Page 8 of Rules for Ruin (The Crinoline Academy #1)

6

Effie sagged back in the seat of the hired cab as it jolted down the street. She held Franc tightly in her arms, her heart beating swiftly and her head buzzing as though she’d just received a fearsome clout from an opponent in battle.

The sensation was nothing to the queasy trembling in her stomach.

Nell had said anything was permissible. Go where you will. Learn what you can. The words had unleashed Effie. This morning, on setting out from Brook Street, she’d used them to rationalize a visit to St. Giles. She must know her surroundings, mustn’t she? And the Rookery was as much a part of London as any other neighborhood.

But she hadn’t reckoned for how the experience would affect her.

As she’d ventured down the labyrinthine alleyways, questioning the slum’s few sober-looking residents and ultimately finding her way to Mother Comfort’s gin shop, Effie had outwardly maintained her composure. Her determination to find out something about her mother had superseded all other concerns. There was generally some older person in a place who possessed the community’s collective memory. Surely, one of them would remember a fair-haired woman named Grace who had once given up her child to a sinister lady in black.

But with every alley Effie had traversed, she’d been drawn further and further back into that same murk of memory—too far away to touch or recall, but close enough to feel.

And goodness, how she’d felt it.

Even now, safely ensconced in the hackney cab with Franc, the foul sights and smells of the Rookery lingered, leaving their grim stamp on her soul.

She hadn’t anything to show for it, either. Indeed, rather than finding the needle she had sought, all she’d discovered was an ever-growing collection of haystacks.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

Effie’s fingers tangled in Franc’s curls, the wild buzzing in her head and chest only increasing as she recalled the sight of Gabriel Royce entering the gin shop.

Never in her life had she seen a man so utterly in charge of his environment. King of all he surveyed. And not a kindhearted king, either. A cold and implacable one, who had dispatched a man who had outweighed him by at least five stone as easily as if he were swatting a bothersome fly.

He’d been in his shirtsleeves, too. And without a cravat! The neck of his shirt had gaped, revealing the strong column of his throat.

Effie supposed she shouldn’t have noticed it. Then again, knowing one’s surroundings meant noticing everything in them, even if that everything included the bare neck of one’s brooding would-be rescuer.

The entire episode had been as breathtaking as it was baffling. The way Gabriel had behaved. Smashing that man who had insulted her against the gin shop counter. Clasping her arm so gently. Kissing her hand!

What had he meant by it all? He wasn’t, it was to be hoped, interested in her romantically, was he?

She couldn’t credit it. Not given the actions that had preceded today’s encounter.

Gabriel had warned her away from Compton. He’d even had her followed. That boy of his had seen her visit the Academy, for heaven’s sake! Effie couldn’t believe she hadn’t spotted the lad earlier. She felt a fool not to have done so. And now Gabriel knew of her connection with the place. Whether he believed it was one wholly based on her charitable instincts, Effie took leave to doubt. The man didn’t strike her as being stupid. Calculating, yes. Foolish, never.

No, she decided firmly. His attentions, such that they were, weren’t inspired by romantic attraction. They were fueled by self-interest. He was her opponent, nothing more.

Recognizing that fact put all the rest in its proper perspective.

Nevertheless…

Effie gave Franc a look of gentle reproof as the hackney clattered on toward Mayfair. “You didn’t bite him.”

Franc’s shrewd brown eyes blinked up at her without apology. He bit anyone he deemed a threat. When it came to judgments of character, his intuition was as reliable as clockwork.

She frowned down at him. “Don’t say you like the man.”

Franc’s pom-pom tail quivered faintly in answer.

“If that’s the case,” Effie said, “you’re in trouble, my friend.”

And so am I , she added silently.

· · ·

There was much to be done in the lead-up to the dinner at Lord Compton’s house next week. Effie couldn’t afford to be idle. The following day, she embarked on another series of errands, this time appropriately garbed in a morning dress of lavender-sprigged white grenadine and properly chaperoned by one of the Belwoods’ housemaids. Their first stop: a chemist’s shop in Bond Street.

