Page 25 of Rules for Ruin (The Crinoline Academy #1)

23

When Effie returned to Brook Street, a note awaited her from Gabriel. Lady Belwood handed it to Effie as Effie entered the drawing room with her embroidery bag. Franc pranced alongside her on his thin velvet lead.

“It was delivered a quarter of an hour ago,” Lady Belwood said, resuming her seat on the velvet settee. She didn’t attempt to disguise her curiosity. “Who is it from, pray?”

Effie sat down on the sofa opposite, placing her bag next to her. Franc remained at her feet, gazing about the drawing room with avid interest. He rarely ventured into the public rooms. Lady Belwood preferred it that way. But he’d already been alone long enough today, restricted to Effie’s bedchamber while she paid her afternoon calls. She wouldn’t permit him to be confined any longer.

As he settled himself on the soft Aubusson, Effie broke open the wax seal on the envelope. Her pulse quickened with anticipation.

But it was no love letter. No passionate declaration or heartfelt apology. To be sure, it was no more or less than exactly what she’d asked of him.

Mrs.Young resides at Yew Cottage, Trowley Green, Hertfordshire. Take the 9:30 train to Sawbridgeworth Station. She expects you Tuesday at eleven o’clock.

Effie read it twice, a knot forming in her stomach. Gabriel hadn’t even signed it. He hadn’t even used her name. It was what she’d wanted—distance. But now he was giving it to her, she felt only disappointment and a dull sort of muted anguish.

She folded the note away, tucking it into her sewing bag. “No one,” she said. “Just an address I required.”

Lady Belwood’s lips compressed. “Your dealings are a mystery to me, I confess.”

Effie was glad of that, given what she’d learned today. She withdrew a sampler from her embroidery bag. It was already completed, save for the necessary bit of code. She threaded her needle, preparing to sew the first number necessary to spell out her secret message, informing Nell that Lord Compton was in possession of Miss Corvus’s medieval books.

“There is no mystery,” she said. “Last night I attended the performance at Cremorne Gardens, and today I visited Carena Compton.”

“A fine, accomplished young lady,” Lady Belwood remarked. “I have no objection to the association.”

Effie stabbed her needle through the coarse cloth. “You are well acquainted with her father?”

“There are few in polite society who are not.”

“Yes, but his lordship surely doesn’t visit them all.”

“I expect not. However, Lord Compton and I have known each other since he first arrived in London. It was I who introduced him to his wife.”

Effie ceased her stitching. “You?”

“She and I were friends as girls,” Lady Belwood said dismissively. “She was formerly Miss Axton, an heiress of no small fortune. After my marriage to Sir Walter, I gave a dinner. She was in attendance. So, too, was Lord Compton. He’d newly arrived in London. A well-to-do second son of an elderly viscount. He wasn’t in line to inherit, but he had already made a fortune in his own right and was, therefore, a suitable prospect for my friend.”

“What if he hadn’t had a fortune?”

Lady Belwood sniffed. “Naturally, I wouldn’t have put him next to Miss Axton at dinner. She’d been dealing with fortune hunters since she came of age. You cannot know the burden it brings to be pursued by such disreputable creatures.”

“But Lord Compton wasn’t disreputable, you believed, because he was rich.”

Lady Belwood adjusted the braided cuff of her green silk afternoon dress. “He was a gentleman then, and remains so today. After he inherited the title, his social capital only increased. It is my honor to boast an acquaintance with him of such long standing.”

“Does he often call on you here?”

“When he can spare the time.”

“And questions you about your houseguests?”

Lady Belwood’s gaze flew to Effie’s.

“I learned this afternoon that you had been discussing my history with him,” Effie said.

“I never—”

“My fortune—or lack of it—and my prospects.”

Lady Belwood blanched. “He did inquire…” She stumbled over her words. “I could scarcely reply with a falsehood. But I would not betray—”

“It’s no matter.” Effie resumed sewing. “There is nothing you know about me that cannot be shared.” Her needle flashed through the cloth. “Miss Corvus, on the other hand, is another matter.”

