Page 86 of Rules for Ruin

“That’s one word for it,” Ruth said. Curtsying to them both, she took her leave, promising to call again on her return to London.

Effie was left standing alone in front of Miss Compton, like a wayward schoolgirl in anticipation of a dressing-down. There appeared little hope of being invited to sit.

It wasn’t the time to show weakness. One could be amenable—conciliatory, even—and still be decisive.

Effie helped herself to a seat beside Miss Compton on the Japanese sofa. Their skirts bunched against each other. “I gather you’re upset that Lord Mannering escorted me home,” she said, unprompted. “Pray, don’t be. He only exerted himself because he sincerely promised Lady Belwood he’d guarantee my welfare. Had he lost me in the Gardens—”

The entirety of Miss Compton’s body stiffened. “But you weren’t lost, were you? You were with that Royce fellow. Lord Powell said the man carried you away. Meanwhile, I was on the grass, in fear for my life, with no one to attend me.”

“We both know that isn’t true,” Effie said gently. “Lord Mannering didn’t leave your side until he was assured you were safe in the carriage with his sister and Lord Powell. Indeed, anyone would say he showed more care for your welfare than he did for mine. I was but an afterthought to him.”

A pucker formed in Miss Compton’s brow. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“That’s understandable. You were distraught. So were we all.”

“It was a dreadful spectacle,” Miss Compton said. “I shall never forget the gruesomeness of all that blood.”

Effie couldn’t forget it, either. Mr. Galezzo had been performing for them. Risking life and limb for their coin, and their amusement. Yet, now he was gone, people like Miss Compton were more concerned with the harm they’d suffered in witnessing the tragedy of his death than they were with Mr. Galezzo actually having died.

Was it any wonder Ruth required a respite in the country?

In that moment, Effie wished she might follow her example. She was tired of fashionable London. Tired of pretending to be something she wasn’t.

But there would be no withdrawing from the field—and no money with which to do it—until her job was finished.

“Poor thing,” Effie murmured again, far more sympathetically than she felt. “You must give it time. The memory is still very fresh.”

“Everyone else has had the grace to call and offer their consolation,” Miss Compton said. “Lady Lavinia, Miss Whitbread, even Lord Powell. But not Lord Mannering. Oh no, not him.”

“He did send his sister,” Effie reminded her.

“A likely story! He should have called on me himself. He should have known what was due to me.” Miss Compton’s eyes glimmered with angry vulnerability. “That I must be left to wait upon him, never knowing if he’ll grace me with his presence or if he’ll slight me—” She stopped short, fingers clenching the sticks of her fan. “He never used to be so cruel.”

Effie studied her face. Reluctant compassion stirred at the genuine torment she saw there. “If the acquaintance pains you so, why do you put up with it?”

“It wasn’t always so. He was exceedingly attentive to me at Christmas. We spent two weeks in each other’s company at Orleigh Park with Lady Lavinia’s family in Devonshire.” Miss Compton fidgeted with her fan. “She claims we were too much in each other’s company. She says that, perchance, his lordship has grown tired of me.”

“Perhaps he’s merely recognized you’re ill-suited,” Effie suggested.

Miss Compton’s eyes flashed to hers. “Has he said so?”

“Not to me. But once a gentleman’s affections turn cool…” Effie hesitated.

She was meant to be using Miss Compton, not offering the girl heartfelt advice. The two of them weren’t friends, nor anything approaching that state. Indeed, they didn’t even like each other. Still…

The indelible bonds of sisterhood compelled Effie to speak honestly.

“You don’t want to wed a man who isn’t besotted with you,” she said. “Distance can only grow after marriage. If that union begins with coldness and disregard, what do you imagine will come in the years that follow? It can only lead to unhappiness.”

Miss Compton stared at her. “You would advise me to give him up? After I have been secretly attached to him for nearly a year?”

“Count yourself lucky that is all it’s been. You’re still very young. In time, you’ll find someone you like better.”

“There is no one I will ever like better,” Miss Compton declared.

Effie’s heart thumped in bitter accord with the assertion. She thought of Gabriel. Of the pain that came when one’s tender feelings were so drastically at odds with the realities of life. “You feel that now, I don’t doubt it. But it doesn’t change the fact that you deserve a gentleman who will put you first. All women deserve it—if it’s a gentleman they want at all.”

“What else should they want?” Miss Compton asked, perplexed. “The alternative to marriage is…spinsterhood.”