He raised his wineglass. “Both,” he answered. “I run St. Giles because I’m the most powerful man in it. My betting shop is at the heart of the Rookery. It’s how I’ve earned my fortune, and my reputation. Ask any number of the young gentlemen here tonight. They’ve all been at my mercy at one time or another.” His mouth curled in a humorless smile. “And I’ve precious little mercy, Miss Flite, as anyone who crosses me soon discovers.”

9

Effie spent the next several courses in conversation with Lord Mannering. It wasn’t by preference. Talking to each of one’s seat partners was a polite requirement at a dinner party. That much had been drilled into Effie’s head during Miss Pascal’s classes at the Academy.

“One must never commit the sin of speaking to only one seat partner all evening,” Miss Pascal had said. “Vary your partner, just as you vary your conversation.”

“If our seat partners are all men,” Gemma Sparrow had retorted with a mutinous scowl, “what conversation can possibly be had?”

“You may discuss the weather,” Miss Pascal had replied, unruffled. “Or the character of the wine.”

“Or the character sitting on your opposite side,” Gemma had said under her breath.

“On no account,” Miss Pascal had shot back sternly. “Never talk about other people. It is the mark of a small and common mind. And never discuss religion or the politics of the nation. Your opinions on such weighty subjects are your own concern. Don’t inflict them on strangers through the vehicle of speech. Your power lies in your ability to conceal.”

By that reckoning, Effie had just spent the first half of her meal giving away her power to Gabriel Royce. She’d been so thoroughly engaged in speaking with him, she hadn’t thought to conceal her feelings at all. Not on the subject of women’s welfare. She’d spoken to him candidly, honestly, and with a distinct lack of self-restraint.

If not for Miss Pascal’s dratted rules for dining etiquette, Effie would be speaking to Gabriel still. Indeed, their conversation had just started to get interesting.

He was, it transpired, exactly what she’d suspected him of being: a dangerous man. Worse, even. A merciless man, as he’d confessed himself.

And yet, nothing so straightforward as that. A true villain wouldn’t be attempting to reform the Rookery. He wouldn’t be here at all, subjecting himself to the snubs and slights of his supposed betters, all so he might gain influential patrons to affect his ideas for reform.

“A betting shop,” Lord Mannering confirmed in a low voice in Effie’s ear. “What does Compton mean by inviting him here? He may as well have invited my tailor and bootmaker as well.”

“You object to keeping company with working men?” Effie asked as she finished her small portion of curried lobster.