Effie absorbed his words in silence, grudgingly acknowledging the truth of them. Her entire identity here in London was a lie. And before that, too, for as long as she could remember. How could it be otherwise? She didn’t know who she was herself, or who she’d been in those years before Miss Corvus had found her in the slum. How could anyone else?

It was why Effie and Franc had to have a home of their own. Somewhere they could truly belong. That was all that mattered, not this. Not him.

“What’s to prevent me from taking the documents from you?” she asked.

Gabriel fell quiet for a moment behind her. “You could try,” he said, “but I wouldn’t advise it.”

It didn’t sound like a threat. Effie registered it as one nonetheless. Gabriel had power in his world. More power in his way, she suspected, than Compton himself. At least with the viscount there was a veneer of civility. One must maintain outward standards and observe proper decorum. With Gabriel, there was no such veneer. No game board. No rules. She couldn’t simply waltz into his betting shop or his fine house in Sloane Street on some social pretext.

Unless…

She briefly considered obtaining the documents by other means, only to discard the idea. She was no seasoned seductress. Despite her skill at flirtation, she’d never truly been with a man. The stolen kisses she’d shared with Gabriel had been the closest she’d come. She couldn’t imagine taking things further, certainly not for mercenary gain. Not when her heart was so much engaged.

Gabriel seemed to sense the wretchedness of her dilemma. He reached for her again. This time she didn’t flinch. His fingers curled around her upper arm. He turned her to face him. “Don’t be angry.”

“I’m angry at myself.”

“For ever thinking well of me?”

“Yes, quite. For imagining that we—” She stopped before she could finish. She had no desire to make herself even more weak and pitiable in his eyes than she doubtless already was.

Gabriel’s face was no longer cold. There was a brooding look about him—a guarded concern in his eyes, coupled with some troubling emotion she couldn’t interpret. “May I kiss you again?” he asked.

“No.”

He nodded solemnly, taking the rejection in stride. “That’s fair,” he said. And then: “Shall I tell you something that might cheer you?”

She looked up at him mulishly. She hated this feeling. It was anger and mortification all rolled into one. While she’d been sparring with him, imagining that she had the upper hand, he’d been in control the whole time. It made her wonder, were women ever in control? Or was the control they wielded only an illusion permitted by men? If so, it wasn’t any kind of control worth having, not as far as Effie was concerned.