I'd been wrong about the peddler. She did show up at a little after ten o'clock that morning, except...

"That's not her," Celia said, staring at the woman standing on our doorstep.

"Who am I then?" the woman asked, thrusting out one hip. She was dressed in a gown that could once have been deep red but had faded to a dull rust-brown. The shawl draped over her shoulders looked more like a rag than a garment and the bonnet sitting lopsided on her head had frayed at the edges and lost all of its ribbons, if it ever had any.

She pulled back the cover on her basket to reveal her goods but did not take any out. Usually she began her sales spiel before the door had fully opened but this time she seemed to sense our disinterest in her wares from the start.

"She's the previous peddler," Celia explained. "The one before the one who sold me the amulet." She glanced up and down the street. "Are you alone?"

"Alone as any soul can be in this Godforsaken city." The woman smiled, revealing a top layer of teeth worn almost to the gums.

Celia recoiled. "Yes, quite."

I shifted my sister aside gently and smiled at the peddler. "Who worked your area last week?"

The woman shrugged. Her shawl fell off her shoulder and she didn’t bother to pull it back up. "No one."

"Somebody must have," Celia said. "You are not the woman I bought an amulet from on Thursday."

"You like pretty jewelry?" The woman sifted through the pieces of cutlery, trinkets, and rags—some clean—and other odds and ends in her basket.

"I don't want to buy any jewelry," Celia said tartly. "I want to know who took over this area last week."

The woman held out a thin bracelet covered in grime. It was as black as my hair. When Celia didn't move to take it, the peddler shook it, all the while smiling that gummy smile.

"How much?" I asked her.

"Three shillings."

"Three!" Celia clicked her tongue. "What's it made of?"

The woman rubbed it with her shawl. "Could be silver."

"I highly doubt it."

"Wait here." I went inside and retrieved my reticule. I dug out three shillings and placed them palm up in my hand. The peddler reached for them but I closed my fist. "Information first."

"Yes," Celia chimed in, giving me a nod of approval. "Tell us who worked your area last week."

The woman tapped her nose with her finger then pointed it at me. "Smart girl. But I can't tell you who done my area last week 'cause no one did." She held her finger up to stop Celia's protest. "Wait, wait, I didn't say nuffink about this street, did I?"

Celia hissed out an impatient breath. "Go on."

"A lady comes up to me last week, she did. Just round the corner there. She gives me twenty shillings to do me job on this here street. Twenty! That's more than what I got in 'ere." She shook the basket. "Course I gave 'er me value-bulls. Why wouldn' I for twenty? Bit later she gave 'em back to me and never asked for her money back neever. Job well done, I say." She laughed and wiped her nose on the back of her dirty glove.

"And you didn't find that suspicious?" Celia asked.

"Course I did but didn't you 'ear me? She gave me twenty shillings!"

"Did she tell you her name?" I asked.

"Nope."

"And you'd never seen her before?" Celia asked.

"Nope. Like I said, she came up to me round that corner and gave me the money. Twenty shillings!" She chuckled so hard it turned into a racking cough.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

She nodded then wiped her mouth on her sleeve. "Twenty shillings! Still can't believe it. Course she could prob'ly 'ford it and more."

"Afford it?" I echoed.

"But she was as poor as dirt," Celia said, waving her hand at the woman as if to say "like you".

The peddler didn't seem to notice the slight. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"But her clothes were a motley collection of rags," Celia persisted. "Nothing matched and most of it had holes in one place or another. Even her boots were odd and worn out."

The woman tapped her nose again. "Aye, but she spoke like you two. A toff, she was, I'll bet ya."

Celia tilted her head to the side. "Nonsense. She dropped her aitches and savaged her vowels. She most certainly was not a toff as you put it. Or like us."

"She most cert'ly was!"

Before the disagreement heated up, I thanked the peddler for her time and gave her the coins. She relinquished the bracelet with a smile.

Celia shut the door on her rasping chuckle. "She doesn't know what she's talking about. The woman who sold me the amulet had the most atrocious East End accent."

"Perhaps it was part of her disguise," I said. "Perhaps she wanted you to think she was from the East End. Or at least didn't want you to know she was a lady."

Lucy entered the hallway from the front drawing room, a rag and bowl of paste in hand for polishing the fireplace. She kept close to the wall, as far away from me as possible. Although she now spoke to me without her voice shaking, she was still wary. Her eyes never left me when we were in the same room, as if she didn't dare look elsewhere in case I summoned a ghost while she wasn't looking.

