Compton had used his part of the fortune they’d stolen to set himself up in London as a gentleman of means. There, he’d married a wealthy heiress, biding his time in luxury until his father and older brother had died and he’d inherited the title. From thence, a career in politics, and a lofty position in society, his slate wiped clean of any trace of the evil he had done.

Wingard had, meanwhile, squandered his portion of the fortune on gaming. Addicted to drink and drug, and ailing from a rotting liver, he’d had no position in society to speak of. No friends or connections he might turn to in his time of need. All he’d had were a few damning documents, and a handful of mightily compromising letters Compton had penned to Wingard’s half sister.

You must trust me to manage the funds for you, my sweet, Compton had written in one of them. Such things are a husband’s privilege. As we are to be married, and the right will soon be mine by law, there can be no objections in it, only the easing of a burden which I know has weighed too heavily on your delicate shoulders since the loss of your estimable father.

The letters had been stained with Wingard’s sister’s tears. To hear Wingard tell it, Compton had had everything from the girl—her fortune, her reputation, her heart. What had become of her afterward, Wingard hadn’t known. Gone abroad, he’d surmised, very probably determined to make an end of herself.

As for Wingard himself—

Gabriel stood. “Wingard’s dead. I have the papers. And only one man will care. That’s more than enough for me.” He pressed Miles’s shoulder hard before taking his leave. “Print it, old friend. And if anyone comes inquiring, send them to me.”

4

Sun streamed through the gold silk–curtained windows of Lady Belwood’s well-appointed guest room. It was a beautiful morning in London, neither damp nor excessively chilly. The perfect day for an excursion.

Effie buttoned her black velvet mantelet over her plain black silk walking dress, preparing to go out. There had been no opportunity for her errand yesterday. The day after a ball was always a busy one, especially if a young lady had made as great an impression as Effie had.

Large bouquets of flowers had arrived throughout the morning, sent by the gentlemen she’d danced with. The generous tributes had been followed by afternoon calls—more gentlemen, and some ladies, too, paying their respects, issuing invitations, and assuaging their curiosity.