Was it possible Lady Belwood had, at some time, given up an illegitimate child to Miss Corvus’s care? It would certainly explain the power Miss Corvus held over her ladyship, and her ladyship’s uncommon anxiety in relation to it.

Effie’s suspicions were only enhanced a few moments later when she and Lady Belwood were comfortably ensconced in the Belwoods’ sumptuous coach-and-four, making the short journey to the Comptons’ house in Grosvenor Square.

“Were you, ah, very young when you found your way to that place?” her ladyship asked as the carriage rolled away from Brook Street.

Effie drew her thin black velvet cloak more firmly about her. Outside the window, the cold night sky was illuminated by the silver-light glow of a waning gibbous moon. “Quite young, yes.”

“And may I ask—” Lady Belwood bit her lip. “Were you orphaned by tragedy? Or were your parents—”

“My mother was very poor,” Effie said. “She surrendered me to Miss Corvus.”

For a sum, Effie might have added.

Or, possibly, for a bottle of gin.

That’s what a girl at the Academy had said once (seconds before Effie had slapped her in response, earning yet another punishment for herself). Though how the girl would have known anything about her mother, Effie hadn’t the slightest idea.

It ultimately made no difference. Whether Effie’s mother had sold her for coin or for drink, the result had been the same.

“How distressing,” Lady Belwood said.

“Not at all,” Effie replied. “I hardly remember it.” That much was true at least, unless one counted the nagging murky memories that still plagued her heart and, occasionally, her dreams.

Lady Belwood regarded Effie from her seat across the carriage. “That place has been your life, I gather. I expect you have many friends there.”

“Not as many as you might imagine,” Effie said.

She was in no mood to be questioned about her past. Not after her visit to St. Giles last week. And not by this fine lady who looked as though she’d never known a day of want or desperation in her life.

For as long as Effie could remember, she’d felt the ache of having been given up by her mother. It was more than a feeling of abandonment. It was a keen sense of betrayal. If Lady Belwood did have a child at the Academy, she didn’t deserve to know anything about her. Not if her ladyship had chosen a life of luxury over the life of her own helpless daughter.

A pitiless reaction, perhaps, but there it was.

“You are certainly making friends here,” Lady Belwood went on. “The gentlemen especially seem to admire you. If it’s an offer of marriage you’re seeking—”

“I am not,” Effie assured her.

Marriage was the last thing she wanted. Only a fool would aspire to it. To marry was to give up one’s power.