Page 40 of Rules for Ruin

“It’s been less than a week.”

“Ample time, surely.”

Gabriel flashed her a dark look. She was a lady used to twining idiotic men around her finger. Despite recent evidence to the contrary, he refused to be one of them. “Do you imagine I have nothing else to occupy me? I’ve a business to run, and my own affairs to see to.” He draped his napkin on his lap. “Church Lane and Devil’s Acre aren’t going anywhere.”

The faint glimmer of hope in her face flickered out. “In other words, you intend to prioritize all your other commitments ahead of the one you made to me.”

“I prioritize them according to importance.”

“Their importance to you.”

“Who else?”

He may as well have told her she wasn’t important. She reacted just the same.

The mask of impenetrable composure she so often wore slipped back into place. She was in every appearance ladylike. Untouchable. Only the faint thread of disappointment that seeped into her voice hinted at her true feelings. “That’s the precise trouble with relying on other people. If they don’t let you down outright, they take their sweet time in doing so, wasting your own time in the bargain.”

He regarded her with mild amusement. “I didn’t take you for a cynic.”

“A realist. I could more easily have gone myself.”

“I wouldn’t advise it,” he said. “Your parasol notwithstanding.”

“If you believe a parasol is the only weapon I have in my arsenal, Mr. Royce, allow me to say you don’t know me at all.”

Gabriel’s mouth tugged reflexively at one corner. He didn’t allow himself to crack a smile. He had no intention of encouraging whatever self-destructive madness it was that compelled her to venture into the London slums. “If your interests lie elsewhere, why are you here tonight?” he asked. “Looking to burnish your acquaintance with Compton?”

“Is that so objectionable?”

“What was he saying to you earlier?”

“He was describing the size of his book collection. Did you know he collects medieval texts?”

“I neither know, nor care.” Gabriel’s brows sank with sudden suspicion. “You’re not planning to visit his library again, I trust.”

She unfolded her snowy white napkin and placed it on her lap as the footmen began serving dinner. “I shall soon be well acquainted with the place, never fear. Miss Compton is giving me a tour of it after dinner.”

He dropped his voice. “All the easier to search it when everyone’s distracted at the musicale? Don’t bother. Lord Haverford and I will be using it then.”

“Oh?”

“We have business to discuss about St. Giles.”

Her dark blue eyes flicked to his with a spark of genuine interest. “Is he going to help you implement your ideas for reform?”

Gabriel was caught by her gaze. “I’m reserving hope.”

With all the guests seated, the soup course was served. The footmen started at the top of the table, and worked their way down, ladling out potage à la julienne into each of the guests’ dishes. Parker moved among them, pouring out the wine.

Gabriel kept an eye on the man as he came to fill his glass. Parker’s face tightened as he poured. It plainly rubbed him on the raw to be serving a man like Gabriel. Servants were often as arrogant as their employers when it came to questions of rank, but Parker was more than snobbish. There was a ferocity to him that made every movement feel a threat. At least, where Gabriel was concerned.

Where had Compton found him? And what was he using him for? It couldn’t only be for pouring wine and conveying cream-laid invitations to parties.

Turning his head, Gabriel caught Euphemia observing the man, too. For a split second he had the uncanny impression that she was wondering the same thing he was. She had a thoughtful frown in her gaze as Parker poured her wine. Only when he, and the footman who served her soup, had passed on to the gentleman on her opposite side (Lord Mannering, by God!) did she resume the conversation she and Gabriel had been having.

“How would you do it?” she asked, picking up her silver soup spoon. “Reform St. Giles, I mean.”

He downed a swallow of wine. It was pale ruby in color, delicately fragrant and smooth as silk, with no trace of sourness to it. As ever, nothing but the best for Compton. The man had a weakness for fine things.