Having satisfied herself that Effie was in some small degree an ally rather than an out-and-out rival, Miss Compton soon departed. Effie bid her good day with a sense of accomplishment. She was gradually managing to assemble the necessary pieces on the board. One of the most important of those pieces was Carena Compton.

A friendship with her would enable Effie to visit Lord Compton’s house in Grosvenor Square with regularity. It would also, with a little strategy, result in Effie obtaining an invitation to Rawdon Court. All Effie had to do was use Miss Compton effectively. It shouldn’t be difficult, given the lady’s weaknesses.

After finishing her tea, Effie returned to her room, where she donned her hat, gloves, and mantle, and collected Franc. Within ten minutes, they were out the door, walking down Brook Street together, Effie’s hat ribbons fluttering and Franc prancing ahead of her at the end of his lead.

She turned down Park Street, and from thence to Upper Grosvenor Street, avoiding the necessity of passing Grosvenor Square. From there, she hailed a hackney to take her and Franc as far as the Strand. Their destination was some three miles distance. Effie had studied the route on her map this morning before getting dressed. On arriving there, she and Franc disembarked from the hackney, heading toward Fleet Street with a purposeful step.

She was gradually learning her way about London. That was the first rule nearly fulfilled. Know your surroundings.

And she already had the third rule mastered. She knew herself. Her strengths, her weaknesses, her prevailing desire. She wanted to secure a decisive victory for women. What Academy girl didn’t? She also wanted—desperately wanted—a home of her own, safe and snug somewhere with Franc, beholden to no one.

It was the second rule that was proving difficult. Know your opponent.

But just who was her opponent? Was it Lord Compton? Or was it Gabriel Royce?

After their kiss last night on the terrace, she’d been too flustered to consider the matter properly, but the stark light of morning had brought cold common sense. He’d kissed her, yes. And he’d enjoyed kissing her, obviously. But that didn’t preclude him being her enemy. Indeed, the kiss itself may have been the first shot fired in the battle to come.

“You don’t want me to act, my lady,” he’d warned her that night in Compton’s library.

Had this been the action he’d been threatening? But if it had, why had she seen a crack in his cold facade? That brief, flickering glimmer of baffled vulnerability? It made her stomach tremble to recall it.

She shook off the feeling, refocusing her attention on the task at hand. Tipping her head back, she gazed up at the gray stone building ahead. A painted sign proclaimed its name: The London Courant.

“Ah,” she said to Franc. “Here we are.”

13