Page 47 of Rules for Ruin

Effie tried the handle of the first one. Relief flooded through her to find it unlocked. Pulling the door open, she slipped out onto the terrace. There was no time to shut it, for in that same instant, the door to Compton’s chamber opened and a servant entered the room.

Cold night air washed over Effie. With the moon hanging overhead, it was lighter outside than it had been in Compton’s room. Anyone might see her. She hastily backed to the edge of the terrace, as far away from the open glass door as she could, until she felt the low stone railing press at her back.

A cool breeze passed over her, stirring her skirts. The same breeze rustled the velvet curtains, catching the servant’s eye.

“Now who left that open?” the man muttered to himself.

Effie held her breath, listening to him cross the room to the terrace doors. She waited for him to pop his head out. To see her and sound the alarm. A dozen excuses for her presence ran through her head in a furious rush.

But the servant didn’t look outside. He only pushed the glass door shut. There was a dull clunk as he locked it.

Effie’s hands gripped the railing behind her. Minutes later, she heard the man depart. Only then did the reality of her position hit her. The terrace doors had no proper handles on the outside. She’d been locked out here. Left out here.

She cast a look of cold panic at the moonlit gardens below. Her stomach plummeted. For a moment, it was as if she’d already fallen, down, down, down, to the paving stones. It was that real. That visceral. The terrace floor seemed to shift beneath her feet. She squeezed her eyes shut as a wave of dizziness assailed her. It was coupled with the same wash of clammy perspiration she’d felt that day so long ago when she’d been trapped on the tower roof of the Academy. Then, Nell had climbed up to save her. But Nell wasn’t coming this time.

No one was coming.

• • •

Gabriel strolled down the secluded tree-lined path that ran along the edge of the Comptons’ expansive gardens. The tip of his half-finished cigarette glowed in the darkness. Along with the moon and a blanket of shimmering stars, it was the only light to guide his way. No lanterns or torches had been set out for the evening. Lady Compton had doubtless anticipated her guests remaining inside.

Inside was the last place Gabriel wanted to be.

He’d just been discussing the rot and disease of the Rookery. To go from that to the cloying luxury of the drawing room, with its passel of rich young ladies singing in Italian, was too bitter a contrast. In his present frame of mind, Gabriel knew it would only fire his temper.

Instead, on leaving the library after his talk with Haverford, Gabriel had withdrawn to the gardens for a smoke. With luck, a cigarette and some fresh air would restore his equanimity.

Music drifted over him as he walked—the faint sounds of the piano and violin accompanied by a feeble contralto. The musicale was still in full swing. There was no hope of avoiding the whole of it. He would have to return eventually, if for no other reason than to show himself amenable to society’s rules.

And to see Euphemia again.

It was a damnable urge. An unwelcome attraction all mixed up with his growing feeling of frustration and disillusionment. He had no place in this world. Her world. And it wasn’t some mistaken sense of inferiority that compelled him to acknowledge it. It was the grim understanding that these people—these illustrious lords and ladies of London—would never change.

They existed in a sphere too far above the struggles of the common man and woman to ever comprehend them. For them, charity was entertainment. Compassion a performance. To gain their fickle attention, humble working people had to debase themselves, exposing their misery and abdicating their pride for the merest chance at a few scraps from the rich man’s table.

There was no dignity in it, this glorified begging. Especially for Gabriel, who scorned to ask anyone for anything. He’d had to swallow his rancor to talk with Haverford. Whether or not the sacrifice had been worth it, Gabriel didn’t yet know. Haverford hadn’t spoken in terms of swift reforms. He’d approached the matter legally and theoretically, referencing scholarly reports, parliamentary opinions, and possible amendments to the 1855 Metropolis Management Act.

Haverford had also discussed the upcoming elections to the St. Giles District Board of Works. The character and opinions of the newly elected board members would have an outsize impact on the Rookery’s future. As much of an impact as that of Compton and politicians like him.

Whatever action was taken, it would depend on them to implement it. Which meant that, soon, Gabriel would be even more reliant on Compton than he was already. And Compton would know it.

Gabriel took a scowling drag of his cigarette. He was in a foul mood, that was the trouble. He had been ever since dinner, when he’d been obliged to tell Euphemia that his lofty position in St. Giles had originated not by order of his birth or connection or honest hard work, but by virtue of being a bookmaker—a glorified Rookery villain, who had risen to his current status through violence and intimidation.

He wasn’t ashamed of what he was or where he came from. But in that moment, seated next to her in the candlelight, he’d felt something resembling regret. An earnest, elegant young lady like her—one who had been finished in Paris, by God—was so far removed from a man like him she practically existed on another planet. It didn’t matter that she had the heart of an adventuress. That he’d seen in her eyes, that night in Compton’s library, a spirit as fierce and formidable as his own. He could still never hope to reach her. To touch her. Not if he made another fortune for himself and bought half a dozen properties in Mayfair.

That didn’t mean he relished the idea of her enjoying the remainder of the musicale with a witless arse like Lord Mannering or a self-righteous hypocrite like Lord Powell.

Better it should be Gabriel sitting beside her.

With that in mind, he finished his cigarette and headed back. The enormous white stucco house loomed ahead, towering over the neatly trimmed rosebushes and perfectly manicured grass of the formal gardens. A massive wisteria climbed up the walls, thick, woody, and drooping with heavy clusters of pale lilac flowers. Its branches stretched up to the high windows above where shadows moved and lights glimmered.

He avoided the main path, opting instead for a secluded track that ran alongside the house. There was a door there that led to the hall by the billiard room. It was the way he’d come out. As he approached, he paused to put out his cigarette, tipping his head back to take one last look at the waning moon.

It was then he saw it.

Or rather, her.

The distinct flash of violet silk was unmistakable. It shone briefly in the moonlight, a fleeting glimpse of color through the stone railing of a small terrace three floors above.