I held up the bracelet to assess my purchase. It was very thin but the links had a pleasing shape to them, despite the coating of filth. "Would you clean it up for me please, Lucy?"

"Yes, Miss Chambers." She stretched out her hand as far as she could reach but leaned back slightly.

I handed her the bracelet without getting too close. "You may keep it if you like."

She gasped. "Oh, Miss Chambers!" Her fingers closed around the chain and she clasped it to her breast. "Really?"

I nodded. "Think of it as a welcoming gift."

Lucy thanked me, twice, then trotted down the hallway to the basement stairs.

"Do you intend to bribe her into not being afraid of you?" Celia asked when she was out of earshot.

I sighed. "Do you think it might work?"

"Yes, but only after several more gifts." She squeezed my hand. "And we cannot afford such extravagances. We can't really afford that bracelet but if it helps us send the demon back then I don' begrudge its expense. So now what do we do about the amulet woman?"

I sighed. "I don't know."

"But you're supposed to be a 'smart girl'," she teased, echoing the peddler.

"Stop it. I don't know what to do. I could ask Jacob."

She let go of my hand and her mouth tightened. "If you must."

"You don't want him here do you?"

She made her way into the front drawing room and beckoned me to follow. "I don't mind him," she said carefully. "I just worry about him coming and going so freely. None of the other ghosts have ever done so before."

"He's harmless, Sis, I guarantee it." If he'd wanted to harm me he would have had ample opportunity before now. He could have done anything to me this morning while I was asleep. Instead he just sat there, watching.

"I'm sure he is." She sighed and perched on the edge of the sofa. "It's just that...there's something unsettling about ghosts." She picked up her embroidery and began stitching. "Now understand, this is entirely from the point of view of someone who cannot see them, but...they have nothing to lose. Nothing to fear. The Bible tells us that we are judged in the Afterlife by our actions when we're alive. If that's true then what is to stop ghosts from doing wrong now they are dead?"

In a way it was what Jacob had said to me that morning. He and ghosts like him no longer had any fear of losing their lives or their reputations, and they didn't feel physical pain. So what was to stop them from doing everything they'd wanted to do during their lifetime but hadn't for fear of punishment either in this world or the next?

"A good upbringing is what stops them," I said to her. "And a good heart. Most of us don't need the threat of punishment hanging over us to do what we know to be the right thing." But as I said it, I wasn't entirely convinced by own argument. Could people change so much after their death? Could they forget or dismiss the code of behavior they'd learned during their life?

She smiled at me but it was weak and unconvincing.

I sat beside her and picked up my own embroidery. I wasn't very fond of the activity, preferring to read, but sometimes the repetitious task helped me to think. "Celia, what do you know of Mama's family? She had a sister, didn't she?"

"Aunt Catherine, yes." She pulled a face. "Horrible woman. Mama and she didn't get on at all well. I met her once when I was about ten. She and Uncle Freddie came for a visit. She used to rap my knuckles whenever she caught me fidgeting and I could never eat, sit, speak or breathe in the right way. Horrible woman," she said again. "As I recall they left after only two days. Papa couldn't stand them and insisted they leave before they drove Mama to distraction with their endless demands. Why?"

I lowered my cloth. "She died last month. I spoke to her ghost this morning."

"You what?"

"I wanted to ask about Mama and...my father."

"Oh, Em, how could you!"

"I just needed to know if she knew him, that's all. I had to try, Celia, since you won't tell me anything."

She resumed her embroidery but stabbed her finger on the first stitch. "Ow!" She sucked off the blood. "Now see what you've done. I'm all flustered."

I took her hand and inspected the wound. It had already stopped bleeding. "If it makes you feel any better I didn't learn anything from Aunt Catherine, except to confirm what you just told me about her. Horrible doesn't even begin to describe her."

Celia turned her hand over in mine and clasped my fingers. "I can only imagine what she thought of you," she said quietly. Her eyes shone with sympathy and understanding.

I was grateful that no tears came at the memory of my aunt's cruel words. I didn't want to upset Celia over something she couldn't control. She could not summon Aunt Catherine's ghost and chastise her. "She can't hurt me," I said. Not with Jacob around to counter everything she said with his beautiful words. "She's only a ghost."

Celia smiled. "I should be sorry that she's dead, but I'm not."

