Page 110 of Rules for Ruin

“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.”