She’d nearly given up when her eyes lit on a porcelain-skinned woman with striking ebony hair sitting on a velvet sofa near the tea urn. Clad in an apricot silk morning dress with a box-pleated hem, she was looking about the room, as though not wholly certain how she found herself to be there.

Effie made straight for her. “I beg your pardon.”

The woman looked up with wide, unblinking brown eyes. “Yes?”

“Forgive me,” Effie said, “but I had the notion you might be a newcomer like myself.”

“It is indeed my first time. Though at what manner of event, I cannot tell.”

Effie smiled warmly. “Miss Euphemia Flite,” she said, extending her hand.

The woman took it, clasping it briefly before releasing it. “Mrs. Dora Naismith.”

Up close, her face illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the drawing room windows, Mrs. Naismith’s beauty was revealed in all its glory. She was a striking woman in her middle thirties, long lashed and lush figured, with an air of childlike innocence.

“May I sit with you?” Effie asked her. “One so dislikes to be on one’s own, even at a lecture.”

“If you wish,” Mrs. Naismith said. “I would be glad of the company.”

Effie took a seat beside her on the sofa. She smoothed her skirts. She’d dressed sensibly this morning in her cherry red caraco jacket, black poplin, and jet-trimmed velvet hat. It wouldn’t do to have ruffles and trimmings getting in her way when she stole the book from Compton’s library. She needed to be sleek, quick, and relatively unencumbered.

Mrs. Naismith regarded her with a frown. “Did you receive an invitation?”

“Not formally. I was told about the lecture by a friend.” Effie retained her smile. “And you?”

“I was informed it was a diversion not to be missed. That there would be society, refreshment, and music, perhaps.”

Effie had indeed written that in the anonymous invitation she’d sent. She’d been confident it would be sufficient to tempt Mrs. Naismith. Unlike the mistresses of fashionable gentlemen, shamelessly paraded about town at the opera or the theater, Effie had surmised that the mistresses of outwardly moral men had little society. Tucked away in private houses, the guilty secrets of their protectors, their days must be dull indeed. Mrs. Naismith would surely jump at the chance to relieve her boredom. Or so Effie had hoped.

“There is certainly society and refreshment,” she said. “The very best of both.”

Mrs. Naismith looked around the drawing room. “Yes, but I see no musical instruments.”

“No, indeed,” Effie allowed. “Still…we are sure to be diverted.”

The butler again appeared at the door. “Miss Compton,” he intoned.

Mrs. Naismith’s thin black brows flew up to her hairline.

Carena Compton entered the room. She wore a rose-pink dress and matching velvet paletot.

Effie raised her hand, signaling her presence.

“Do you know that girl?” Mrs. Naismith asked.