Lady Belwood entered, shutting the white-paneled bedroom door behind her. She was a handsome blond lady of passing middle age, attractively plump, and smartly dressed in a ruffled muslin morning gown. “Miss Flite, I must tell you—” She stopped, registering Effie’s bonnet and gloves. “Are you going out?”

Effie pasted on a smile. “Indeed.”

“Dressed like that?”

“As you see.” Widows rarely inspired attention. Clothed all in black, with a net veil shielding her face, Effie could go where she pleased and no one would question her. That is, if they noticed her at all.

She held Franc’s lead, preparing to fasten it to his collar. He trotted out of her reach to sniff the blue-and-yellow floral carpet and the pooling hem of the draperies. Effie prayed he wouldn’t be indiscreet. Despite his continental origins, Franc couldn’t always be trusted to behave in a civilized manner.

Lady Belwood followed his progress with uneasy eyes. “I don’t care for dogs.”

It was the same sentence she’d uttered when Effie had first arrived, and one she’d repeated at least a dozen times since.

Effie answered just as she had on each previous occasion. “Franc isn’t a dog. He’s a poodle.”

“You are taking him with you on your outing? My servants can’t always be watching him, you know.”

“I am.” Effie caught up with Franc by the washstand. Sweeping him into her arms, she fixed his lead to his collar.

“Wherever can you be headed?” her ladyship asked. “Not Bond Street or Hyde Park, I trust. Not in those garments. And not without a maid to accompany you.”

“I’ve no need for a maid where I’m going.”

A pained expression puckered Lady Belwood’s brow. “A lady must have a maid. I should be lost without mine.”

Effie didn’t doubt it. Most fashionable females in Lady Belwood’s position felt the same. But poor women must shift for themselves. So, too, the girls of Miss Corvus’s Benevolent Academy.

The gowns Effie had commissioned in Paris had all been made with front fastenings, the same as the dresses she’d worn at the Academy. Miss Corvus believed in self-sufficiency. The strongest lady was an independent lady, and that independence began with her toilette.

Effie had long grown accustomed to dressing herself and tending to her own coiffure. She was nimble fingered with curling tongs and pins, and she counted herself quite skillful when it came to sponging and pressing her gowns. No one who saw her would ever find her wanting.

“You may rest easy, ma’am,” Effie said. “I shall do nothing on my outing that will cause remark.”