Page 1 of Rules for Ruin

Prologue

April 1864

Euphemia Flite stood outside the iron gates that formed the fortresslike entrance to the bleak stone manor house beyond. The institution’s name was wrought in heavy black filigree letters in the arch above: Miss Corvus’s Benevolent Academy for the Betterment of Young Ladies.

Spring storm clouds drifted overhead, darkening an already gray sky. They lent an ominous air to the sprawling estate’s barren gardens and high weathered granite walls. To the public, it was nothing more than a charity school—the dignified remains of a once grand property outside of London, where ragged orphans and street urchins were taught the skills necessary for honest employment.

Effie had been one of those urchins. The first one. To her, the Academy hadn’t been a school. It had been a prison. Her stomach trembled on an uncharacteristic quiver of anxiety to see it again.

It had been more than five years since she’d last passed through its gates. Then, she’d been leaving—a headstrong girl of eighteen, cast out by the Academy’s proprietress, Artemisia Corvus, herself. But it hadn’t been an absolute expulsion. It had only ever been an exile. Effie had understood then, as surely as she’d understood anything, that one day, whether she liked it or not, Miss Corvus would summon her back.

A week ago in Paris, that day had finally arrived.

Setting her shoulders against the chill, Effie waited for someone to let her in. She’d come straight from the railway station. She was still in her black silk traveling dress, a veiled bonnet perched atop her stylishly arranged ebony hair, and a heavy carpetbag clutched in her gloved hands. Her small black poodle, Franc, was comfortably ensconced within.

Sensing her uneasiness, he poked his beribboned head out of the bag’s opening. He looked at her briefly, as if to reassure himself she had the situation in hand, before turning to peer through the gates. His lip twitched in a preemptive snarl.

Effie gave him an absent scratch to soothe him.

Miss Corvus employed no gentleman porter. During Effie’s time as a student, the gates had been manned by the junior teachers. Several minutes passed before a door at the side of the house opened and one of them finally emerged. The young woman advanced slowly down the pebbled drive, a heavy shawl drawn around her narrow shoulders, and a large ring of keys in her hand. A pronounced limp marred her gait.

It was Penelope Trewlove. Nell, as she was called by her intimates. There was no mistaking that glossy flaxen hair and beguiling heart-shaped face.

Catching sight of Effie, Nell’s angelic countenance was transformed by a roguishly dimpled smile. “I confess, I didn’t truly believe you’d come,” she said as she drew closer. “Not even when we received your wire from Calais.”

Effie smiled in return. It was genuine, not artifice. A rarity with her. So much of her conduct these past several years had been studied instead of spontaneous.

But this was Nell, not an adversary. A version of Nell remarkably unaltered by the passage of time.

Granted, she may have grown taller, and her cheeks were slightly less plump, but her eyes had retained their mischievous sparkle, and her figure was still something to be envied. Above all, she was familiar. Far more emblematic of home than the cold, unwelcoming structure that loomed behind her.

“Nell,” Effie said warmly. “I’d hoped yours would be the first face I saw.”

“Never mind my face.” Nell’s gaze swept over Effie in glowing approval as she came to a halt on the opposite side of the gates. “How well you look! Lovelier even than when you left us. That’s Paris’s doing, I’ll wager.” Her smile broadened, revealing a glimpse of her crooked front tooth. “And this must be the famous Franc!”

Franc stared back at Nell through the bars. He offered none of his usual grumbles. He seemed to sense she was an ally rather than a foe.

“Franc,” Effie said, introducing him as formally as if he were a gentleman acquaintance. “This is Miss Trewlove.”

“How do you do, Franc?” Nell’s dimples appeared again. “Oh, what a little dear he is. And what a continental air he has about him! I feel as though he’s judging the unfashionableness of my gown.” Her attention fell to the barren ground at Effie’s booted feet. “But where are all the rest of your things? Have you not brought any trunks with you from Paris?”

“I left them at Waltham Station. I shall send for them directly after I speak with Miss Corvus.” Effie paused. “Providing you let me in.”

Nell gave an eloquent grimace. “Yes, yes. Of course. I’m sorry I kept you waiting. Especially in this weather. It’s bound to rain any moment.” She shuffled through the key ring, selecting a large black iron key. “I trust you haven’t been standing here long?”

“The hackney cab set me down not ten minutes ago.”

“Ten minutes? Upon my word. I’m surprised you didn’t pick the lock.”

Effie’s smile dimmed. “Is that what the Academy’s students have been reduced to in my absence? Parlor tricks?”

Nell slid the heavy iron key into the lock, opening the tall gates with a grating scrape of metal on metal. “What you call parlor tricks, I call useful skills.”

Effie didn’t doubt it. Nell had always believed in Miss Corvus’s questionable aims. It was one of the primary reasons Nell had agreed to stay on as a junior teacher. Indeed, on coming of age, Nell and Effie had both been given that option—a five-year contract, after which they could either remain at the Academy permanently or depart, with a small stipend, to seek their fortunes.

Miss Corvus liked to keep her special girls close. And, as the first and second members of the inaugural class of the charity school, Effie and Nell had been the most special of all.

The gates swung open with a creaking groan. Effie walked through them to embrace her old schoolmate. “Some skills are more useful than others,” she said.