The following Monday evening, as Effie dressed in a dinner gown of violet foulard to attend the Comptons’ musicale, she kept her mission firmly in mind. Nothing else signified, not her long-lost mother, not Gabriel Royce, and certainly not the people of the Rookery. Only the Academy mattered, and only the destruction of Compton.

She strategically placed her three glass dragonfly hairpins in the base of her rolled coiffure. Then, lifting her skirts, she used the ball of twine to secure the few small items she’d purchased to the wire and tape cage of her crinoline.

During her days at the Academy, Effie had often employed the frame of her crinoline to disguise various odds and ends. Miss Corvus had initially disapproved of the practice, bristling as she’d always done at Effie’s tendency to break the rules. But Miss Corvus’s disapproval hadn’t lasted long. In time, she’d come to support Effie’s methods, and had even encouraged the other special girls to follow her example.

Crinolines, it had transpired, were more than armor—more than a means of protecting a lady from encroachment or of asserting one’s right to take up space. They were yet another method of concealment.

Lowering her petticoats and skirts back into place, Effie gave her hips an experimental shake. Her violet silk skirts swung about her in a voluminous swell of fabric. The items tied to the inside of her crinoline didn’t budge.

Excellent.

Gathering her cloak and her gloves, she joined Lady Belwood in the drawing room for a preprandial drink while they awaited the carriage.

Decorated in shades of apple-green silk and antique gold brocade, the room was notable for its heavy gilt-framed portraits of grand-looking ladies and gentlemen in powdered wigs and lace. Belwood ancestors, presumably. They peered down at the present occupant of the room with expressions of well-bred disdain.

Lady Belwood’s fair cheeks were already quite red. She appeared to be on her second glass of wine. “Sir Walter regrets he is unable to join us,” she said from her seat on the tufted velvet settee. “His gout is paining him worse today.”

Effie was unsurprised by his absence. “Was Lady Compton expecting him?”

“I should think not. Sir Walter rarely troubles himself attending society gatherings. He prizes the purity of his bloodline to such a degree, it pains him to fraternize with those of less dignified pedigree.” Lady Belwood drained her glass. “Yet another reason you must refrain from inspiring talk. To learn of my connection to that place would likely send my husband to an early grave.”

Effie withheld comment as she finished her own small glass of sherry. She could think of only one possible connection between a titled lady of esteemed pedigree and a remote orphanage for girls.