Effie settled Franc more firmly under her arm as she entered. She’d had no choice but to bring him. The only servant in Brook Street she trusted to look after him was the upstairs maid, Mary—a sensible girl, and the very one Lady Belwood had commanded to accompany Effie this morning.

Mary dutifully followed as Effie examined the displays of glass bottles, potions, and plasters. “What are you looking for, miss?” she asked. “P’raps I can help.”

“Vesta matches,” Effie said. “And a case.”

The young maid was too well trained of a servant to question the purpose of either item. She assisted Effie in locating them, and then waited while Effie made her purchase from the linen-smocked proprietor.

An oil and candle shop was next, followed by a stationer’s, and then a draper’s shop where Effie bought a ball of sturdy twine.

Having satisfied herself that she had all she required for the next stage of her mission, Effie’s thoughts turned from practical preparation to intellectual necessity. “Hatchards Booksellers in Piccadilly,” she told the coachman as she and Mary climbed back into the Belwoods’ carriage.

Hatchards had the reputation for being one of the best stocked bookshops in the city. Effie had often read about the place, but she’d never been herself. So much of London was still a mystery to her. She was uncovering it by degrees, with the aid of a good map and the guidebook she’d purchased on her arrival, both eager and wary, lest the city’s much-vaunted attractions should prove to disappoint.

The coachman set them down in front of the famous shop not ten minutes later, amid the teeming traffic of the busy street. Its entrance was flanked by two large mullioned windows featuring colorful arrangements of the latest works of poetry and prose.

Effie passed through the shop’s dark painted door, with Franc in her arms and Mary close behind her. Inside, several ladies and gentlemen were perusing the expansive shelves and examining the offerings on the strategically placed table displays. A few people glanced up, but most paid Effie no heed.

“You may look about at your leisure,” Effie told Mary. “Or remain here if you prefer.”

A row of wooden chairs was arrayed by the door. Another female servant was seated there, awaiting her mistress. Mary bobbed a curtsy before joining her.

Effie approached the shop counter, her ruffle-trimmed grenadine skirts rustling softly over her petticoats and crinoline.

A mustachioed shop assistant in a plain cloth suit came to assist her. Spying Franc, his mouth formed a moue of distaste. “May I help you, miss?”

“I hope you can,” Effie said. “I require this quarter’s edition of the Westminster Review .”

The shop assistant promptly retrieved it, passing it to her across the counter. “Is that all?”

Effie flipped through the journal, distracted for a moment by the articles it contained. It was a publication known for its radicalism. Among other beliefs, it endorsed the principle of universal suffrage. “No indeed,” she said, at length, recalling herself to the present. “Will you point me to your philosophical section?”

“Greek philosophies or Roman?”

“Women’s philosophies,” Effie replied matter-of-factly.

The shop assistant directed her toward a single shelf at the very back of the shop. Effie was thankful he didn’t escort her to it himself. She required no guidance on her reading material. She knew exactly what it was she was looking for.

Her tastes had been cultivated at the Academy. The library there was filled with volumes of every sort. Miss Corvus had urged the girls to read widely and often, everything from Aristophanes and Herodotus to Machiavelli, Astell, and Wollstonecraft.

“Knowledge is your greatest weapon,” she’d told them. “And books are knowledge made manifest.”

Effie had found it to be true. Books enlarged one’s mind. They encouraged one to think. To feel. To understand. They could be more than that, too, when the occasion called for it. In the absence of community, books could be companions. They could be friends.

And Effie would need friends on the lonely road she must travel to bring down Compton. Particularly now, after being barred from returning to visit Nell.

It hadn’t mattered so much in Paris. There, at least, Madame Dalhousie had permitted Effie to attend women’s talks on equality and education. Here in London, however, Effie had no such diversions. She was too busy keeping up an appearance of fashionable sameness to risk exposing herself as a budding revolutionary.

But the soul required sustenance, however sparse the fare.

And here at Hatchards, it appeared to be very sparse, indeed.

