Page 17 of Rules for Ruin

Lady Belwood hadn’t been best pleased. Indeed, from the moment Effie had appeared in Brook Street ten days ago, with Franc and her trunks in tow, her ladyship had exhibited a pronounced anxiety. Whatever connection she had to Miss Corvus, it clearly wasn’t one based on friendship. Lady Belwood had made it plain from the first that Effie was less of a guest and more of an unwanted charge on her dwindling good humor.

She had nevertheless sat beside Effie for every call, spine rigid and lips pinched, an unwilling participant in Effie’s deception.

Meanwhile, Effie had done her duty. She’d transformed herself according to her company, one moment smiling and conversing, the next blushing and demurely batting her lashes, and all the while desperately impatient to get back to the Academy to inform Miss Corvus that there was a decided complication to their plan.

A very large and very sinister complication. Effie could still feel the brush of his fingers over her throat.

At the ball, Mr. Royce had come closer to her than any other gentlemen in attendance. Yet, he’d sent no bouquet the following morning. And he hadn’t appeared in Brook Street later that afternoon to pay his respects along with the rest of Effie’s callers.

Doubtless it was for the best. Lady Belwood was apprehensive enough without the likes of Mr. Royce darkening her doorstep. She’d spent the whole of last evening at dinner with Effie, pale and silent at the opposite end of the long mahogany table, drinking glass after glass of Burgundy wine.

Sir Walter had been absent from the table as usual. Older than his wife by some twenty years, he suffered from various ailments that often kept him confined to his rooms. Effie had met the man only a handful of times since she’d come to stay. When first introduced to him, she’d been both surprised and relieved by his lack of interest in her.

He was, it transpired, working on a lengthy tome cataloguing the rich history of the Belwood line, which he claimed could be traced back, undiluted, to the reign of some antiquated king or other. The social affairs of women held little fascination in comparison.

Would that Lady Belwood were as indifferent to Effie’s presence as her husband.

“She’ll be happier with us today, won’t she, Franc?” Effie remarked as she retrieved her veiled black bonnet from the foot of the cherrywood four-poster bed. “We shall likely be gone until supper.”

Franc frisked about Effie’s wide skirts in anticipation of their departure. He’d found the house’s small back garden a dull respite from the confinement of the guest room. Like Effie, he was eager to venture further.

She was just fetching his lead when a soft tap sounded at the door. “Yes?” Effie called out.

Lady Belwood entered, shutting the white-paneled bedroom door behind her. She was a handsome blond lady of passing middle age, attractively plump, and smartly dressed in a ruffled muslin morning gown. “Miss Flite, I must tell you—” She stopped, registering Effie’s bonnet and gloves. “Are you going out?”

Effie pasted on a smile. “Indeed.”

“Dressed like that?”

“As you see.” Widows rarely inspired attention. Clothed all in black, with a net veil shielding her face, Effie could go where she pleased and no one would question her. That is, if they noticed her at all.

She held Franc’s lead, preparing to fasten it to his collar. He trotted out of her reach to sniff the blue-and-yellow floral carpet and the pooling hem of the draperies. Effie prayed he wouldn’t be indiscreet. Despite his continental origins, Franc couldn’t always be trusted to behave in a civilized manner.

Lady Belwood followed his progress with uneasy eyes. “I don’t care for dogs.”

It was the same sentence she’d uttered when Effie had first arrived, and one she’d repeated at least a dozen times since.

Effie answered just as she had on each previous occasion. “Franc isn’t a dog. He’s a poodle.”

“You are taking him with you on your outing? My servants can’t always be watching him, you know.”

“I am.” Effie caught up with Franc by the washstand. Sweeping him into her arms, she fixed his lead to his collar.

“Wherever can you be headed?” her ladyship asked. “Not Bond Street or Hyde Park, I trust. Not in those garments. And not without a maid to accompany you.”

“I’ve no need for a maid where I’m going.”

A pained expression puckered Lady Belwood’s brow. “A lady must have a maid. I should be lost without mine.”

Effie didn’t doubt it. Most fashionable females in Lady Belwood’s position felt the same. But poor women must shift for themselves. So, too, the girls of Miss Corvus’s Benevolent Academy.

The gowns Effie had commissioned in Paris had all been made with front fastenings, the same as the dresses she’d worn at the Academy. Miss Corvus believed in self-sufficiency. The strongest lady was an independent lady, and that independence began with her toilette.

Effie had long grown accustomed to dressing herself and tending to her own coiffure. She was nimble fingered with curling tongs and pins, and she counted herself quite skillful when it came to sponging and pressing her gowns. No one who saw her would ever find her wanting.

“You may rest easy, ma’am,” Effie said. “I shall do nothing on my outing that will cause remark.”

“Your very presence is causing remark!” Lady Belwood walked to the window. She twitched the curtain, as though someone might be peeping up at them from the street. It was all of a piece with her strange behavior since Effie had arrived. She’d been nervous as a cat, jumping when servants entered the room, and whispering when it wasn’t strictly necessary.