Page 65 of Rules for Ruin

“Well, well,” she said quietly, overtaking him halfway down Sloane Street. “If it isn’t my chivalrous St. Giles shadow.”

The lad spun around with a start. He gaped at her. “Miss Flite!”

“I thought it was you,” she said. “No, don’t run. I’m not going to hurt you. Though I do have a mind to box your ears.”

He flinched, backing up a step.

Effie closed the distance. “How dare your master send you to follow me again? I should have thought he’d learned his lesson.”

“I’m not following you! I swear it. I work here.” He jerked his head in the direction of a handsome red brick house with a black-painted door. “I’ve just come from fetching a new pair of gloves for Mr. Royce in Bond Street. I didn’t even know you was anywhere near here!”

A dawning suspicion came over Effie. She stared up at the tall house. “That isn’t…?”

“Mr. Royce’s residence in town,” the lad confirmed. “He ain’t there now, but he’ll be back this evening.”

Effie’s gaze drifted over the elegant brick facade. A strange tremor went through her—the slightest trilling of butterfly wings. It was an odd sensation, and one totally incongruous to her present occupation. But to think that this was his home. Where he entertained his friends. Where he dined. Where he slept.

She hadn’t really imagined Gabriel living anywhere. Certainly not someplace as traditional as this. He was so vital. So dangerous. And yet, he doubtless maintained the same habits as other gentlemen, reading the paper over his morning coffee or indulging in a glass of port after dinner. He obviously shaved over a washstand at the start of his day, and he inevitably retired at night to a bed somewhere. If not here, then—

No.

No.

She didn’t wish to think of him in someone else’s bed. Not after the kiss they’d shared, and the friendship they’d almost had.

But almost was as bad as never. The end result was precisely the same.

Effie willed the butterflies in her stomach to cease fluttering their wings. They went still at her command. She had the grim idea that she’d killed them.

Oh, why must she be at odds with him when she liked him so much? Why must he be Compton’s protector, and not the viscount’s enemy like she was?

It wasn’t fair.

But nothing was fair.

Effie collected herself. “You’re his house servant, are you?”

“His valet. And I truly ain’t following you,” he said again. “Not after you spotted me like you did.”

“No, I suppose not,” she allowed. “Your master will have sent someone else to do the job.”

Gabriel had admitted as much two days ago during their confrontation in Hyde Park. How else could he have known that Effie visited the Courant?

The lad lowered his eyes with a sheepish flush. “I don’t know about that.”

“Forgive me if I take your professed ignorance with a grain of salt.” She looked the boy up and down. His hair was lank, and his face slightly spotty, but he didn’t appear neglected. “What’s your name? Ollie, isn’t it?”

“Ollie O’Cleary, miss.”

“Well, Ollie O’Cleary,” she said, donning her most severe expression. “You be sure to tell anyone else your master sends my way that I see everything, and I don’t take kindly to spies.”

“Yes, miss.” Ollie shifted from foot to foot, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

“That’s all,” Effie said, adding ominously, “For now.”

Ollie immediately bolted off to Gabriel’s house.

Effie didn’t remain to watch him go in. She returned to the hackney on the corner, settling safe in the cab. She could just make out Parker at the end of the street, still waiting with the carriage while Compton finished his lascivious business.