complete unknown. It’s why I insisted on you never visiting town before your time. And why I grew so angry when I discovered you’d attempted to do so.”

Effie was amazed Miss Corvus was willing to acknowledge the events of five years ago. But if she was prepared to reference them, then Effie had no intention of refraining. “I didn’t attempt to visit fashionable London. My business was in St. Giles.”

Effie had traveled there on the occasion of her eighteenth birthday. She hadn’t got far. Miss Corvus had intercepted her within a day.

“Vexing girl!” she’d said furiously during the tense carriage ride back to the Academy. “What on earth did you hope to gain from this ill-advised stunt?”

“I wanted to find out about my past,” Effie had answered.

“You have no past,” Miss Corvus had told her. “Only a future. And that future is for me to decide, not you.”

Sitting across from Effie now, a flash of residual anger darkened Miss Corvus’s eyes at the reminder of Effie’s ingratitude. “A foolish mistake on your part, returning to that place.”

“Was it foolish to wonder about my mother?” Effie asked. She had no distinct memory of the lady to call her own, just the faded, dreamlike recollection of a fair-haired woman in a squalid room above a malodorous rag-and-bone shop. A woman who may have been called Grace. The image of her had plagued Effie for as long as she could remember.

“The pitiful wretch who brought you into this world wasn’t a mother,” Miss Corvus said. “She was a creature of the slums with no means, nor any desire, to support a child. She parted with you willingly. Eagerly. And she was well compensated for it. That you would persist in thinking of her in such romantical terms speaks to your lack of maturity.” Her lips compressed. “You disappoint me, Miss Flite.”

“And you mistake me as ever,” Effie said stiffly. “I have no interest in happy families, nor have I any illusions in that vein. It’s knowledge I crave.”

Miss Corvus gave a dismissive sniff. “You have it. You know as much as I do.”

Effie had her doubts. What she knew was only what Miss Corvus had chosen to tell her. Effie couldn’t trust it. Not when she couldn’t recollect any of the details for herself. She’d been too young when she’d left the Rookery.

Or rather, when she’d been taken.

The only thing she could recall with any degree of clarity was that one day she’d made the grievous mistake of stealing Miss Corvus’s reticule. It had been a sumptuous, velvet article, plump with the weight of coin. Effie had sliced the dangling ribbons from Miss Corvus’s wrist with a cutthroat razor as she’d stopped to make a purchase at a Covent Garden flower stall.

Yes, that Effie remembered, for that single desperate act had sealed her fate.

As for the rest…

“If you don’t recall it, why do you wish to?” Miss Corvus asked. “Count it a blessing, and good riddance.” She blotted her lips again. “You spend too much time looking backward. It’s the future that should concern you.”

“A future that you mean to decide for me.”

“You are of age. You are free to go at any time.”

“But I am not free.” This time, Effie couldn’t keep her frustration from seeping into her voice.

Every article of clothing she possessed belonged to Miss Corvus. Everything she’d ever learned. Everything she was. With each skill she’d acquired, each dress she’d had made for her, and each night she’d spent, safe in a warm bed, she’d racked up a debt. It had never been expressed with pen and ink, but Effie was as conscious of it as breathing.

Miss Corvus appeared to appreciate Effie’s dilemma, but she showed no sympathy for it. “Honor is what brought you back. And honor is why you remain.”

“A debt of honor,” Effie replied. “I mean to discharge it.”

“Oh, you shall,” Miss Corvus said. “Have no fear of that.”

Effie waited with a building sense of apprehension.

“There’s a man,” Miss Corvus said at length. “Lord Compton.” On uttering his name, she broke into a hacking cough. She held her handkerchief to her lips until the fit had subsided. When she drew the lace cloth away, it was stained with blood.

Effie’s breath stopped in her chest. She had a vague memory of having seen a similar sight once—a woman, coughing blood into a dingy rag. It had boded nothing but ill.

Miss Corvus continued with an effort. “He’s a villain of the worst rank.”

“His crime?”

“He snuffed out the life of a girl who was dear to me. Dearer than any creature on this earth. She was like you—strong, beautiful, intelligent. A girl of infinite possibility. Until Compton came along with his flattering words and deceitful kisses. First, he connived to steal her heart, then he stole her fortune. His betrayal was the death of her.”

Effie stilled, shocked. “Are you saying he killed her?”

Miss Corvus neither confirmed nor denied the charge. “It was many years ago, long before you came to the Academy. He’s never yet been held to account. The girl had no family to seek justice on her behalf, and even if she had…no one would imagine Compton capable of such treachery. He was young and handsome then, endearing himself to all.”