Effie drew her fingers over the scant collection of titles on the shelf. It was but five books altogether, one of which she’d already read, and three of which were written by men. Was this meager selection meant to represent the whole of women in London? And this at one of the largest bookshops in the city?

It was a disgrace.

She withdrew the copy of A Practical Illustration of Women’s Rights by Mrs.Endicott. It was a recently published work. A thin volume, but it would have to suffice for now. Effie was just tucking it under her arm along with her copy of the Westminster Review when a shadow fell over her. A low growl vibrated in Franc’s throat, announcing the presence of danger.

“Miss Flite? What a charming coincidence.”

Effie froze where she stood, recognizing the gentleman’s suave, almost fatherly voice. She took a split second to collect herself before lifting her gaze to Lord Compton’s face.

He stood over her, dressed in an elegant wool topcoat and expensive-looking silk hat, his gray beard combed into meticulous order. The same inexplicable glitter of heat was evident in his eyes as had been there when she’d been introduced to him at the ball. This time there was no mistaking it for anything other than what it was.

Her skin crawled.

Good heavens. Had he followed her here? Had he been following her all along?

Surely not. It was a popular bookshop on one of the busiest streets in London. His presence here was likely the veriest coincidence, just as he’d said. Still…Effie had promised Nell she would remain on her guard.

Maintaining her composure, she bestowed the viscount with a warm smile. “My lord.” She curtsied. “I did not see you there.”

He bowed to her. “You were examining that book with unduly rapt attention.”

“Yes, I was. It’s sometimes difficult to choose a good title, is it not?” Her attention fell to the volume he held in his gloved hand. “Though you appear to have been successful.”

He lifted the book briefly. It looked to be an expensive one, bound in shining green leather, its title engraved in gold. “A history of music. It is a gift for my daughter, Carena.” His expression warmed with paternal fondness at the mention of the girl. “She returns from Hampshire tomorrow.”

“I look forward to making her acquaintance.”

“You shall meet her when she performs at our musicale.” He glanced at the items Effie had chosen. “And your book? A similarly edifying text, I presume?”

“I hope it will be.”

He extended his free hand to her. “May I?”

Effie’s smile turned quizzical. But she could hardly refuse the man. She passed him the book, inadvertently revealing the title of the journal tucked beneath it.

His brows lifted slightly. “The Westminster Review ?” He gave a cluck of disapproval. Turning his attention to the book, he scanned the thin spine before thumbing through the pages. “And this—a piece of radicalism if I’ve ever seen it.”

Effie affected surprise. “Radicalism, my lord?”

“Any reasonable man would agree with the assessment.” He snapped the book shut. “Does Lady Belwood know you’re purchasing such subversive materials?”

“Educating myself can surely do no harm, sir.”

“Publications like these are a contagion. They pollute the minds of ladies. Once inflicted, it is impossible to repair the damage.” Lord Compton’s tone took on a condescending edge, as though he were speaking to a child. “A girl’s education is a subject for her father, and later, her husband, to decide. It is not a self-guided endeavor. Such a course would be folly for any female.”

Effie inwardly recoiled at every pompous word the man uttered. If she weren’t pretending to be a genteel young lady, she would know how to answer. But these were early days yet. She couldn’t afford to expose herself.

“Forgive me,” she said meekly. “I haven’t a father.”

“Your guardian, then. Lady Belwood mentioned the man.” Lord Compton placed Effie’s book back on the shelf. “You must leave it with him.” He reached for her copy of the Westminster Review . “Allow me to return that rubbish to its place as well.”

Franc’s teeth flashed, narrowly missing the viscount’s fingers.

Effie hastily stepped back before the little dog could inflict any damage. “Do take care, my lord. My poodle is rather protective of me.”

Lord Compton stiffened. Withdrawing his empty hand, he dusted it on his trouser leg, as though the barest contact with Franc had sullied his glove. “That dog would benefit from a muzzle.”

“Doubtless you’re right,” Effie said, even as she took another step backward, the swell of her skirts enforcing distance between them. Muzzle Franc? The very notion!

