Page 38 of Rules for Ruin

Compton crossed the room to greet the young ladies. On reaching them, he pressed a kiss to his daughter’s cheek. A pasty girl with a haughty air about her, Miss Compton endured his tribute with the jaded insouciance of an empress receiving homage from a subject. She gestured to the young ladies surrounding her. Her court, as it were.

Compton bowed to them. His eyes lingered on Euphemia just as they had at the ball last week. She gazed up at him in response, her face lighting with a luminous smile. The viscount was visibly jolted by it.

Gabriel observed his reaction with a flare of scorn. Bloody fool. Couldn’t he see when he was being manipulated by a woman? Euphemia wasn’t interested in Compton. Not that way. Gabriel would wager his last farthing on it.

She was toying with him like a cat, for some unfathomable reason of her own, and doing so with extraordinary ease. The more Gabriel saw of her, the more he recognized it. She possessed the uncanny ability to turn up the flame of her beauty the way others might turn up the flame of an oil lamp. She dimmed it or brightened it according to her company—shaping the effect to her mysterious will.

But it wasn’t genuine for all that. Gabriel recognized that, too.

Last week, he’d been the beneficiary of one of her authentic smiles. It had been as unlike the expression she was bestowing on Compton as a blazing summer day was to the blackest night. Nothing else could have prompted Gabriel to behave as he had.

“Do you know that young lady?” Lord Haverford asked. Barely forty years of age, he was a younger man than Gabriel had expected—stout and ginger-haired, with a serious aspect about him.

“Miss Compton?” Gabriel answered, purposely misunderstanding him. “I’ve not had the pleasure.”

“Not her,” Lord Haverford said. “The young lady Lord Compton is speaking with. The one with the diamond dragonflies in her hair.”

They weren’t diamonds. Gabriel could identify paste when he saw it. Euphemia had worn the same hairpins to the ball—false stones in a false setting. They struck him as more a personal peculiarity than a flawed attempt at exaggerating her wealth. Nothing else in her person would lead one to believe she was lacking in money.

“That lady is Miss Flite,” he grudgingly admitted. “Lady Belwood’s ward.”

“You must introduce me,” Lord Haverford said. “The fresh crop of eligible misses each season is the only thing that makes these society events interesting.”

Gabriel had about as much intention of introducing Haverford to Euphemia Flite as he had in becoming an aeronaut. But he wasn’t about to let his personal inclinations get in the way of his business aims. “If it’s diversion you require, you’ll want to hear my plans for St. Giles.”

Haverford’s attention returned to Gabriel. He gave him an indulgent smile. “Compton mentioned you were interested in charity.”

“Is that all he’s said?”

“The substance of it.”

Gabriel concealed a flare of irritation. He had some idea of what Compton had told Haverford. Something about Gabriel’s distasteful origins, very likely, and how Gabriel had managed to rise above them to find himself here tonight—less a guest than an object of Compton’s generosity.

The mention of Wingard’s name in the Courant may have served to force the viscount back into line, but he was still far from being a willing partner. There had been a furious glint in his eyes as he’d welcomed Gabriel this evening. A look that made it clear he’d far rather see Gabriel dangling from the end of a rope than entering the Comptons’ Grosvenor Square mansion with the other guests.

“Not charity,” Gabriel said. “What this project requires is someone with foresight.”

“I’ve frequently been called progressive in my views,” Haverford acknowledged. “I presume that’s why you asked Compton for an introduction.”

“St. Giles needs progressive thinking. With adequate housing and sewage in place, the Rookery would cease to be a bed of indigence and disease. It could become a respectable neighborhood.”

“You’re talking about reforming the slum.”

“I am.”

“Most would rather eradicate it.”

“They haven’t succeeded yet.”

Haverford chuckled. “No, indeed. Despite all efforts.” He leaned back against the mantel, examining Gabriel. “What’s your interest?”

“I spent most of my youth there,” Gabriel replied frankly. He expected Haverford to recoil, but the man only looked at him with increased attentiveness. “I know firsthand what the good people of the Rookery must endure, living in such vile conditions.”

“And you raised yourself up from those conditions, did you? But you must have done to find yourself in our company. Compton doesn’t invite just anyone to his parties.”

“I’ve made something of a name for myself, yes.”

“Yet still you concern yourself with the Rookery? Most men wouldn’t have looked back.”