I had nothing to say to that so I resumed my needlepoint and we both worked in silence. After a while Celia announced she would pay Mrs. Wiggam a visit to see if her husband had departed yet. "Will you come?" she asked.

"Only if you need me. I think I'll go to George Culvert's house again. I have more questions about the demon that need answering."

It was only partly true. I did want to see George again, but not to look at his books.

* * *

I headed out after luncheon, dressed in a plain blue-gray dress with a matching jacket for warmth. Celia had wanted me to wear something prettier with more ruches and flounces and preferably in a brighter color, but I didn't want to stand out any more than I already did. Not where I was going. I also wanted some protection against the cold. The early spring day was overcast and the breeze sharp but once out of windy Druids Way, I could at least feel my cheeks again. Unfortunately I could also feel the smuts from the city's countless chimneys settling on my skin. That was one good thing about my street, the wind kept the air cleaner than most.

I expected Jacob to appear to ask where I was going but I made it all the way to George's house on my own. It would seem he didn't spend all of his time in the Waiting Area watching me and waiting to join me. I wasn't sure whether to be relieved by that or not.

The footman showed me into the Culvert's drawing room where George met me a few minutes later. He rushed in, all friendly smiles, his hands outstretched. "What a delightful surprise," he said, taking my hands in his. "Absolutely delightful. I was hoping you would return, Emily."

"Oh?"

He indicated I should sit then followed suit, occupying the chair opposite. "Yes, I, er, wanted to, um, see you again to...find out if you'd made any progress with capturing the demon."

His explanation, with all those hesitations, didn't ring entirely true. Did he want to say something else? I couldn’t think what. "It killed someone last night," I said. I saw no point in keeping the information from him.

His face drained of color. "Wh...what?"

"It attacked a drunk servant on his night off." I repeated everything Jacob had told me about the two victims and the subsequent burglary, which amounted to very little.

Although the color returned to George's face as I spoke, his forehead crinkled into a more thorough frown. "How terrible," he murmured. "Utterly despicable. We must do something."

"That's why I'm here. I need your help."

He nodded and shifted forward on the chair. "Of course. I understand. You need a man to accompany you into these areas to investigate further." The way he said 'man', so earnestly, had me smiling. I couldn't imagine George fending off any villains unless they were perhaps children. He might be tall but he was slightly built and his hands didn't look like they'd done much more than turn pages his entire life.

"Not quite what I was thinking." I had promised Jacob that I wouldn't go into Whitechapel after all. "I wanted to speak to your maid, Finch, again."

"Oh." He pushed his glasses up his nose. "That won't be possible. She left yesterday after we spoke to her. Just ran right out the door Mrs. Crouch said."

I had suspected Finch wouldn't return but I didn't want him to know that I knew what had happened, let alone that I was responsible for her leaving. It would seem the other servants hadn't told him either, thankfully.

"I see," I said. "Then it seems I will ask you to accompany me after all, but not to the areas where the victims were found. I'd like to find Maree Finch. Perhaps we could try the school she attended. My own maid said she knew Maree and that the brother, a thief, had returned on a few occasions to speak to her. The last time was right before she came to work for you. We might learn something more about them both from the school."

He beamed. "Excellent idea, Emily. I'll get my coat."

A few minutes later we were skirting Green Park. George had wanted to take his carriage but I didn't think it was a good idea. The wealthier we appeared, the less likely the children would be prepared to speak to us.

"Does Beaufort know you're going to the school with me?" George asked as we entered the poorer part of Clerkenwell nearly an hour later. It was darker in the slum area and not only because the clouds had thickened, extinguishing what little sunshine had managed to seep through the smog. The tall tenements lining both sides of the narrow streets like tired soldiers cast permanent shadows onto the slippery cobbles below. Their walls were almost black with many years worth of the city's grime having settled on the bricks.

"No," I said, dodging a fast-moving child of about nine years.

"Ah."

"Ah?"

"How long will it be before he joins us, do you think?"

Another child raced past followed by a shouting adult. "Thief! Thief!" The man stopped near us and gulped in several deep breaths. "That little rat stole my pocket watch," he spluttered between gasps. "Did you see which way he went?"

George pointed in the direction the boy had run off in. The man thanked him and resumed his pursuit. No one joined in the chase. "I'd help him," George said, looking after the man, "but the thief will be long gone."

Even if the child was only one street away the man probably wouldn't have enough breath in him to catch up going by the way he puffed heavily. "How much further is the school?" I asked, walking on. I sidled closer to George and clutched my reticule tighter.

