Page 59 of The Marriage Method

The former Euphemia Flite wasn’t far behind her husband, looking stunning as ever in a cherry-red caraco jacket and poplin skirt. She wasn’t a classic beauty, but she was a singular one, distinguished by glossy ebony hair, dark violet-blue eyes, and olive-tinged ivory skin that bore evidence of her father’s reputed lascar pedigree.

An orphan like Nell, Effie had grown up at the Academy. But unlike Nell and Gemma, Effie hadn’t remained when she’d come of age. She’d gone abroad at Miss Corvus’s command, spending several years as a lady’s companion. She’d only returned earlier this year, polished, confident, formidable.

“Nell, dearest.” Effie’s face lit in a brilliant smile as she crossed the hall to embrace Nell. Her little black poodle, Franc, trotted at her heels. “I wasn’t expecting you until later.”

Nell hugged Effie tight in return as Franc frisked about their skirts. Emotion welled in her throat. “I couldn’t wait.”

Effie glanced over Nell’s shoulder at Miles. “And what’s this?” she asked. “A happy coincidence? Or did you and Mr. Quincey travel together?”

Nell drew back from Effie to look into her eyes. “We are together,” she said. “Mr. Quincey and I are married.”

15

“I still don’t see why you couldn’t have waited until I was back in London,” Effie said. “It was only one more day, for heaven’s sake. Given the chance, I might have prevented this disaster.”

Nell was seated beside her friend on the blue silk-upholstered sofa in the Royces’ sunlit drawing room. Effie had seized her hand the moment they’d sat down, holding it tight as Nell related the events that had led to her marriage to Miles. She hadn’t let go yet.

Mr. Royce was by the drawing room window, far enough removed to give Effie and Nell the illusion of privacy, but not so far away that he couldn’t hear every word. Miles had, meanwhile, paced to the fireplace, where he now stood, facing them, his arms folded across his chest.

“It’s done, love,” Mr. Royce said to Effie. “Leave it be.”

Franc hopped up on the sofa next to his mistress. He pawed at her elbow. Effie put her arm around the little poodle in answer, absently drawing him close. “Can it not be undone?” she asked. “Such things are possible.”

“No,” Miles said.

Nell’s gaze jolted to his. It was one of the few times he’d spoken since they’d retired to the drawing room. Thus far, he’d been content to leave the talking to her. One would think he saw no need to justify their situation to their friends—or to anyone.

Effie’s eyes blazed. “And that’s to be that, is it?” she demanded of him. “We must just accept—”

“I’ve accepted it,” Nell said. “Truly, I have.” She hesitated. “Unless Mr. Quincey—”

“So have I,” Miles said resolutely.

Some of the tension in Nell’s muscles eased. She had no wish for this visit to devolve into an outpouring of misery and recrimination over a situation that none of them could change. What on earth would be the point?

“There, you see?” She pressed Effie’s hand. “I know it’s a shock, dearest, but after such a public catastrophe, marriage really was the only solution that would answer.”

Effie gave Nell a kindling look. There was plainly much more she wanted to say. It was equally plain that she wasn’t at liberty to say it in mixed company. Not if the subject of her ire was Miss Corvus.

Nell returned her friend’s gaze, silently promising her that they would speak candidly at the first opportunity. Whatever issues they had with Miss Corvus and the running of the Academy weren’t to be aired in public. Not even in front of their husbands.

“I blame Pettiman,” Effie said. “The infernal hypocrite. What I wouldn’t do if I saw him.”

“Likewise,” Nell replied. “But we have larger concerns than Reverend Pettiman at the moment.” She looked to Miles. “Tell them.”

“My gossip columnist, Lawrence Cowgill, disappeared on Monday,” Miles said. “At the same time, an orphan named Flora Brent was lured from an East End railway platform by a procurer.”

“Miss Brent was on her way to the Academy from a workhouse at my instigation,” Nell explained to Effie. “A special girl, I’ve been told.”

Effie looked at Nell intently. She knew very well what that meant. “Is her fate connected to that of Mr. Cowgill?”

“Their paths crossed at a Whitechapel brothel,” Miles said. “Miss Brent escaped. Cowgill was less fortunate. The girl may well have been a witness to his murder.”

“We need to find her,” Nell said urgently. “And we must find out what Mr. Cowgill knew that led to his death. We’re hoping you and Mr. Royce might be able to help us.”

“What can we do?” Effie asked. “I’m unfamiliar with Whitechapel, but perhaps Gabriel—?”

Mr. Royce stepped forward from the window. “I know a few people there. I could put the word out about Miss Brent and this reporter of yours.”