She did it all herself, every painstaking step helping to mute her heartsickness and misery.

When at last she’d finished, she turned down the lamp and climbed into bed. Franc curled up against her. His small body was a warm, solid weight at her bosom, lending her comfort where there otherwise would be none.

With everything in its proper place, her thoughts settled into something like order.

She had a job still to do, and she must take her injured heart well out of the equation, along with her wounded pride. Neither could serve her now. What she required was ruthless pragmatism.

Gabriel had Mr. Wingard’s documents, it was true, and he didn’t intend to part with them. But Effie hadn’t been sent to London to find those specific documents. Indeed, Miss Corvus hadn’t even known they still existed.

No.

She had tasked Effie with discovering evidence of other crimes.

“A leopard doesn’t change his spots,” Miss Corvus had said. “Find something we can use against him.”

Discouraged as Effie was, she had no reason to give up. If Lord Compton had wronged someone else in the intervening years, if he’d stolen any money or taken advantage of some woman, the evidence of it was sure to be out there somewhere. All Effie had to do was find it.

As for Gabriel Royce…

He was a distraction, that was all. One best forgotten.

Never mind that he’d found someone who knew Effie’s mother. That he’d caught Effie when she swooned. That he’d kissed her so sweetly, and had, for a few all-too-brief moments in his arms, made her feel safe, and wanted, and cared for.

Such things must count for nothing when weighed against his treachery.

Tomorrow, he would send her the old woman’s direction in Hertfordshire, and then Effie would communicate with him no more.

The bleak prospect was enough to resurrect her tears. No longer capable of preventing them, she buried her face in Franc’s curly coat and wept.

21

The following day, Effie presented herself at the Comptons’ house in Grosvenor Square, armed with a renewed sense of purpose.

Miss Compton was, as ever, the likeliest means of gaining access to the Comptons’ residences in London and Hampshire. If Effie had any hope of searching those places, she would need to maintain favorable relations with the girl.

Last night’s events had been an unfortunate setback. Miss Compton would almost certainly have heard by now that Lord Mannering had escorted Effie home. It was precisely why Effie had wasted no time in coming to pay her respects.

Parker admitted Effie into the marble-tiled hall. “Lady Compton is out this afternoon,” he informed her. “Miss Compton is receiving.”