Lady Belwood hadn’t been best pleased. Indeed, from the moment Effie had appeared in Brook Street ten days ago, with Franc and her trunks in tow, her ladyship had exhibited a pronounced anxiety. Whatever connection she had to Miss Corvus, it clearly wasn’t one based on friendship. Lady Belwood had made it plain from the first that Effie was less of a guest and more of an unwanted charge on her dwindling good humor.

She had nevertheless sat beside Effie for every call, spine rigid and lips pinched, an unwilling participant in Effie’s deception.

Meanwhile, Effie had done her duty. She’d transformed herself according to her company, one moment smiling and conversing, the next blushing and demurely batting her lashes, and all the while desperately impatient to get back to the Academy to inform Miss Corvus that there was a decided complication to their plan.

A very large and very sinister complication. Effie could still feel the brush of his fingers over her throat.

At the ball, Mr. Royce had come closer to her than any other gentlemen in attendance. Yet, he’d sent no bouquet the following morning. And he hadn’t appeared in Brook Street later that afternoon to pay his respects along with the rest of Effie’s callers.

Doubtless it was for the best. Lady Belwood was apprehensive enough without the likes of Mr. Royce darkening her doorstep. She’d spent the whole of last evening at dinner with Effie, pale and silent at the opposite end of the long mahogany table, drinking glass after glass of Burgundy wine.

Sir Walter had been absent from the table as usual. Older than his wife by some twenty years, he suffered from various ailments that often kept him confined to his rooms. Effie had met the man only a handful of times since she’d come to stay. When first introduced to him, she’d been both surprised and relieved by his lack of interest in her.

He was, it transpired, working on a lengthy tome cataloguing the rich history of the Belwood line, which he claimed could be traced back, undiluted, to the reign of some antiquated king or other. The social affairs of women held little fascination in comparison.

Would that Lady Belwood were as indifferent to Effie’s presence as her husband.

“She’ll be happier with us today, won’t she, Franc?” Effie remarked as she retrieved her veiled black bonnet from the foot of the cherrywood four-poster bed. “We shall likely be gone until supper.”

Franc frisked about Effie’s wide skirts in anticipation of their departure. He’d found the house’s small back garden a dull respite from the confinement of the guest room. Like Effie, he was eager to venture further.

She was just fetching his lead when a soft tap sounded at the door. “Yes?” Effie called out.