Page 22 of Rules for Ruin (The Crinoline Academy #1)

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Gabriel was accompanying Effie out of the woods and back onto the main promenade of the Gardens when Mannering intercepted them. Seeing the young lord step into their path, Gabriel’s already dangerous mood took a sharp turn for the worse.

He might have known Mannering would come searching for Effie. The idiot was plainly infatuated with her. He’d been pursuing her doggedly enough with all his formal calls and bloody invitations.

Gabriel should have been amused. But he was no fool. For all Mannering’s faults, he was still in possession of an estate and a title. The woman he married would become Lady Mannering. She would have a position in society that demanded respect. While the woman who married Gabriel…

But Effie didn’t want marriage—or so she’d claimed. And Gabriel didn’t know what he wanted anymore.

He had begun the evening determined to rid himself of his attraction to her, but he was ending it in a far different frame of mind. Perhaps it was because of how well she fit in his arms. Perhaps it was because of how she’d returned his kisses. Whatever the reason, in those moments after Effie had discovered the truth about Wingard’s documents, knowing that she was about to walk away from him forever, Gabriel would have done anything— said anything—to keep her there.

He’d had but one final card in his favor—the location of the old woman in Hertfordshire. He hadn’t intended to play it. When he had, it had been less out of strategy than desperation.

A novice mistake. A desperate card player was a losing card player. Everyone associated with the world of betting knew it. When the stakes were high, a man had to remain cold and emotionless in order to win.

For Gabriel, the stakes had never felt higher.

He supposed he was infatuated with Effie, too, in his way. How else to explain the fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about her? That he wanted to see her every minute? Kiss her, talk to her, make her smile one of her genuine smiles?

But infatuation was too small a word.

When a man contemplated giving up everything he held sacred for a woman, it surely must be love.

Once acknowledged, the emotion surged in Gabriel’s veins, as irksome as it was unmistakable. He recognized it with a grim sense of certainty. He was in love with Euphemia Flite.

He and every other gentleman in London.

Unlike them, Gabriel had nothing tangible to offer her. Not a title. Not a vast fortune. Not even the distinction of formal education. He had nothing save himself.

It wasn’t enough.

Indeed, judging by the fleeting glimmer of relief in Effie’s face when she saw him, Mannering was, at the moment, a far preferable alternative.

It was some consolation that the dapper young baron wasn’t at his best. His hair was rumpled, his cravat unknotted, and his coat missing a button. “Miss Flite,” he said with evident relief. “Thank God you are safe.”

Effie still wore Gabriel’s heavy black coat draped over her shoulders. She slipped it off, returning it to him without a word.

He took it from her, equally silent. The interior was warm to the touch. A whisper of her fragrance lingered where the collar had brushed her bare skin.

“I’m quite well,” she said to Lord Mannering. “And the others? Are they—”

“Miss Compton was in a bad state. Powell has taken her and my sister home in the carriage. I saw them off before coming to find you. Someone said that Royce had carried you away from the fray.” He looked to Gabriel. “I owe you a debt, sir.”

“You do,” Gabriel agreed without inflection. “But nothing on her account.” Standing half a step behind Effie in the shadow of the trees, he exercised a ruthless control over his emotions. The same control that had allowed him to relinquish her in the woods. It wouldn’t take much to break it. A word from her. A look. A touch.

“May I kiss you again?” he’d asked her only minutes before.

But she hadn’t wanted him then, and she didn’t want him now. She’d scarcely even looked at him since they’d emerged onto the path.

If Mannering suspected anything, he didn’t show it. The events of the evening had been too fraught to allow for a strict enforcement of any social rules. Gabriel had spirited Effie to safety; that was all his lordship seemed to care about.

“I shall take charge of her now,” he said manfully. “I have a cab waiting.” He approached Effie, proffering his arm. “Miss Flite?”

Gabriel’s jaw hardened. If he insisted on escorting Effie home himself, it would only put her in the position of refusing him again, just as she’d refused his request to kiss her. She’d made it perfectly plain that she never wanted to see him again.

But though she may not want him in this moment, Gabriel still wanted her to be safe, even if that meant he must relinquish her to another.

He remained unmoving as she took Mannering’s arm.

“Are you coming with us, Royce?” Mannering asked.

“I’ll make my own way,” Gabriel said.

At last Effie looked at him. There was a glint of uncertainty in her face. Doubtless she was thinking of his promise to provide her with the location of the old woman in Hertfordshire.

It was better than her not thinking of him at all.

“I’ll send word to you tomorrow,” he said. And then to Mannering: “You should reach Brook Steet within the half hour. See that nothing delays you.”

Mannering’s throat bobbed on a swallow. He mumbled an acknowledgment to Gabriel’s unspoken warning before leading Effie away back toward the gates of the Gardens. She walked alongside him without looking back, the glass dragonflies in her hair twinkling in the lamplight.

Gabriel watched her go, a bloodless stone settling in the place where his heart should be.

There was a good chance he’d lost her this evening. That any flicker of fondness or friendship she’d felt for him had died the moment she’d learned he had Wingard’s documents and was unwilling to give them to her.

Perhaps she truly did wish never to see him again.

The prospect left him empty. Numb. The only feeling he could summon as her black-cloaked figure disappeared into the crowd was something very close to despair.