"Just around the corner." He eyed me carefully. "Are you all right, Emily? I say, that was a nasty business to witness just now. I daresay you're not used to such scenes."

"Not really, no." I'd never thought of the area in which Celia and I lived as being particularly modern or fashionable but walking through Clerkenwell made me realize how safe it was, and how we were far better off there than anyone living here. Exhausted faces watched us from doorways which appeared to be mostly swept clean, something which surprised me. Even here the folk had some pride in their homes and wanted to offer a welcoming entrance. It was a reminder that this wasn't the worst place in London. Poor certainly, but not the most degraded or depraved. That label surely belonged to Whitechapel where the shape-shifting demon had attacked its first victim. Clerkenwell was mostly working class where men, women and sometimes children squeezed out a living doing whatever work they could find. If the child-thief was any indication, that work wasn't always honest.

We found the North London School for Domestic Service easily enough. Whereas most of the buildings on the street were a motley mixture of timber and brick and barely one room in width, the school was grand in appearance with its solid red brick façade, tall windows and at least three times as wide as its neighbors.

George turned to me before knocking on the door. "If I might be so bold as to suggest I ask the questions." He had the good sense to look sheepish about his suggestion. It didn't stop me from giving him a withering glare.

"I may be only a girl but I assure you I am used to dealing with men older than myself." I was used to no such thing but I wasn't going to tell him that. I'd lived in an adult world ever since Mama had died and I was used to speaking and thinking for myself, not have someone else do it for me.

"Yes, of course." He tugged on his necktie and cleared his throat. "But, well, perhaps the master might be more inclined to speak to me. It's merely a thought." He pulled so hard on the necktie knot I thought it would unravel. "We'll see, shall we?"

He lifted a hand to knock when Jacob suddenly appeared, leaning against the door, and I gave a little gasp of alarm.

George's fist hesitated. It was inches from the door and Jacob's face. "What is it?" he asked at the same time as Jacob said, "What are you doing here?"

"This is not Whitechapel," I said, answering Jacob.

George dropped his hand. "Pardon?"

"I'm speaking to Jacob."

"It's not exactly Belgrave Square either," Jacob said, referring to the exclusive area where his family kept a house. He jerked his head towards George. "What's your puppy doing here?"

"Protecting me. Aren't you George?"

George puffed out his chest and looked pleased with himself.

"Protecting you?" Jacob snorted and crossed his arms. "From what? The newspapers fluttering down the street? Because that's all he's capable of defending you against." He sounded annoyed. I couldn't think why.

"He's an effective deterrent against a thief thinking of taking advantage of me."

Jacob's nostrils flared. It was the only movement on his otherwise still person. "You're right. A visible deterrent works better than an invisible one."

My heart plunged into my stomach. "That's not what I meant." Stupid girl! It was precisely what I'd meant and now I’d made Jacob feel useless and less...human. "Jacob, I'm sorry."

"Forget it. Come on, knock."

"What's going on?" George asked. "What's he saying?"

"Well, he...uh...he thinks I should have brought some...more protection to walk though these streets. But he seems to be forgetting that this isn't Whitechapel."

Jacob gave me a lazy smile, my slight seemingly forgotten. "If this area is so safe then why do you need to bring him along for protection at all?"

Darn. Foiled by my own logic. "Stop being so...male!"

"Male?" Jacob and George both said.

I lifted a hand and knocked.

Jacob leaned down so that his nose almost touched my cheek. "Well?" he said in a quiet, ominous voice that spread across my skin like warm sunshine.

My face heated. I adore sunshine. "You're being overbearing. It's a very irritating manly habit that...men have." I knocked again. Why wasn't someone answering the door?

"You're such an expert on men, are you?" Jacob asked, straightening. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye but I couldn't determine if he was teasing me or if it was a serious question.

"I know a few. Now, either be quiet so I can concentrate or go away."

"Yes," George said, fiddling with his necktie again. "Let us handle this."

"I'm not leaving you alone in this place," Jacob said. "And I'll not allow you to walk home alone either."

"I am not alone," I muttered although I think George heard me anyway if his wince was any indication.

"You might as well be," Jacob said. He looked skyward as if he'd find some patience there, or some way of convincing me I was being a fool. "Bloody hell, Emily, coming here is dangerous. Do you understand?"

The door opened at that moment and I smiled at the maid in relief. We introduced ourselves and George asked to speak to someone in authority.

