The rest of the large room was sunk completely into shadow. At one time, that mightn’t have been an issue. As a girl, Effie had been accustomed to finding her way without a lamp. It had been one of Miss Corvus’s earliest lessons, to master the darkness. An Academy student was never to be dependent on anything, not even a candle. She must find her way, stealthily, fearlessly, with complete self-sufficiency.

But Effie had been too long in the City of Light. Though she didn’t fear the darkness, she’d long lost the habit of peering into it like a cat. She exhaled a soft breath of relief to find Compton’s desk illuminated.

It was a big piece of furniture, heavily carved, with plenty of drawers, small doors, and other nooks and crannies. She trailed her bare fingertip in a languorous line across the edge of the desk until she reached the stack of letters. Sweeping them up in her hand, she riffled through the envelopes in the moonlight. They were waiting to be posted, addressed to various gentlemen. Not a one of them looked nefarious, but how could Effie tell without breaking their seals?

She quietly returned them to the desk. She was a long way from exposing herself by opening and reading Compton’s outgoing post. First, she would search his desk. If Miss Corvus was to be believed, the viscount’s crimes were in the past. It seemed more likely Effie would find evidence of them hidden away somewhere rather than willingly written down in a letter to another person.

Perching on the edge of the leather chair behind the desk, skirts billowing out all around her, Effie’s attention was entirely focused on the drawers. The first one she tried was locked. So was the second. She rattled it quietly, privately cursing her luck. Drat Nell! She of the lockpicks and coded samplers. It figured she would be proven right.

Effie reached for her glittering dragonfly hairpin. One of a set of three, it was comprised of faceted glass affixed to a sturdy black wire. Like her dress, it had been made for her in Paris.

She was just inserting it into the lock of the first drawer when the silence in the library was broken by the unmistakable strike of a friction match.

A flame blazed forth from the darkness, illuminating a gentleman’s face as he lit his cigarette. He was seated in one of the leather armchairs across the library, his jacket and gloves discarded and his cravat loose at his neck.

Effie went still. It was Mr. Royce. She didn’t need a lantern to make out his face. His harshly hewn countenance, with its high cheekbones, sunken cheeks, hard jaw, and coldly piercing blue eyes, was readily identifiable even in the fleeting glow of phosphorus and sulfur.

“Are you lost, Miss Flite?” he asked.