Page 30 of Rules for Ruin (The Crinoline Academy #1)

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Gabriel was in the habit of attending the Derby at Epsom Downs every May, both in his role as bookmaker and as horse owner. He had two young colts running today. The favorite was a striking bay named Sparkler who had shown great promise at Northampton races.

“A fine specimen,” Lord Haverford said, joining Gabriel outside the young horse’s loose box in the stables. “As good as any I’ve seen.”

Gabriel leaned against the stall door. He was absent his coat, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms. He’d spent the better part of the morning in the barn with the horses rather than at the track. It hadn’t mattered that Lord Haverford and his influential friends had been present in one of the racing boxes. Gabriel had been in no frame of mind to engage them. He knew what he’d say if he did. It wasn’t a conversation he contemplated with any degree of eagerness.

“Better.” Gabriel gave the colt a distracted scratch on its gleaming neck. He wasn’t a rider himself, but he was a fair judge of horseflesh. “He’ll be worth a fortune after this afternoon’s race.”

“You’re confident he’ll win?” Haverford asked.

“He’ll place today. He’ll win in future. A horse who can run well at Epsom can run well at any track in the country.”

“You’re half owner?”

“Full owner,” Gabriel said. “I don’t go halves on something I care about.”

Lord Haverford laughed. “An admirable philosophy if one can afford it.”

“There’s the rub,” Gabriel acknowledged grimly.

But he wasn’t thinking about his two promising young racehorses. He was thinking about Effie. Indeed, he’d been thinking of nothing but Effie since she’d left him standing in their first-class railway compartment yesterday.

“I love you,” she’d said.

I love you.

No. Gabriel didn’t go halves on something he cared about.

“I have a question to put to you,” he said to Haverford.

They were alone except for a handful of stable lads mucking out the loose boxes. The third race was running. Most everyone else was at the track to watch it. The noise filtered from the stands in a distant hum, punctuated by the sound of stamping hooves and horses contentedly munching their hay.

“I’m listening,” Haverford said.

“What would become of our plans to reform the slum if Lord Compton were no longer a component of them?” Gabriel asked.

“How do you mean? Is he unwilling to pen that editorial we discussed?”

“More than that. What if he withdrew his support completely?”

Lord Haverford’s smile vanished. A somber expression came to take its place. “Is that likely?”

“If it was?”

“Then I fear the other support you’ve managed to amass would swiftly follow suit.”

Gabriel had expected no less.

A soft breeze down the aisle of the stables stirred flurries of dust and hay. The fragrance was familiar—sun, turf, and sweetness. The perfume of a rich man’s sport. Men like Gabriel existed on the fringes of it. Trainers, grooms, jockeys, and bookmakers. Necessary appendages. But not equals.

It took money to compete against the gentry. Even more if one was to win. Gabriel had enough put by to sustain him. But without his betting shop, he would never grow any richer. He would be, like the Rookery, a dwindling concern. Rapidly decreasing in power until…

“If I may speak plainly,” Haverford said.

Gabriel saw little point in it at this stage. He’d already made up his mind. “By all means.”

“When we met at my club last week…After you left, concerns were raised about your background. Your betting enterprise, specifically. Several of the gentlemen confessed to having heard things about you. They mentioned your past associations, and the rumors of violence and intimidation attached to your name.”

“You knew I was a bookmaker.”

“Quite. But there are degrees of acceptability, even among those as liberal-minded as we are.” Haverford looked at him, frowning. “Tell me, just how egregious has your conduct been?”

Gabriel was quiet a moment before answering, reflecting on his past, on all the cruelties, insults, and indignities that had brought him to this point. A man of no birth, with nothing much to recommend him, except that he’d somehow managed to earn the love of a woman like Euphemia Flite.

It had changed him. It had changed everything.

“I have been brutal, it’s true,” he admitted. “I’ve also been a businessman. An unthinking brute wouldn’t get far running a betting shop that traffics with the aristocracy, nor would he have much success inspiring loyalty among his men. I’ve done both, and well. The unsavory aspects have less of a place in my world of late. You’ve seen for yourself. The people of the Rookery look to me for leadership. Once the slum is reformed, my position will be solidified.”

“The sons of the gentry still place wagers with you. Some of them are in debt to you for considerable sums.”

“Your associates would rather I call in those debts?”

“They’d rather your business weren’t so murky. It gives them pause.”

Gabriel gave a short, humorless chuckle. “But not enough to terminate our plans. Not so long as Compton is still lending them countenance.”

“I’m giving you the courtesy of candor,” Haverford said. “It isn’t I who is objecting to your character, after all. Not outright.”

“No,” Gabriel said with bitter humor. “Reform-minded people of your class enjoy a heartening tale of an impoverished street urchin who pulls himself up to a position of authority. It strengthens their arguments for charitable measures.”

