Effie’s gaze held Compton’s. “I require no chaperone,” she replied to her hostess. “But I thank you for your consideration.”

Lady Belwood reluctantly departed the room. Lord Compton followed her to the door, closing it behind her. He turned to face Effie. He didn’t mince words.

“You have something of mine,” he said.

“I don’t,” she replied.

Compton walked back to her. He motioned to the sofa. “Do sit down. This needn’t become unpleasant.”

Effie preferred to remain standing. She folded her arms.

His lips flattened. “Very well. If this is how you wish to proceed…” He stopped in front of her. “There are severe punishments for theft, young lady. Just as there are severe punishments for assault. You may believe that you—and your pretty neck—will find neither of them to your liking.”

“I’ve stolen nothing,” Effie said. “And I’ve assaulted no one.”

“My butler would beg to differ.”

“Your butler? That hulking brute better suited to a bare-knuckle brawl?”

“Parker does what I require of him. He looks after my person, and he protects my valuables. Not half an hour ago, he was grievously injured in the pursuit of his duties. I’m informed it was you who injured him.”

“You believe that a woman of my stature could harm a man as large and forbidding as he?”

“Yes, it is extraordinary,” Compton allowed. “But the evidence—”

“It was he who assaulted me. I merely defended myself.”

“You stabbed the man with one of your hairpins, Miss Flite, in the course of robbing my library. I presume this has something to do with Royce. He’s ensnared you—ruined you, I don’t doubt—in an effort to ruin me.”

“Mr. Royce has nothing to do with this.”

“Is it greed, then? You think to sell my book and make yourself a tidy profit?”

“It isn’t your book,” Effie said.

Compton’s gaze narrowed.

“The proof is there for anyone to see,” she said. “Do you dispute the fact?”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“My gift to you on the eve of our marriage,” Effie quoted. “But you didn’t marry Elizabeth Wingard, did you?”

Something dangerous glimmered in Compton’s eyes.

“You had a contract with her and you breached it. You kept her books. You took her fortune. You defrauded her, and presumed that shame would keep her silent. But you have been the author of your own downfall. Your greed and lust for riches have done you in.”

Compton moved closer to her. “Where have you heard this nonsense? From Royce? From someone else?”

“From Miss Wingard, naturally.”

His face betrayed a flare of uncertainty. “Miss Wingard is dead.”

Effie would have loved to tell him the truth, that Elizabeth Wingard was alive and thriving. But Miss Corvus desired her past self to remain dead. Effie must respect her wishes.