Page 10 of Rules for Ruin

Compton pretended not to notice Gabriel’s ire. He kept his attention fixed on his wife—and on Miss Flite.

“You must bring her with you to the musicale next week,” Lady Compton said. “My daughter, Carena, will be back from Hampshire. She’s to perform an aria for us from Lucrezia Borgia. There will be a dinner to start.” She touched Lady Belwood’s arm. “You are still planning to attend?”

Miss Flite exchanged a wordless glance with Lady Belwood.

Lady Belwood appeared distinctly uncomfortable. “Er, yes. That is, I had thought—”

“Oh, but you must,” Lady Compton insisted. “We see too little of you. And Miss Flite will certainly wish to make the acquaintance of other young people.”

Lady Belwood smiled thinly. “If you insist, then naturally, I shall bring her.”

The two older ladies lapsed into a short discussion about the dinner, and about the many events to come before the season’s end. Compton was included by virtue of his wife, who sought his opinion on every subject.

Miss Flite and Gabriel were temporarily left outside the conversation. They stood silent across from each other—Miss Flite attending to what the others were saying, and Gabriel poised to make his exit.

He hadn’t come here to engage in polite small talk about dinner parties and musicales. His time would be better spent in conversation with one of those aged country squires. At least then there would be a hope in hell of gaining influence for the people of the Rookery. Here there was nothing.

A civil word or two to Miss Flite and then he would take his leave.

Their eyes met briefly.

“A finishing school in Paris, was it?” Gabriel inquired.

“That’s correct.” Miss Flite returned her attention to the others.

“And were you?” he asked.

She glanced back at him again, distracted. “Was I what, sir?”

“Finished?”

Her mouth curved into a slow, feline smile. “On the contrary,” she said. “I’m just getting started.”

Gabriel smiled in return, mildly amused by what he perceived as ladylike flirtation. He was about to reply, when he realized Miss Flite hadn’t been looking at him when she’d spoken.

She’d been looking at Compton.

• • •

Effie made her way down the gaslit, richly carpeted corridor on the house’s ground floor, her steps unhurried but purposeful. Lord Compton had said the library was where he conducted his business. A fortuitous admission, and one Effie’s mind had latched on to like a vise the instant he’d made it.

She’d waited most of the evening to extricate herself. Until now, her dance card had been too full to allow for any moments of freedom, except for a short visit to the ladies’ retiring room. A marked success, considering the circumstances. It had been Nell, not Effie, who had been destined to ensnare men with her loveliness. A destiny that had been snuffed out that fateful day on the Academy’s roof. If not for Effie’s weakness, it would be Nell standing here, preparing to bring about Lord Compton’s downfall, not Effie herself.

But so long as Effie was here, she was determined to do her best.

She may not be sweet or gentle or possessed of perfect porcelain skin, but five years in Paris had taught her to respect her strengths. What she lacked in classical beauty, she more than made up for with confidence, and with the gift of originality.

The moment the supper dance had ended, and the guests had departed for the dining room, Effie had slipped away to pursue her own agenda.

The enormous skirts of her Parisian ball gown rustled silently over her wire crinoline as she approached the library’s double doors. She’d bought the gown at a salon in the Rue de la Paix. It was a beautiful garment, made of Prussian blue silk, with a bodice cut low at the neck and shoulders, and an unforgivingly narrow waist that made a bounty of Effie’s modest curves. Along with the distinctiveness of her looks, and the resoluteness of her manner, it had helped her achieve her goal this evening. She’d made herself memorable, a young lady whom Lady Compton, and every other society hostess, would feel bound to invite to all their future events during the season.

It had also ensured she’d caught the attention of the gentlemen in attendance. According to Miss Corvus, Lord Compton was an admirer of beautiful women. It had behooved Effie to at least attempt to appeal to his masculine senses.

A failed attempt, as it happened. The gray-haired viscount hadn’t betrayed the least interest in Effie. Neither had he revealed himself to be a particular villain. He’d been excessively civil, addressing her with a fatherly air rather than that of a male admirer. He hadn’t asked her to dance. Indeed, aside from a single heated look (which Effie was beginning to wonder if she’d misinterpreted), he’d steered well clear of her.

Unlike the younger gentlemen.

If Effie’s aching feet were to judge, she must have danced with every male in attendance between the ages of eighteen and forty.