A failed attempt, as it happened. The gray-haired viscount hadn’t betrayed the least interest in Effie. Neither had he revealed himself to be a particular villain. He’d been excessively civil, addressing her with a fatherly air rather than that of a male admirer. He hadn’t asked her to dance. Indeed, aside from a single heated look (which Effie was beginning to wonder if she’d misinterpreted), he’d steered well clear of her.

Unlike the younger gentlemen.

If Effie’s aching feet were to judge, she must have danced with every male in attendance between the ages of eighteen and forty.

Well. Perhaps not all the males in attendance.

The enigmatic Mr. Royce had stood out among the assembled company as starkly as a feral dog amid a pack of lap spaniels. It wasn’t only because he’d failed to beg a dance from her. And it wasn’t on account of any deficiencies in his dress. It was something in his posture, and in his pale blue eyes, so cold, hard, and remote.

Effie recalled the way he’d looked at her when they’d been introduced in the ballroom. There had been a certain distance in his gaze. Coupled with the brooding set to his jaw and the skepticism evident across his brow, it had made him appear far removed from the wealth and excess of the glittering lords and ladies surrounding them.

Like Compton, Mr. Royce hadn’t shown any marked interest in Effie. He hadn’t even bothered to linger in her company. After an introduction, and a fleeting exchange about her time in Paris, he’d disappeared into the crowd. Effie had seen him only once after that, engaged in solemn conversation with a much older gentleman by the ballroom windows.

Pity, he might have made the evening interesting.

As it was, Effie felt tonight’s challenge was all too simple. She couldn’t believe she’d indulged in any anxiety over it. Those first nights in Lady Belwood’s guest room in Brook Street, Effie had fretted for hours in her bed, hugging Franc close and worrying herself to ribbons.

She hadn’t been lying when she’d told Nell she hadn’t picked a lock in five years. She hadn’t crept into any forbidden rooms, either, or stolen anything from anyone. What if…?

But her worries had all been for naught.

Opening one of the wood-paneled doors, Effie passed into the library. Any anxiety she’d had about encountering Lord Compton, or anyone else there, was promptly put to rest. The room stood dark and silent. The gaslights had been turned off, and there was no fire lit in the hearth. The sole source of light came from the tall windows beside Lord Compton’s heavy walnut desk. A full moon shimmered through the curtains, shining softly over the inkpots, blotter, and stack of unread correspondence littering the desk’s surface.