He quickly glanced away, down at the dressing table, up at the ceiling, at the wall, anywhere but at me. "Just tell her to put it up as best she can," he said.

"He's growing impatient," I told her.

"He's no gentleman, that one," she said and put two hairpins between her lips.

I cringed and caught Jacob's sharp glance in Celia's direction. He seemed...alarmed, and then embarrassed by her off-handed comment.

She removed the pins from her mouth and threaded them through my hair. "I wonder if he ever was one," she said, admiring her handiwork." Perhaps he lost all sense of honor when he died."

"Dying tends to cause one to misplace a great many things," Jacob said, voice dark and distant.

"Can you go out and tell him I'll be there in a moment," I asked Celia.

Her hand hovered near the hair above my temple as if she wanted to touch it but didn't want to mess up her work. "Be careful, Em." She kissed my forehead. "You do look lovely. Let's hope it's worth it."

She left and I heard her telling the empty air outside that I'd be there soon. Her footsteps retreated down the stairs and I turned to Jacob.

"You deserved to hear that if you come and go uninvited," I said.

"I'm not concerned about other people's opinions of me." He gave me a crooked smile. "It's a bad habit carried over from when I was alive."

It was the first time he'd referred to his life and what he'd been like. It wasn't what I'd expected to hear. Instead of giving me a clearer picture of him it just threw up more questions. Why hadn't he cared what people thought? "I'm sure people cared what you thought of them." I don't know why I said it but it seemed appropriate somehow.

He didn't comment but he was no longer smiling, crookedly or otherwise. Indeed, he'd turned all his attention to my hairbrush sitting on the dressing table as if it was the most interesting object in the world. Its tortoiseshell back and handle certainly weren't worthy of such scrutiny.

I knew an avoidance tactic when I saw one.

"How long ago did you die?" I asked him. He might want to avoid all awkward questions but I certainly wasn't going to shy away from them. If I was to spend time alone with him, I needed to know more about him.

"About nine months ago. I was eighteen." He shook his head, dismissing the topic. "Are you ready?"

So much for my investigative scheme. "Where are we going?"

He strode to the door. I pulled on my boots, quickly laced them and followed at a trot. "The house of someone I went to school with," he said, opening the door. "George Culvert. He lives in the Belgravia area with his mother."

"And why are we visiting this Mr. Culvert?"