Haverford didn’t dispute the fact. “So long as that street urchin hasn’t done anything too disagreeable.”

“What street urchin hasn’t? More to the point, what politician hasn’t? Disagreeable acts aren’t limited to the poor.”

“No. They’re not. Regrettably, the poor aren’t judged by the same standards as gentlemen in government.”

“They should be.” Gabriel straightened from the door of the loose box. “Though if we removed every villain from Parliament, I’m not entirely sure who would be left to run the country.”

Haverford smiled briefly. “I fear there would be infinitely more villains waiting to take their place. Such is the way of politics.”

Gabriel gave him a hard look. It was a jest, obviously. And yet…

A lunatic thought occurred to him.

Perhaps, just perhaps, he’d been viewing the problem from the wrong angle. It surely made no difference in terms of the outcome. Nevertheless, a glimmer of possibility beckoned.

That was all Gabriel required.

“You can tell your concerned friends that Compton is out,” he said.

Haverford’s face fell. “You’ve lost his support?”

“I no longer want it. Indeed, I have it on good authority the man is heading for a fall.” Gabriel gave Haverford a hard thump on the shoulder as he turned to leave. “If I were you, I’d advise any well-meaning souls to abandon ship.”

· · ·

Effie arrived at Lady Bartlett’s house in Kensington at ten o’clock promptly. It was a neat brick residence near Holland Park, rather benign in appearance. Ascending the front steps to the door, Effie didn’t know quite what to expect.

She had offered chaos as a contingency plan to Nell and Miss Corvus. However, in Effie’s experience, chaos often took time to bear fruit. As a plan, it was best deployed concurrently. She hoped the notes she’d sent yesterday had been sufficient to set it in motion. There had been two of them—the first written on Lady Belwood’s stationery and the second on the anonymous stationery Effie had purchased last week.

She had paid a street lad to pop the second note through the intended recipient’s letter box. Whether that recipient would respond in the way Effie intended remained to be seen.

“Good morning, miss,” the butler said, admitting her into the black-and-white-tiled hall. “Your name, if you please?”

“Miss Euphemia Flite,” Effie replied.

“Very good, miss. Right this way.”

Effie followed him up the curving staircase, her twine-filled reticule dangling from her wrist. She had come alone in a hackney. It was better Lady Belwood’s carriage wasn’t involved. Effie had already embroiled her hostess enough in her plans. Today must go seamlessly, and there must be no unnecessary casualties.

Upstairs, Lady Bartlett’s drawing room was buzzing with activity. Upholstered sofas and chairs were arranged about the Turkish-carpeted floor, already half-filled with ladies of varying ages, and even a few gentlemen. Others milled about by a tea table set up at the back, talking companionably.

Unlike a society gathering, the people in attendance didn’t appear to be limited to the fashionable elite. Some of them were plainly dressed, and others were downright eccentric in bright colors, garish hats, and feather-and-fur-trimmed boas.

The butler announced her: “Miss Flite.”

An ample-figured lady in an elegant dove-gray silk dress approached. Several long strands of beads were draped about her neck. “Miss Flite. Welcome to my home.” Rather than bowing, she extended her hand in a brazenly forthright manner.

Effie shook it as matter-of-factly as if they were two gentleman acquaintances. “My lady. We have a mutual friend, I believe, in Miss Ruth Mannering. It was she who invited me.”

“No invitations necessary. We are all comrades-in-arms here.” Lady Bartlett gestured to the few chairs remaining. “Have a seat, and do help yourself to refreshments.”

“Thank you,” Effie said.

Lady Bartlett moved on, seeing to her other guests.

Effie’s gaze drifted over the drawing room, searching for familiar faces. The particular one she sought had only been glimpsed once before. Perhaps she wouldn’t recognize it?

She’d nearly given up when her eyes lit on a porcelain-skinned woman with striking ebony hair sitting on a velvet sofa near the tea urn. Clad in an apricot silk morning dress with a box-pleated hem, she was looking about the room, as though not wholly certain how she found herself to be there.

Effie made straight for her. “I beg your pardon.”

The woman looked up with wide, unblinking brown eyes. “Yes?”

“Forgive me,” Effie said, “but I had the notion you might be a newcomer like myself.”

“It is indeed my first time. Though at what manner of event, I cannot tell.”

Effie smiled warmly. “Miss Euphemia Flite,” she said, extending her hand.

The woman took it, clasping it briefly before releasing it. “Mrs.Dora Naismith.”

Up close, her face illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the drawing room windows, Mrs.Naismith’s beauty was revealed in all its glory. She was a striking woman in her middle thirties, long lashed and lush figured, with an air of childlike innocence.

“May I sit with you?” Effie asked her. “One so dislikes to be on one’s own, even at a lecture.”

“If you wish,” Mrs.Naismith said. “I would be glad of the company.”

