Page 31 of Rules for Ruin

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.”