“Lady Compton has sent Miss Flite to join you, miss,” Meacham said.

“Miss Flite,” Miss Compton repeated with a ring of disdain. “The French girl? Yes, Mama did mention something about you. As did Lord Mannering and Lord Powell. You’ve been entertaining them all in our absence, I hear.”

“She’s not French,” one of the lounging ladies said with a hiccup and a giggle.

“No indeed,” Effie said. “Though I have been in Paris for a long while.”

“A finishing school, isn’t that right?” the other lounging lady asked. “My brother heard it from one of his friends at his club.”

“That is Miss Whitbread,” Miss Compton said, briskly introducing the giggler. “And that is Lady Lavinia Bulstrode.”

Miss Whitbread was a short, pale girl, with light brown hair and sharp, pinched features softened only slightly by the effects of her champagne. Lady Lavinia, by contrast, was tall and slim. Her profile was decidedly Grecian—an effect aided by her ribboned coiffure. Like Miss Compton, the two girls wore rich silk dresses weighted with tassels and trimmings, the cost of which would have beggared the average female.

Effie acknowledged them in turn. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Lady Lavinia and Miss Whitbread have been with me at Rawdon Court since Easter,” Miss Compton said. “I never come to town for my parents’ opening ball. A stuffy event. No one of importance ever attends.”

Effie smiled. “I found it a fine enough affair.”

“Compared to all the balls you attended in Paris?” Lady Lavinia asked.

“Nothing compares with Paris,” Effie said. “Have the three of you been?”

“Steamer travel is death on one’s complexion,” Miss Whitbread replied. “I shouldn’t like to become sallow.”

“You’re very tan, Miss Flite.” Lady Lavinia examined Effie down the length of her aquiline nose. “Do they not use Gowland’s in Paris?”

Effie’s smile remained undimmed. She wondered how many young ladies their tactics had served to oppress and intimidate? To be sure, in the secret heart of her—that small, vulnerable part that beckoned back to her childhood—it was impossible for Effie not to feel a bit daunted herself. In her early years, she had often been made to feel wanting. To feel other.

But that was a very long time ago. Since then, she’d learned the true weakness of bullies. They were frightened creatures, really, emboldened in a group, but not undefeatable. It was rather satisfying to see them scatter.

Though she couldn’t enjoy that satisfaction today. She wasn’t here to score points. She was here to ingratiate herself.

“The French concept of beauty is very different from the English one,” she said. “It’s little surprise we Britons ape our Gallic sisters. They’re years ahead of us. May I?” Effie helped herself to a flute of champagne from the tray. “I understand you will be honoring us with an aria this evening, Miss Compton.”