“And now?”

“He’s become old and respectable. A politician who hides his true nature under a cloak of impenetrable piety. His reputation is spotless. Lord Solomon, he’s called in the press. A man of rare judgment, decency, and wisdom.” Another coughing fit disrupted Miss Corvus’s speech.

Effie stood. She went to the table next to Miss Corvus and poured her out a glass of water.

Miss Corvus accepted it gratefully. She wiped the specks of blood from her lips with her handkerchief before taking a drink from the glass.

Effie watched her, frowning. “What has Compton’s character to do with you?”

“It has to do with every woman,” Miss Corvus said, lowering the glass. “A betrayal of one is a betrayal of all.”

“But this girl you knew—”

“Long gone, and the evidence of Compton’s crime along with her. I’ve told you, my concern is for the future.” Miss Corvus returned her glass to the table beside her. “There is serious discussion about a married women’s property bill being brought before Parliament. If passed, it would give a married woman the same rights as an unmarried one. Henceforward, she could keep everything she earned during her marriage. She could retain control of her property. She could exist, in British law, as more than a mere appendage to a husband. It would mean security and independence for countless women throughout the realm. The implications are too great to be ignored.”

Effie slowly resumed her seat. She may disagree with Miss Corvus’s methods, but Effie’s views on the subject of women’s welfare had always been as one with her former teacher. They had been ever since she’d first read Miss Leigh Smith’s A Brief Summary, in Plain Language, of the Most Important Laws Concerning Women at the tender age of thirteen. An illuminating text, and required reading at the Academy, it had revealed, in stark terms, the monstrous legal injustices suffered by women.

“It sounds an excellent proposition,” Effie said.

“If Compton has his way, the bill will never see the light of day. He can quash it with a word.”

“You’re convinced he would?”

“He’s already hinted he’ll come out against it, whether today or tomorrow or two years hence. When he does, the other lords will follow suit. They take their cues from him. There’s only one thing to be done.” Miss Corvus’s countenance hardened with a dangerous resolve. “Compton must be destroyed.”

Effie studied her old schoolmistress. “What do you have in mind? You don’t mean—?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Miss Corvus said. “We’re not murderesses. We are civilized women in an uncivilized world, acting to balance the scales. When I speak of destruction, I speak of Compton’s reputation. That is why I summoned you back. No one knows who you are, not of our connection, nor of your dubious beginnings. You have been in Paris, and have become a lady of fashion. Compton has an eye for beauty. Your charms can’t compare to Miss Trewlove’s, but they’re still something out of the common way. He will welcome you into his world. And you…you will be the end of him.”

Effie began to comprehend her. “You want me to ruin him? But how?”

“Compton is hosting a ball to start the season. Lady Belwood will take you as her guest. Ingratiate yourself with Compton and his wife. Curry invitations to their parties. They entertain widely. You will have ample opportunity to search their house in town and their estate in the country. The evidence of his true character will be there. A leopard doesn’t change his spots. Find something we can use against him.”

“Anything? Or—”

“Something damning.” Miss Corvus’s fingers clenched on her handkerchief so tightly her knuckles turned white. “I want Compton’s name to become a byword for everything that is low and contemptible in society. I want all he touches to fall to cinders. And all he opposes to rise in triumph over him. His ruination will be the salvation of this proposal. And that ruination depends on you.”

“You presume I can do it.”

“You will do it. And I shall give you ample incentive.” Miss Corvus took a rattling breath. Twin spots of color bloomed in her waxen cheeks. “Accomplish this task, and I shall discharge your debt to me. You will be at liberty to leave this place with your honor intact, with all I have given you, and with a modest sum deposited into an account of your choosing. It will be enough to set you safely on an independent path.”

Effie’s pulse quickened. Such an offer was surely too good to be true. “How much of a modest sum?”

Miss Corvus named a figure.

Effie blinked in astonishment. The amount far surpassed that of the long-ago promised stipend. “And all I must do in return is find the evidence to instigate Compton’s downfall?” She could scarcely believe it could be so easy. “Is that all?”

“My dear Miss Flite,” Miss Corvus said. “That is everything .” She reached for her bottle of tonic. “Well, girl? What say you?”

Effie didn’t hesitate. She desperately wanted her freedom. She wanted to keep all of her beautiful things, too.

And, of course, there was the money.

“Very well,” she said. “I accept your terms.”