Page 58 of Rules for Ruin

“And then you came here,” Gabriel concluded. His gaze shot to the entrance and exit of the alleyway. He half expected to see Effie emerge, triumphant, having successfully used Miles to make the connection between Wingard, Compton, and Gabriel. “Bloody fool. Did it not occur to you that you might have been followed?”

“By whom?”

“By her,” Gabriel said.

“The lady with the poodle?” Miles looked at Gabriel as though he’d gone insane. “Let me guess, she and her little dog are a pair of dangerous villains?”

Gabriel didn’t know about the villainous aspect to Effie Flite, but he was beginning to suspect that dangerous was precisely what she was. If she was looking through Compton’s things, if she was asking about Wingard, she could only be after the documents that proved the two men’s crime.

Documents that Gabriel currently had under triple lock and key.

Was she truly a relation of Wingard and his ill-fated sister? If she was, her search could have but one purpose. She must want to bring Compton to justice. Little did she realize that she’d destroy Gabriel in the bargain. Without Compton’s support, neither Gabriel nor the Rookery had any future at all, only an unchecked free fall toward complete obliteration.

Gabriel stalked back to his shop. He had thought his and Effie’s positions at odds before, but this revelation put them squarely on opposite sides of the battlefield. Their interests were that diametrically opposed. There would be no reconciling them.

Miles followed after him. “Where are you going?”

“To fetch my coat,” Gabriel snarled. “And then to bleeding Mayfair.”

14

Effie had never been fishing herself, but she knew a thing or two about baiting hooks. A few calculating inquiries here, a few pointed remarks there, and something was bound to stir from the murky depths of London in answer. All she must do is wait. She was confident that, with time, one of her lures would get a bite. If not from the whale-sized Compton himself, then from a useful sort of game fish.

She hadn’t anticipated reeling in a shark.

“Miss Flite.” Gabriel Royce stepped in front of Effie on the tree-lined path in Hyde Park where she was walking Franc. His face was somber, his eyes blazing.

Effie came to a surprised halt beneath the silver birches. Her heart gave a girlish flutter, even as her other senses vibrated in resounding warning. “Mr. Royce,” she said with creditable calm. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

It was nearly half past two, and the sun was shining brightly in a clear aquamarine sky. The fashionable hour was still many hours away. Ladies and gentlemen of every stripe were nevertheless out in force taking advantage of the fine weather—riding, driving, and walking along the avenues below.

Unlike the other gentlemen strolling in the park, Gabriel had no hat, gloves, or walking stick. He wore a plain black three-piece suit, the single-breasted coat open to reveal the gold chain of his pocket watch. There was a rumpled, impatient air about him, rather like an attorney or other busy professional who had been prematurely called away from his office.

In that taut moment, her thoughts already occupied by the latest lure she’d cast, Effie could think of only one thing that would have dragged him from his betting shop. And it wasn’t the kiss they’d shared. It was her visit to the London Courant this morning.

Her heart ceased its fluttering. It sank into her stomach like a stone. Was it possible that Gabriel was in some way connected to Mr. Wingard?

He appeared provoked enough for it. To be sure, he was looking at her just as he had that first night in Compton’s library in the seconds before Effie had removed his hand from her throat—cold, implacable, dangerous.

Franc didn’t register the threat. At finding Gabriel blocking their way, the little poodle gave only the faintest tail quiver of recognition before he resumed pulling on his lead, demanding Effie continue their walk.

Effie obliged him. Deftly sidestepping Gabriel, she proceeded down the path, letting Franc lead the way. The swell of her poplin skirt brushed Gabriel’s leg as she passed him. “However did you find me?” she asked.

He came alongside her, his face hard as granite. “Lady Belwood’s footman directed me.”

Effie somehow managed to keep her countenance. “You called in Brook Street?”

“I did.”

“You must be keen to see me indeed if you were willing to pay a formal call.”

“Keen,” he repeated. “That’s one way of putting it.”

The alarm bells in Effie’s head grew louder. “Whatever can have prompted such eagerness?”

“Need you ask?”

Effie cast him a veiled glance. He wasn’t going to make this easy for her, neither for her mission to the Academy, nor for her pride. Of the two, she knew which was the more dispensable. The Academy must come first.