“It is, my lady,” Miss Flite replied. A faceted glass hairpin in the shape of a dragonfly was nestled in her hair. It sparkled as she moved.

Lady Compton flicked a dubious glance over Miss Flite’s elegant face and figure. “You don’t strike me as a country girl. But if you’ve been finished in Paris—”

“Finishing schools accomplish marvelous things these days,” Lady Belwood interjected. “The girls they turn out have remarkable polish. One can take them anywhere.”

Gabriel directed a cold glare at Compton. It was bad enough to have his time wasted by old country squires and frivolous, fan-fluttering ladies, but now he must affect an interest in finishing schools? Until Gabriel had intervened, the children of the Rookery had had no school at all. Boys and girls of five had already been working. The alternative was starvation.

Compton pretended not to notice Gabriel’s ire. He kept his attention fixed on his wife—and on Miss Flite.

“You must bring her with you to the musicale next week,” Lady Compton said. “My daughter, Carena, will be back from Hampshire. She’s to perform an aria for us from Lucrezia Borgia. There will be a dinner to start.” She touched Lady Belwood’s arm. “You are still planning to attend?”

Miss Flite exchanged a wordless glance with Lady Belwood.

Lady Belwood appeared distinctly uncomfortable. “Er, yes. That is, I had thought—”

“Oh, but you must,” Lady Compton insisted. “We see too little of you. And Miss Flite will certainly wish to make the acquaintance of other young people.”

Lady Belwood smiled thinly. “If you insist, then naturally, I shall bring her.”

The two older ladies lapsed into a short discussion about the dinner, and about the many events to come before the season’s end. Compton was included by virtue of his wife, who sought his opinion on every subject.

Miss Flite and Gabriel were temporarily left outside the conversation. They stood silent across from each other—Miss Flite attending to what the others were saying, and Gabriel poised to make his exit.

He hadn’t come here to engage in polite small talk about dinner parties and musicales. His time would be better spent in conversation with one of those aged country squires. At least then there would be a hope in hell of gaining influence for the people of the Rookery. Here there was nothing.

A civil word or two to Miss Flite and then he would take his leave.

Their eyes met briefly.

“A finishing school in Paris, was it?” Gabriel inquired.

“That’s correct.” Miss Flite returned her attention to the others.

“And were you?” he asked.

She glanced back at him again, distracted. “Was I what, sir?”

“Finished?”

Her mouth curved into a slow, feline smile. “On the contrary,” she said. “I’m just getting started.”