“Yet here you are, not two hours after I inquired about Mr. Wingard.” She held his gaze. There was no softness this time. No smiles. Only an implacable resolve as mighty as his own. “Do you know what became of the documents mentioned in the paper? The ones that might pose a danger to someone in society?”

An image of those tattered, tearstained documents entered Gabriel’s mind. They were dangerous, to be sure, and not only to Compton. Without them, Gabriel and all the rest of the people in the Rookery stood to lose everything that mattered to them.

“What I know,” he said gravely, “is that powerful men will do anything to protect their secrets. Gentlemen of Compton’s rank aren’t to be trifled with. Forget him and move on from this mad quest while you still have the chance.”

Color crept into her cheeks. It wasn’t a blush. It was building fury. “Forgive me, but that sounds rather like a threat.”

Gabriel wasn’t sure that it wasn’t. “Take it how you will. If you continue to act against the man, I’ll have to stop you.”

Her eyes blazed. “You’re welcome to try, sir. As for myself, I intend to go on about my business, just as before. If you plan on checking my every move, you’ll have to look sharp. I won’t be retiring with my smelling salts anytime soon.” She picked up Franc. “Good day to you.” She dropped Gabriel a mocking curtsy before striding back down the sunlit path in a flourish of black skirts, her little dog cradled safely in her arms.

Gabriel was left there amid the silver birches, staring after her with a brooding frown. Unless he was mistaken, Effie Flite had just declared war.

On him.

15

Effie sat alone in the back of the hired hackney at the corner of Ellis and Sloane Streets. The thought of how much money she was expending in cab fare ticked steadily at the back of her mind. But there was nothing for it. She didn’t know the precise time on Thursday mornings that Lord Compton arrived at his mistress’s house for their weekly tryst. Indeed, she wasn’t even entirely sure this was his mistress’s house.

It stood at the end of the street, as commonplace as the homes that surrounded it. None were too grand, neither were they overly modest. They were just the sort of respectable, vaguely elegant brick homes one would expect on the fringes of fashionable London. A perfect place for a busy politician to house his mistress. It was but two miles from Westminster.