“Only that Miss Flite were here earlier, sir.”

Gabriel dropped his glass back onto the sideboard with a heavy clink. He turned on the lad. “Here? In my house?”

Ollie took a reflexive step backward. “Not inside it, Mr. Royce. On the street. She came up on me, like. Thought I were following her again.”

“Miss Flite was in Sloane Street?”

Ollie nodded rapidly. “She were angry at me. Said I was to tell anyone else you sent to follow her that she sees everything and she don’t take kindly to spies.”

“And somewhere in this brief and riveting exchange, you told her this house belonged to me.” Gabriel felt the bitter urge to laugh. And not with humor. In dismay at the extent of his own masculine naivete.

Had he really thought that his warnings to Effie in Hyde Park would have any appreciable effect on her? That she’d seriously consider backing off of Compton?

No, Gabriel hadn’t thought she would. Neither had he thought that she’d turn her sights on him.

Look sharp, she’d told him.

And Gabriel hadn’t. He’d been too busy being pulled in twenty different directions. Too distracted with trying to save himself, all the while confident in the fact that Effie would never find Wingard’s documents, not if it was Compton she was chasing.

But she wasn’t chasing him any longer, was she? Not exclusively.

Gabriel saw it now quite clearly. Effie Flite was chasing him.

17

Effie stole another wary glance at Gabriel as she, and the rest of their party, passed through the wrought iron gates that marked the King’s Road entrance to Cremorne Gardens. The sun was setting, but one would never know it. Gaslights and colored oil lamps illuminated the lush, tree-covered landscape, lending a magical air to the ornamental fountains, variegated flower beds, and classically styled statuary.

Music floated on the evening breeze, drifting down from the orchestra pavilion to the ever-increasing clusters of newly arrived visitors near the gates. People of every class were here to see Mr. Galezzo’s famed performance. Fashionable ladies and gentlemen in evening clothes, who had come straight from the theater or opera house, entered alongside bawdy women, shabbily dressed men, and common working folk with their entire families in tow.

The atmosphere buzzed with excitement. Everywhere one turned, people were smiling, laughing, and making merry.

But Effie wasn’t attending them. Try as she might to maintain an air of polite disinterest, her attention kept returning to Gabriel.

He had appeared in Brook Street promptly at eight, looking devastatingly handsome in a black three-piece suit and plain black wool overcoat. An understated ensemble, transformed into the devil’s raiment by Gabriel’s stark features, cold eyes, and menacing figure.