“A dog that bites a man is liable to be destroyed. The law permits it.”

Her blood ran cold. “I couldn’t bear to contemplate it. Franc means more to me than anything in the world.”

“Then you must enforce civility on him.”

“I shall,” she lied.

The viscount’s mouth curled in a thin smile. “Less radicalism and more obedience, that’s what I recommend, Miss Flite. You will find it a suitable recipe for young ladies—and for dogs.” He bowed to her, his eyes lingering for an extra moment on her face. “Until we meet again, my dear.”

She inclined her head, her mouth gone dry. “My lord.”

The viscount strolled off, heading for the counter to purchase his daughter’s book. Effie was left standing in front of the ragtag shelf of women’s philosophy books, her nerves all ajangle.

She’d been warned Compton was a villain, but to threaten Franc? That was taking things rather too far. Indeed, the odious man had just made things personal.

Effie gave Franc a reassuring kiss on the head. “Dreadful man,” she murmured to him. “You were exactly within your rights.”

“Excuse me.” A woman approached the shelf behind Effie. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

It was a young lady, somewhat older than Effie in appearance. She wore a plain gray dress and was possessed of an unusually serious air. The impression was aided by the glass in her silver-framed spectacles. It was surely over an inch thick.

Effie moved out of her way. “I beg your pardon. Is it these titles you’re interested in? I fear the selection is rather scant.”

“So I discern.” Reaching up, the young lady selected the book Lord Compton had just returned to the shelf. She offered it to Effie. “I believe this is yours.”

Effie met the young woman’s eyes behind her spectacles. She wondered just how much the girl had overheard. “Thank you,” she said.

“Not at all.”

“Ruth! Oh, there you are.” A slim, handsomely dressed gentleman came to join them.

Effie recognized him at once. It was Lord Phillip Mannering, one of the young men who had danced with her at the ball and sent her flowers the day afterward. He’d returned to Brook Street once more since then, calling on Effie yesterday afternoon. A harmless enough fellow—unobjectionable in appearance, courtly in manner, and just amusing enough not to be a bore.

His face spread into a grin to see her. “Miss Flite!” He swept off his hat, sketching her a bow. “How do you do?”

“Lord Mannering.”

“I see you’ve met m’sister. Ruth? This is Miss Flite.”

Effie exchanged curtsies with Miss Mannering. “I wasn’t aware Lord Mannering had a sister.”

Miss Mannering gave her brother a pointed look. “I’m not surprised. My brother rarely recalls my existence himself.”

Lord Mannering flushed. “Ruth’s been in the country, at Luxford Place, with m’mother. She’s only returned to town yesterday evening. Had to come straight to the bookshop, didn’t you?”

“I’ve exhausted my reading material,” Miss Mannering said. “I had hoped Hatchards would offer replenishment. Alas.”

“Alas,” Effie agreed.

Miss Mannering’s eyes smiled, though her mouth remained set in a neutral line. “Farrer and Devonport in the Strand stocks a greater number of titles on the subject. I shall visit them myself when I’m not pressed for time.” She turned to her brother. “Philip?”

“Yes, yes. We must dash. We’re due for tea at my old aunt’s house in Green Street. Can’t miss it, you know. She’s a right old tartar.” He bowed to Effie once more. “Until we meet again, Miss Flite.”

Effie bid them both good day. She was heartened to have met a fashionable young lady with some level of fellow feeling. Granted, it wasn’t enough to offset the unpleasantness of her exchange with Lord Compton, but given the circumstances, Effie must take success where she could find it.

As for the viscount himself…

She could no longer deny that he might be capable of the things Miss Corvus had accused him of. There was something in his eyes. That odd flicker of heat when he looked at Effie. As though, deep under his mask, beneath the scrupulously crafted veneer of wisdom and civility, he was not an honorable man at all.

Today he had betrayed but a glimpse of his true nature.

Effie had marked it. For the moment, it was more than enough to spur her on. Any gentleman who compared women to dogs was long overdue for a comeuppance.

It seemed only proper that she should be the one to give it to him.