"Mr. Blunt the master's gone out," she said, "but Mrs. White'll receive you." She showed us into a room that appeared to be either an office or a drawing room or perhaps acted as both. It had a small, unlit fireplace, a large desk with hard, unpadded chairs on either side of it, a sofa and two armchairs, none of which matched, and a threadbare green rug on the floor. There were no decorative items on the mantelpiece, no paintings on the walls and not even a bookshelf near the desk. On second thought the room couldn't possibly function as an office as there wasn’t a scrap of paper in sight and the inkwell appeared empty. It must be entirely for the use of visitors then.

The maid left, leaving George, Jacob and I in awkward silence. Having a three-way conversation when only one of us can speak to the other two is difficult at best. It's absolutely awful when we're quarrelling. George and I seated ourselves on the sofa, a respectable distance between us, while Jacob remained standing by the door, arms crossed, glaring at me. It was most disconcerting. My face felt hot and a thousand things ran through my mind. Of course I voiced none of them. In fact, I tried not to look at him at all. I failed.

Thankfully Mrs. White didn’t take long to arrive. She wasn't as old as I expected, only a little older than Celia I'd guess, but more homely. Her soft brown eyes crinkled at the corners and a series of lines bracketed her mouth as she smiled at us. Her dark hair, streaked with gray, was pulled into a loose knot and her black gown could have been worn for mourning a loved one or simply because she liked the color. It did suit her although the large bustle at the back didn't flatter her dumpy figure.

"Now, what may I do for you?" she asked after introducing herself.

"I'm George Culvert," George said before I could answer.

Her eyebrows rose. "Mr. Culvert? You took on one of our girls, didn't you?"

He nodded but didn't explain what had happened to Maree Finch. He indicated me. "This is Miss Emily Chambers."

Mrs. White paled. "Chambers? Miss Emily Chambers?"

George's eyes twinkled behind his glasses. "You know her?"

It would seem my reputation as a medium had preceded me. It was happening more and more lately. Over the last month or two, the mere mention of my name was enough to cause strangers to ogle me, or walk quickly in the opposite direction. I suppose it meant Celia and I were garnering a good reputation for our work, which in turn would generate more appointments for our séances. But I couldn't be as happy as her about the increase in our trade, not if it meant more reactions like that of Mrs. White.

"I would say she knows of me, is that right, Mrs. White?" I asked, trying to allay any fears she might have with a warm smile.

Her hand fluttered to her chest and she gave a nervous little laugh. "Forgive me, yes, I have heard of you, Miss Chambers. Indeed, only this morning the master of our little school, Mr. Blunt, was telling me he was going to contact you." She pursed her lips. "He was very insistent."

"Oh? He wishes to communicate with the dead?"

"I believe so but you'd have to discuss the particulars with him." She clicked her tongue and sighed. "I don't know what's got into him. He's never been interested in the supernatural before."

I glanced at Jacob. He grinned. It was breathtaking, quite literally—the air whooshed out of my lungs and my throat went dry. It was rather a relief to see he'd snapped out of his bad temper too.

I smiled back at him.

"The Misses Chambers have an excellent reputation." George smiled too but I suspect not for the same reasons as us. I hadn't told him about Jacob's haunting of Mr. Blunt. "I highly recommend them. Emily really can communicate with spirits."

Jacob snorted and came to stand beside me. "It seems you have an admirer."

"Indeed, she was just speaking to one outside," George went on. He sounded like a proud older brother. It was rather sweet.

Jacob groaned. "If he tells her my name I might have to throw something."

"Thank you, George," I said quickly. "I'm sure Mrs. White isn't interested."

He opened his mouth to say something but must have caught my don't-you-dare expression because he shut it again.

Mrs. White didn’t appear to notice our exchange, or she was too polite to let us think she had. "Your sister left a calling card when she collected Lucy yesterday, you see," she said. I knew the ones. Celia had a habit of leaving them wherever she went so that it acted as a form of advertising. "Mr. Blunt was going to call on you today. I can't think why there's such an urgency." She shrugged.

"Perhaps he's being haunted," George said.

I choked but managed to turn it into a cough. Jacob patted my back and I continued to cough although the need had gone. I simply liked his touch. A lot.

"Are you all right, Emily?" George asked, shifting along the sofa towards me.

Mrs. White stood. "I'll get some water."

