The family’s apartments were on the second floor of the house. Effie followed the butler up another staircase, and down a wide, carpeted hall illuminated by wall sconces. She subtly scanned the layout of the floors as they went, taking mental note of the entrances, alcoves, and exits.

Every inch of Compton’s home was a testament to his wealth and position. Rich surfaces, shimmering crystal, gilt-framed oil paintings, and sumptuous Aubusson. The house even had indoor privies, one on each floor, as Effie had learned at the ball. A single indoor privy was a luxury. But several? It was an unmeasured extravagance, the likes of which Effie had never seen, not even in Paris.

How much of Miss Corvus’s fortune had gone to fund such well-bred excess? And just how had Compton managed to steal it from her? Miss Corvus was no fool to be tricked by a man, no matter how handsome he was, or how skilled at flattery.

But perhaps she hadn’t been as shrewd then as she was now. Rejection and betrayal changed a person. Effie knew that firsthand.

Parker knocked on a gold-and-cream-painted door halfway down the hall. It was cracked open by a black-aproned lady’s maid of indeterminate years.

“Lady Compton has sent Miss Flite to join the young ladies,” Parker said to her.

The maid opened the door wider. She dropped a curtsy. “Do come in, miss.”

“Thank you,” Effie said.

The lady’s maid admitted Effie into a luxurious sitting room decorated in shades of pink and rose. “Right this way,” she said. “Miss Carena and the other young ladies are in her dressing room.”

She escorted Effie through another door. It opened to a candlelit room as spacious as a dressmaker’s shop. There, two young ladies in pastel silk gowns lounged on velvet-upholstered couches arrayed around a dais, sipping champagne from crystal flutes. A third young lady stood on the small platform, also drinking champagne, while two kneeling housemaids hastily mended the hem of her enormous ruffled pink skirts.

This lofty creature was surely Carena Compton.

She turned to the door as she took another drink of her champagne, ignoring the poor maids at her feet who were obliged to crawl hastily about her, reconfiguring their positions at her swirling hem. Her white-blond hair and milky pale skin were luminous in the candlelight.

“Who is this, Meacham?” she demanded imperiously.

Effie knew better than to make impromptu judgments about people. Categorization led to sloppiness. It prevented one from seeing the facts. From observing the truth. All the same…

Here was a young lady Effie recognized at once for exactly what she was. A girl for whom wealth and privilege were more than a birthright. They were an identity. An unpleasant kind of girl.

Truth be told, Effie was rather relieved to discover it. She wouldn’t have enjoyed ruining the father of a girl she actually liked.