“What have you done to me?” he’d asked her.

He still didn’t know the answer. All he knew was that she’d been a bright, dazzling light in his dark world. Not a remote, beautiful creature to put on a pedestal, but an equal. A second self. If he wanted her, he was going to have to win her.

And he wanted her like mad.

Never mind that the odds against him were rising by the second. Gabriel was a bookmaker. He made his own odds. So long as he did, this game wasn’t over. Not until he said it was.

· · ·

Effie exchanged all of five words with Lord Mannering during their journey to Brook Street. She was in no mood for conversation. All she desired was the comfort of Franc and the warmth of her borrowed bed.

Lord Mannering seemed to comprehend the situation. He promptly delivered her to the Belwoods’ door, stopping only long enough to explain the situation to her ladyship.

Effie didn’t remain to hear their conversation. She headed straight upstairs to her room. The lamp had been left on low for Franc at her insistence. He was curled up on her pillow, having put himself to bed for the night. He appeared so small and helpless. Just a tiny black ball of fluff with his little black nose and diminutive paw pads.

Her throat closed on a raw swell of emotion. It was the final straw, seeing Franc looking so much at the mercy of the world. He was wholly depending on her. They had only each other. There was no one else to rely on. No one else to trust.

She crossed the room to him. Hearing her familiar tread on the carpet, Franc roused himself from his slumber. His pom-pom tail quivered. Effie picked him up, allowing him to lick her face in greeting. She kissed his head in return.

“It was dreadful,” she told him. “The wire walker fell, the Gardens were in chaos, and Mr.Royce—” Moisture burned in her eyes. “He is not our friend.”

Franc licked the hot tear that rolled down her cheek.

“I have been unforgivably stupid,” Effie said, struggling not to cry. “But no longer.”

Franc blinked up at her in canine inquiry.

She forced back her tears. She’d already wept once this evening over poor Mr.Galezzo. Her own troubles were minor in comparison. She refused to cry over them. “I shall formulate a new plan,” she said. “Tomorrow I shall start anew.”

“Miss Flite?” Lady Belwood entered, not bothering to knock. “Oh, but it is insupportable. I don’t wonder you are in tears. That you should have been exposed to such a sordid and gruesome scene! Cleeves? A hot bath for Miss Flite. And Mary? Fetch the bottle of laudanum from my dressing table.”

“I thank you,” Effie said. “I don’t want a bath. Nor do I want any laudanum.”

“You cannot know what is best in your current state. A lady isn’t meant to endure such troublesome sights. It can have a grave effect on her constitution.”

“But I am not a lady,” Effie said.

Lady Belwood recoiled at the unwelcome reminder.

Effie held Franc tight. “All I require is my bed. If you please, ma’am.”

Lady Belwood pursed her lips. “If that is what you wish.”

Mary appeared at the door with the laudanum.

Her ladyship waved her out. “It won’t be necessary, Mary. You may go.” She turned back to Effie with stiff dignity. “Sleep well, Miss Flite.”

Effie waited until Lady Belwood had gone before setting Franc back down on the bed. While he returned to the warmth of her pillow, Effie stripped out of her evening dress, petticoats, corset, and crinoline. She unpinned her hair, placing her glass dragonflies on the dressing table as carefully as if they’d been diamonds.

All of her clothes were similarly disposed, skirts and bodice draped with exquisite preciseness over a chair and stockings meticulously rolled. It quieted her mind, going through the motions required of any woman acting as her own lady’s maid. She couldn’t allow her clothing to wrinkle, else she’d be the one obliged to press it. And she couldn’t leave her hair unbrushed or it would fall to her to unsnarl the tangles in the morning.

She did it all herself, every painstaking step helping to mute her heartsickness and misery.

When at last she’d finished, she turned down the lamp and climbed into bed. Franc curled up against her. His small body was a warm, solid weight at her bosom, lending her comfort where there otherwise would be none.

With everything in its proper place, her thoughts settled into something like order.

She had a job still to do, and she must take her injured heart well out of the equation, along with her wounded pride. Neither could serve her now. What she required was ruthless pragmatism.

Gabriel had Mr.Wingard’s documents, it was true, and he didn’t intend to part with them. But Effie hadn’t been sent to London to find those specific documents. Indeed, Miss Corvus hadn’t even known they still existed.

No.

She had tasked Effie with discovering evidence of other crimes.

“A leopard doesn’t change his spots,” Miss Corvus had said. “Find something we can use against him.”

Discouraged as Effie was, she had no reason to give up. If Lord Compton had wronged someone else in the intervening years, if he’d stolen any money or taken advantage of some woman, the evidence of it was sure to be out there somewhere. All Effie had to do was find it.

As for Gabriel Royce…

He was a distraction, that was all. One best forgotten.

Never mind that he’d found someone who knew Effie’s mother. That he’d caught Effie when she swooned. That he’d kissed her so sweetly, and had, for a few all-too-brief moments in his arms, made her feel safe, and wanted, and cared for.

Such things must count for nothing when weighed against his treachery.

Tomorrow, he would send her the old woman’s direction in Hertfordshire, and then Effie would communicate with him no more.

The bleak prospect was enough to resurrect her tears. No longer capable of preventing them, she buried her face in Franc’s curly coat and wept.