“Pray don’t attempt to have the writing expunged, my lord,” she said. “It would only ruin the book and decrease the collection’s value.”

Lord Compton’s mouth pursed with displeasure at the prospect. “It would be a risk,” he conceded.

“One far too great to take. Ill-advised as well. That inscription is part of your history now. And one’s history can never truly be erased, can it? No matter how much we might wish it to be.” Carefully closing the book, Effie rose from her seat. There was no more point in remaining, not when she’d found such a seemingly valuable piece of information. “Forgive me, I must return to Brook Street.”

He stood. “So soon?”

“I fear I have already lingered too long.”

“Nonsense. Lady Belwood can surely spare you for a few moments more.” He moved toward her, coming as close as the hem of her crinoline would allow. “There are nine books remaining in my collection, and I am presently at liberty to show them to you. I can’t promise when I will be so again.”

Effie backed away from him. “You are too generous, sir. But it’s not my hostess I’m thinking of. It is my own obligations.” Inclining her head to him in curt farewell, she turned in a swish of violet-sprigged organdy and swiftly exited the library.

She had a great deal of sewing to do.

23

When Effie returned to Brook Street, a note awaited her from Gabriel. Lady Belwood handed it to Effie as Effie entered the drawing room with her embroidery bag. Franc pranced alongside her on his thin velvet lead.

“It was delivered a quarter of an hour ago,” Lady Belwood said, resuming her seat on the velvet settee. She didn’t attempt to disguise her curiosity. “Who is it from, pray?”

Effie sat down on the sofa opposite, placing her bag next to her. Franc remained at her feet, gazing about the drawing room with avid interest. He rarely ventured into the public rooms. Lady Belwood preferred it that way. But he’d already been alone long enough today, restricted to Effie’s bedchamber while she paid her afternoon calls. She wouldn’t permit him to be confined any longer.

As he settled himself on the soft Aubusson, Effie broke open the wax seal on the envelope. Her pulse quickened with anticipation.

But it was no love letter. No passionate declaration or heartfelt apology. To be sure, it was no more or less than exactly what she’d asked of him.

Mrs. Young resides at Yew Cottage, Trowley Green, Hertfordshire. Take the 9:30 train to Sawbridgeworth Station. She expects you Tuesday at eleven o’clock.

Effie read it twice, a knot forming in her stomach. Gabriel hadn’t even signed it. He hadn’t even used her name. It was what she’d wanted—distance. But now he was giving it to her, she felt only disappointment and a dull sort of muted anguish.