I stopped coughing and Jacob stopped patting. "I'm fine, thank you." I refrained from looking at him for about two seconds then couldn't help myself. Unfortunately he had his back to me, striding towards the door. Avoiding me again. He was making quite a habit of it.

Mrs. White sat down. "How is Lucy getting along?"

"Very well," I said. "I think she's a little perturbed to be working in the house of someone who can see ghosts, but she doesn't seem too afraid." She'd got through the night at least, which was more than I could say for one of our previous maids.

"Good, good. And how is Maree?" she asked George.

"Ah," he said. "She is the reason we've come here. She's disappeared—."

"Disappeared!" Mrs. White shook her head. "No, no, no, not Maree. She's such a good girl. We never had any problems with her here."

"She also stole a book from me."

Mrs. White stifled a gasp with her hand. "Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear. Are you sure?"

"Quite sure." George told her about our interview with Maree Finch and the reasons for our suspicions. "The odd thing is," he said in finishing, "is that she can't read. So why steal a book of all things?"

"A very good question," Mrs. White said. She frowned and shook her head slowly. "I simply can't believe Maree would do such a thing. And a book too when she can't read, as you say. What was it about?"

"Demonology," George said before I could deflect the question. I thought it was one we should avoid answering truthfully. I didn't want to alarm the lady.

But Mrs. White didn't seem as disturbed as I thought she would be. I'd expected a vehement denial of Maree's interest in demonology, or a little gasp or some show of distress over the book's subject matter. As it was, she simply paled. It was a considerable paling but nevertheless it wasn't a fierce reaction. "I see. Well, that's an...interesting topic for a young girl."

"Particularly for a young girl who can't read," Jacob said. "It's not the sort of book that will help her learn."

I agreed wholeheartedly. "We think she might have stolen it for someone else," I said.

"For her brother," George added.

"Her brother! You mean Tommy Finch?"

"I suppose we do," he said. "He attended this school for a while, didn't he?"

Mrs. White flicked imaginary fluff off her skirts, her attention on the task and not us. "He was but only briefly and that was some time ago. I don't know why he left. I’m not privileged to everything that occurs with the boy pupils. You'd have to ask Mr. Blunt."

"Has Tommy Finch been back to the school?"

"Certainly not!"

"Right," George said. He cleared his throat. "I think you've told us everything we need to know."

"Don't leave yet," Jacob said. He stood beside George but watched me. "Suggest that Culvert look at another girl to replace Finch."

I wasn't sure what Jacob had in mind but I trusted his judgment. "Then let's move onto the real reason we came here," I said to George with a smile. He gave me a blank look. "A new maid."

He flinched. The hiring of staff so far down the household order probably wasn't something he'd be involved in. That would come under the housekeeper's jurisdiction, or his mother's if the housekeeper wasn't a trusted servant herself. My suggestion that he do it clearly shocked him. "Yes, of course. A new maid."

Bless him, he was going along with the scenario with good grace. I was definitely warming to George. Despite insisting outside that he do most of the talking, he'd not once taken over the conversation. Of course that could have been because Mr. Blunt wasn't there.

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Mrs. White's comfortable features but then she smiled. I suppose it must seem odd, not only that I'd accompanied George to find him a new servant, but also that I was the one keen for him to hire again. Perhaps she assumed he and I were engaged to be married and I was taking an active role in running his household already.

My impish side wondered what Jacob would think of that.

"Suggest he look at some suitable girls with her right now," Jacob said. "Then tell them you wish to remain here because you have a headache."

I did as he said. I was afraid George would protest but his quick glance around the room suggested he knew Jacob was nearby and that we had a plan. George was no fool and he was turning into a wonderful ally.

"An excellent idea," he said, standing. "Shall we, Mrs. White?"

She touched my knee. "Will you be all right, dear? Can I get you some tea while you wait?"

"No, thank you," I said. "I just need some peace and quiet."

"It's best if she's not disturbed for a while," George said. He moved towards the door and before they left, winked at me over his shoulder.

I winked back.

Jacob's face turned dark. He crossed his arms over his chest. "He shouldn't be overly familiar with you. People will think there's something between you."

I waited until the door was closed then I stood and faced him. He turned that dark scowl on me. "He winked at me, Jacob. It's not quite as familiar as coming into my bedroom. For example."

His eyes turned the deep gray of a stormy sky. He took a long time to answer and I had the most disturbing feeling deep in my belly. Like a little flippity, somersaulting.

I suspected—hoped—he was going to kiss me.