Gathering her skirts, Effie moved to stand. Gabriel was back at her side in an instant. The fearsome glower he wore was belied by the tenderness with which he assisted her to her feet. He remained close to her after she stood, his hand lingering on her elbow.

A dreadful thought occurred to her.

“Is it you who has them?” she asked.

Gabriel’s hand fell from her arm as though he’d been scalded. He took a step back. His face went suspiciously blank, just as it had when she’d questioned him about Wingard and Compton that day in Hyde Park, but not before Effie saw the terrible truth in his eyes.

Her stomach plummeted. Her question had been impulsive conjecture at best. She hadn’t really thought it could be true.

But it was, wasn’t it?

Effie understood it in that bleak moment with absolute certainty.

The papers proving Compton’s crimes against Miss Corvus weren’t in the viscount’s desk, or in his study, or anywhere in his house in town or at his grand estate in Hampshire. They were in Gabriel’s keeping. They had been all along.

19

Effie had dealt with many unexpected events in her life and managed to maintain her composure through most of them. She took pride in her sense of self-possession. It was one of her particular skills. Even Miss Corvus had been impressed by the degree to which Effie could keep her countenance. Self-control was a powerful tool in an Academy girl’s arsenal of concealment. The less the world knew what a lady was thinking, the more dangerous she became.

But standing by the oak tree where she and Gabriel had just kissed so passionately, glaring at his suddenly expressionless face, something inside of Effie crumbled. She no longer cared about power, and she didn’t give a fig for concealment.

Her throat clogged with acrid emotion. “I want them,” she said.

Gabriel didn’t reply. His harshly hewn features were coldly stark, the colored lanterns in the tree casting shadows over his high cheekbones and sunken cheeks. He was at once so remote. So ruthlessly detached. He might have been the devil himself standing there, willfully deaf to the entreaties of some hapless mortal maiden.

Effie was too upset to be ignored. Closing the distance between them, she gripped the lapels of his jacket in her fists. Her crinoline was crushed between them as she gave him a shake. “I want them.”

A flicker of some unnameable emotion crossed his face. If Effie didn’t know better, she’d think he was experiencing something like regret or remorse.

As if that were possible!

She shook him harder. “You liar.” Raw hurt vibrated in her quaking voice. “You knew about Mr. Wingard. You knew about all of it. And you let me—”

He covered her hands with his. “Effie—”