"I did but we didn't socialize. Different friends, you understand."

I didn't. Not really. My formal schooling had finished at age thirteen, as it did for most girls, and I'd known every pupil at the small school. After I left, Mama had continued to tutor me and then Celia had tried after Mama's death, but much of my understanding of the world had come from reading books left behind in Celia's father's study. He'd been a lawyer and a great reader apparently. His study was still in tact and the bookshelves covered two entire walls, but most of the books were dry texts with only a few novels squeezed in between. Not a single one touched on the supernatural.

"So what shall I tell this George Culvert when I meet him?" I asked. "I can't very well ask him about shape-shifting demons straight away. He'll think it odd."

He paused then said, "Tell him you have a general interest in demonology and you'd like to look at his books." He shrugged. "We'll make it up as we go."

"Very well." I couldn't see any other way that didn't involve telling George Culvert everything. And that wasn't an option. Not yet. Not until I'd decided if I cared whether he thought I was mad for speaking to ghosts. "Give me Mr. Culvert's address and I'll meet you there after breakfast."

"Fifty-two Wilton Crescent in Belgravia." He gave me one more appraisal—a lingering one—from head to toe then vanished. But not before I saw the same heated flare in his eyes that had been there when he first noticed me in the dress. It would seem the gown hadn't lost any of its power.

Celia had a simple breakfast of toast and boiled eggs waiting for me in the dining room when I arrived.

"I thought we'd eat in the kitchen since we have no maid," I said picking up a plate.

"Just because there's no one here to see us doesn't mean we can let ourselves go. We have standards."

Celia had standards. I had a growling stomach and didn't care where I ate. I buttered a piece of toast and took two eggs from the sideboard and joined her at the table.

"What did he want?" she asked.

I filled her in and her interest piqued at the mention of George Culvert. "I wonder what he's like," she said more to herself than me.

"He went to Eton," I said, rapping the knife on the eggshell. "With Jacob."

I'd thought it impossible for her eyes to light up even more but they did. "Oh! He must be a gentleman then. I'm so glad you're wearing that dress, it's perfect. But you can't go alone. I'll accompany you."

"I'll be all right."

"Emily," she said on a sigh.