Effie flipped through the journal, distracted for a moment by the articles it contained. It was a publication known for its radicalism. Among other beliefs, it endorsed the principle of universal suffrage. “No indeed,” she said, at length, recalling herself to the present. “Will you point me to your philosophical section?”

“Greek philosophies or Roman?”

“Women’s philosophies,” Effie replied matter-of-factly.

The shop assistant directed her toward a single shelf at the very back of the shop. Effie was thankful he didn’t escort her to it himself. She required no guidance on her reading material. She knew exactly what it was she was looking for.

Her tastes had been cultivated at the Academy. The library there was filled with volumes of every sort. Miss Corvus had urged the girls to read widely and often, everything from Aristophanes and Herodotus to Machiavelli, Astell, and Wollstonecraft.

“Knowledge is your greatest weapon,” she’d told them. “And books are knowledge made manifest.”

Effie had found it to be true. Books enlarged one’s mind. They encouraged one to think. To feel. To understand. They could be more than that, too, when the occasion called for it. In the absence of community, books could be companions. They could be friends.

And Effie would need friends on the lonely road she must travel to bring down Compton. Particularly now, after being barred from returning to visit Nell.

It hadn’t mattered so much in Paris. There, at least, Madame Dalhousie had permitted Effie to attend women’s talks on equality and education. Here in London, however, Effie had no such diversions. She was too busy keeping up an appearance of fashionable sameness to risk exposing herself as a budding revolutionary.

But the soul required sustenance, however sparse the fare.

And here at Hatchards, it appeared to be very sparse, indeed.

Effie drew her fingers over the scant collection of titles on the shelf. It was but five books altogether, one of which she’d already read, and three of which were written by men. Was this meager selection meant to represent the whole of women in London? And this at one of the largest bookshops in the city?

It was a disgrace.

She withdrew the copy of A Practical Illustration of Women’s Rights by Mrs. Endicott. It was a recently published work. A thin volume, but it would have to suffice for now. Effie was just tucking it under her arm along with her copy of the Westminster Review when a shadow fell over her. A low growl vibrated in Franc’s throat, announcing the presence of danger.

“Miss Flite? What a charming coincidence.”

Effie froze where she stood, recognizing the gentleman’s suave, almost fatherly voice. She took a split second to collect herself before lifting her gaze to Lord Compton’s face.