She was toying with him like a cat, for some unfathomable reason of her own, and doing so with extraordinary ease. The more Gabriel saw of her, the more he recognized it. She possessed the uncanny ability to turn up the flame of her beauty the way others might turn up the flame of an oil lamp. She dimmed it or brightened it according to her company—shaping the effect to her mysterious will.

But it wasn’t genuine for all that. Gabriel recognized that, too.

Last week, he’d been the beneficiary of one of her authentic smiles. It had been as unlike the expression she was bestowing on Compton as a blazing summer day was to the blackest night. Nothing else could have prompted Gabriel to behave as he had.

“Do you know that young lady?” Lord Haverford asked. Barely forty years of age, he was a younger man than Gabriel had expected—stout and ginger-haired, with a serious aspect about him.

“Miss Compton?” Gabriel answered, purposely misunderstanding him. “I’ve not had the pleasure.”

“Not her,” Lord Haverford said. “The young lady Lord Compton is speaking with. The one with the diamond dragonflies in her hair.”

They weren’t diamonds. Gabriel could identify paste when he saw it. Euphemia had worn the same hairpins to the ball—false stones in a false setting. They struck him as more a personal peculiarity than a flawed attempt at exaggerating her wealth. Nothing else in her person would lead one to believe she was lacking in money.

“That lady is Miss Flite,” he grudgingly admitted. “Lady Belwood’s ward.”

“You must introduce me,” Lord Haverford said. “The fresh crop of eligible misses each season is the only thing that makes these society events interesting.”

Gabriel had about as much intention of introducing Haverford to Euphemia Flite as he had in becoming an aeronaut. But he wasn’t about to let his personal inclinations get in the way of his business aims. “If it’s diversion you require, you’ll want to hear my plans for St. Giles.”

Haverford’s attention returned to Gabriel. He gave him an indulgent smile. “Compton mentioned you were interested in charity.”

“Is that all he’s said?”

“The substance of it.”

Gabriel concealed a flare of irritation. He had some idea of what Compton had told Haverford. Something about Gabriel’s distasteful origins, very likely, and how Gabriel had managed to rise above them to find himself here tonight—less a guest than an object of Compton’s generosity.

The mention of Wingard’s name in the Courant may have served to force the viscount back into line, but he was still far from being a willing partner. There had been a furious glint in his eyes as he’d welcomed Gabriel this evening. A look that made it clear he’d far rather see Gabriel dangling from the end of a rope than entering the Comptons’ Grosvenor Square mansion with the other guests.