Page 63 of Rules for Ruin

Gabriel stared at her, both impressed and astounded by her audacity. He’d thought her an intelligent woman, not a simpleton. “Do you imagine you can move a man like Compton about like a token on a game board?”

“I don’t presume it will be easy,” Effie said. “He is, by all accounts, a powerful man.”

“A very powerful one,” Gabriel returned. “And one who’s essential to my business.”

She gave him a curious look. “I thought you only required him to help reform St. Giles? Are you saying he’s involved with your betting shop as well?”

“Not involved, no. But he keeps the wolf from my door.”

A wry twinkle flickered in the depths of her violet blue eyes. “Funny. I thought you were the wolf.”

His heart thumped hard. He ignored it. “There are all manner of wolves in London. The trick is learning how to tell the useful ones from the ones who’ll rip your throat out.”

“No one is going to rip my throat out. Indeed, I’d like to see them try. But I appreciate your warning.” She smiled again, this time with a trace of regret. “I suppose this means we must be enemies. Pity. I’d rather hoped we might be friends.”

“I’m not your enemy, Effie,” he said.

“Yet here you are, not two hours after I inquired about Mr. Wingard.” She held his gaze. There was no softness this time. No smiles. Only an implacable resolve as mighty as his own. “Do you know what became of the documents mentioned in the paper? The ones that might pose a danger to someone in society?”

An image of those tattered, tearstained documents entered Gabriel’s mind. They were dangerous, to be sure, and not only to Compton. Without them, Gabriel and all the rest of the people in the Rookery stood to lose everything that mattered to them.

“What I know,” he said gravely, “is that powerful men will do anything to protect their secrets. Gentlemen of Compton’s rank aren’t to be trifled with. Forget him and move on from this mad quest while you still have the chance.”

Color crept into her cheeks. It wasn’t a blush. It was building fury. “Forgive me, but that sounds rather like a threat.”

Gabriel wasn’t sure that it wasn’t. “Take it how you will. If you continue to act against the man, I’ll have to stop you.”

Her eyes blazed. “You’re welcome to try, sir. As for myself, I intend to go on about my business, just as before. If you plan on checking my every move, you’ll have to look sharp. I won’t be retiring with my smelling salts anytime soon.” She picked up Franc. “Good day to you.” She dropped Gabriel a mocking curtsy before striding back down the sunlit path in a flourish of black skirts, her little dog cradled safely in her arms.

Gabriel was left there amid the silver birches, staring after her with a brooding frown. Unless he was mistaken, Effie Flite had just declared war.

On him.

15

Effie sat alone in the back of the hired hackney at the corner of Ellis and Sloane Streets. The thought of how much money she was expending in cab fare ticked steadily at the back of her mind. But there was nothing for it. She didn’t know the precise time on Thursday mornings that Lord Compton arrived at his mistress’s house for their weekly tryst. Indeed, she wasn’t even entirely sure this was his mistress’s house.

It stood at the end of the street, as commonplace as the homes that surrounded it. None were too grand, neither were they overly modest. They were just the sort of respectable, vaguely elegant brick homes one would expect on the fringes of fashionable London. A perfect place for a busy politician to house his mistress. It was but two miles from Westminster.

Effie had already been watching the house for nearly an hour, waiting for the viscount’s carriage to arrive. It was a good thing she’d hired a hackney rather than resorting to her original plan—strolling the street with Franc. While it might have been nice to obtain a closer view, one couldn’t walk a poodle up and down the same street for an hour without drawing unwanted attention.

As it was, Effie hoped to remain invisible. She’d worn her widow’s weeds and veil again. And there was enough through traffic, both by riders and passing carriages, that a hackney parked at the end of the street shouldn’t draw too much notice.

She was just beginning to doubt her plan when a glossy black carriage entered the street. Leaning forward in her seat, Effie peered out the greasy window of the hackney. The carriage had no crest or other insignia on its side. It was unmarked—and unidentifiable. It was an expensive vehicle for all that, from the luster of its paint to the sheen on the copper coats of its perfectly matched set of bays.

Effie knew how much Compton enjoyed his luxuries.

She held her breath as the carriage slowed to a halt at the end of the street, stopping in front of the very address Effie had found in the lease agreement. She tried her best to discern the carriage’s occupant. Drat it! They were too far away.

There was no time to waste. Coming to a swift decision, Effie pulled the black net veil of her bonnet down over her face, collected her parasol, and opened the door of the hackney. “Wait for me,” she said as she stepped down into the street unassisted.

“Right-o, ma’am,” the aged jarvey said with a weary tip of his hat.

Effie crossed to the same side of the street as the house. She walked toward it with an even step—neither too fast, nor too slow. There weren’t enough other people out strolling to hide her presence, but there was some activity. Children were playing nearby under the care of a pinafore-clad nurse, and several footmen were busily occupied sweeping doorsteps and polishing brass knockers.

Still a distance away, she watched as the hulking driver of the luxurious carriage jumped down from the box. He shot a look up and down the street before turning to open the carriage door.

Effie’s heart stopped beating. It was Parker, Compton’s butler. She’d know his ogreish countenance anywhere. She came to an immediate halt.