“You need not remind me of that .”

“I hope I needn’t. She wouldn’t be as sanguine about her confidences being shared as I have been.”

Lady Belwood drew herself up with dignity. “You may believe, Miss Flite, that I have never mentioned that woman’s name.” She abruptly stood. “I would thank you to do me the same courtesy.”

Effie glanced after Lady Belwood as she stalked from the room.

Did Miss Corvus know of her ladyship’s connection to Lord Compton? That it was she who had put him in the way of a wealthy heiress?

Effie riffled through her embroidery bag. She had several uncompleted samplers remaining. Given the variety of things she’d learned, perchance she’d have to send them all.

· · ·

Tuesday arrived with unusual rapidity. Effie departed that morning for Hertfordshire, clad in her black dress and veiled bonnet, as anonymous as a widow. It was but an hour by train. Plenty of time for apprehension to grow.

Despite what she’d told Gabriel, she wasn’t happy to be making the journey alone. Just once, it would be nice to have someone at her side, especially now when she was so anxious and uncertain.

Mrs.Young might tell her anything.

Or next to nothing.

Either way, it would be one enormous step further than the ignorance Effie had endured all her life. Years and years spent dreaming, imagining a mother who had loved her. A mother who had only given her up because she’d believed Effie would have a better life in an orphanage somewhere, surrounded by strangers, than she’d have if she remained in the Rookery.

Her mother had been wrong.

There was no substitute for the connection one had to one’s family. That innate sense of belonging to someone that Effie had always felt lacking. It was why she had rebelled against Miss Corvus. Why she had, for so long, desired to return to that elusive someplace of her childhood. A place beyond conscious memory.

Goodness, what if her mother was still alive? Or worse—what if she had died in reduced circumstances, never knowing Effie had wanted to find her?

By the time she arrived at Sawbridgeworth, Effie had fretted herself into a headache. The train slowed with a grinding scrape of metal and a blast of steam. The conductor shouted unintelligibly as it came to a jolting halt.

Outside the window, the timber-built station came into view. Effie waited for the other passengers in the second-class carriage to disembark before she collected her parasol and rose to exit herself.

The wind whipped at her skirts as she emerged onto the platform. She was assailed by the smell of coal dust and hot metal, and the cacophony of overlapping voices. The whistle blew, and the porters called out to the stragglers. There weren’t many to speak of, only a handful of ladies in full-skirted dresses and large shawls, and a few gentlemen in coats and caps. They brushed by, as some boarded the train and others departed.

Effie looked about from behind the veil of her bonnet. She was just turning to join the line at the cabstand, when she spied a familiar gentleman standing near the ticket office. His hat was pulled down over his brow, his black wool overcoat stirring in the gritty wind.

A surge of joy flooded through her.

It was Gabriel.

She took a hasty step forward, thinking of nothing but her desire to see him again. He closed the remaining distance. They faced each other amid the smoke and the steam.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

Gabriel removed his hat. He was quiet a moment, his pale blue gaze scanning her face through her veil. “I thought you might be in need of support.”

Her throat tightened. “But I told you—”

“I know what you told me,” he said. “That was in London. This is Hertfordshire.”

In other circumstances, Effie might have laughed at the nonsensical distinction. After recent events, she felt more like weeping.

He couldn’t be here. This part of her life was private. She dare not let him in. Not when she couldn’t trust him.

But she wanted him so much in that moment.

“I’ve procured a carriage to take us to Trowley Green,” he said. “Unless you renew your objection to my accompanying you there. In which case—”

Effie threw her arms around his neck.

His arm came around her waist in return, strong as a band of iron. He turned his face against the side of her bonnet. She felt him inhale a deep, uneven breath.

She understood then that he’d been uncertain of her. He, the untouchable, unemotional Gabriel Royce. He had come here in full anticipation of rejection. Yet, still he had come, because he cared about her.

God help her, she cared about him, too.

“I don’t object,” she said.