Effie took a seat beside her on the sofa. She smoothed her skirts. She’d dressed sensibly this morning in her cherry red caraco jacket, black poplin, and jet-trimmed velvet hat. It wouldn’t do to have ruffles and trimmings getting in her way when she stole the book from Compton’s library. She needed to be sleek, quick, and relatively unencumbered.

Mrs.Naismith regarded her with a frown. “Did you receive an invitation?”

“Not formally. I was told about the lecture by a friend.” Effie retained her smile. “And you?”

“I was informed it was a diversion not to be missed. That there would be society, refreshment, and music, perhaps.”

Effie had indeed written that in the anonymous invitation she’d sent. She’d been confident it would be sufficient to tempt Mrs.Naismith. Unlike the mistresses of fashionable gentlemen, shamelessly paraded about town at the opera or the theater, Effie had surmised that the mistresses of outwardly moral men had little society. Tucked away in private houses, the guilty secrets of their protectors, their days must be dull indeed. Mrs.Naismith would surely jump at the chance to relieve her boredom. Or so Effie had hoped.

“There is certainly society and refreshment,” she said. “The very best of both.”

Mrs.Naismith looked around the drawing room. “Yes, but I see no musical instruments.”

“No, indeed,” Effie allowed. “Still…we are sure to be diverted.”

The butler again appeared at the door. “Miss Compton,” he intoned.

Mrs.Naismith’s thin black brows flew up to her hairline.

Carena Compton entered the room. She wore a rose-pink dress and matching velvet paletot.

Effie raised her hand, signaling her presence.

“Do you know that girl?” Mrs.Naismith asked.

“I do,” Effie said. “And soon, so shall you.”

Mrs.Naismith flashed Effie a fascinated look. For an instant it appeared she might rise from her seat, but she made no move to do so, only sat there, observing Miss Compton’s approach with an expression of ill-disguised curiosity.

“Miss Flite,” Miss Compton said, dropping a brief curtsy.

“Miss Compton,” Effie said. “May I present Mrs.Naismith? She is a newcomer to Lady Bartlett’s gatherings, just as we are.”

“Mrs.Naismith,” Miss Compton said.

A bubbling giggle escaped Mrs.Naismith’s lips.

Miss Compton glared at her.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs.Naismith said quickly, covering her mouth with her hand. “But this is just too absurd.”

Somewhat mollified, Miss Compton joined them on the sofa, seating herself on Effie’s opposite side. “I’m glad to hear I’m not the only one to find it so.”

“Nonsense,” Effie said. “The lecture promises to be edifying in the extreme. By the end of it, the three of us will be fast friends.”

“What is the lecture about?” Mrs.Naismith asked.

A woman in a chair nearby turned to answer. Her curling gray hair was contained by a felt turban trimmed with cerise feathers. “It is on the subject of girls’ education,” she said. “We shall be hearing the latest progress on the committee’s findings as well.”

“What committee?” Effie asked.

“The one Lady Bartlett has assembled to reform the married women’s property law,” the woman answered. “There was a similar committee several years ago, but its work came to nothing. We’re determined to take up the charge.”

Effie’s interest piqued. Miss Corvus had mentioned that there was serious discussion about a bill being brought before Parliament. Could this committee be the source of it? “How have you proceeded?” she asked.

“We collect signatures on various petitions,” the woman said. “We also collect testimonials from affected women. Their personal stories are powerful evidence. It only remains to find a sponsor for our bill—and to successfully combat any opposition to it. I have every reason to hope that, this time, our attempts will be successful.”

“It’s a splendid ideal,” Effie said. “I endorse it wholeheartedly.”

The woman offered her hand to Effie. “Mrs.Jefferies,” she said, introducing herself.

“Euphemia Flite,” Effie replied, shaking her hand.

“You are welcome to join us,” Mrs.Jefferies said. “Young people are the lifeblood of our fight.”

Before Effie could reply, Lady Bartlett moved to the front of the room, raising her hands to bring everyone to attention. “My dear friends, old and new, welcome, welcome. We have much to get through today, so if you’ve all taken your seats…”

Miss Compton whispered to Effie as Lady Bartlett continued speaking. “I don’t think we should remain.”

Mrs.Naismith heard her. She leaned across Effie to reply to Miss Compton. “Why ever not?” she whispered back.

“It’s revolutionary talk,” Miss Compton said. “We’re not meant to hear it.”

“Why shouldn’t we?” Mrs.Naismith asked. “It sounds positively titillating.”

“Exactly,” Miss Compton replied ominously. “My father says that lectures of this sort are a poison to women. He warns most strenuously against them.”

“Naturally, he does,” Effie said. “That is how gentlemen remain in power, by making us fear the very thing that will set us free.”

Miss Compton drew back with a dubious blink. “Lectures by radical bluestockings?”

“Knowledge,” Effie said. “It’s ignorance that’s the poison, Miss Compton. This…well. I very much hope this will be the cure.”