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“I haven’t felt inclined to marry,” said Elfreda. “I’ve been doing other things. Interesting things.”

“Like what?” Georgina raised her brows. “Traveling?”

“A bit,” said Elfreda, cursing herself for taking the bait. “A few rambles. Barrow digging.”

“Barrow digging.” Georgina cleared her throat. “Barrows are graves, yes?”

“Ancient burial mounds.”

“Ah,” said Georgina. “Charming. What about parties? Any cavorting with people who have flesh on their bones?”

“I attended an assembly at Thornton.”

“One dance in five years?”

Elfreda frowned. Aunt Susan had forced the issue, singeing off most of her fringe with the curling tongs in the process. That one dance had been more than enough.

“I socialize,” said Elfreda, stiffly. “Lord Fawcett still hosts those Venetian breakfasts. You must remember them. The last time you went, you poured brandy in the lemonade and let John Worrell take the blame.”

“He was delighted to take the blame. He lived to impress me with his gallantry. Whatever happened to John Worrell?”

“He married Jane Slater.”

“My favorite of the Janes.” Georgina shook her head. “What else? Have you made any bosom friends?”

Elfreda’s frown deepened. “No.”

“Romantic conquests?”

“I’ve been doing things that I find interesting. If you are attempting to compare our recent activities, you can stop now. You won’t hit upon similarities.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” said Georgina, with exaggerated gravity. “Because I’ve been having a tremendously good time.”

“I’ve no doubt.” Elfreda was shaking, with cold and with rage. Georgina always had a tremendously good time, at the expense of whoever she pleased.

“Elf.” Georgina came toward her. “We haven’t seen each other in half a decade. Can you blame me for hoping you hadn’t spent the entire time reading?”

It was too much.

“Blame you?” Elfreda sucked in her breath. “You were the bane of my existence. Every day you didn’t return from London was the best day of my life. And suddenly you’re here, and you’ve already managed to ruin everything!”

“Ruin what? What did you drop?” Georgina halted a step away.

Elfreda squeezed her eyes shut. This wasn’t real. It was a nightmare, a very vivid, very wet nightmare. That explained Georgina’s breeches. In dreams, details didn’t follow any discernible logic. The girl from across the lane could appear in the guise of a Corinthian. But in waking life, it wasn’t very likely.

She opened her eyes. Georgina was still there, still in breeches, arms crossed, giving her an appraising look.

This wasn’t a nightmare. It was worse. It was real.

“Why are you wearing your brother’s clothes?” She blurted it out.

“Harry’s clothes? I would never.” Georgina raised her brows. “I went to a tailor. I like my garments to fit.” She glanced down at herself, mouth quirking in satisfaction. “I look well, don’t I?”

Without a word, Elfreda marched out of the pond. There was no retrieving the amulet, and nothing to be gained from conversation with Georgina.

Anne Poskitt emerged from the fountain of willow fronds, smiling. “I wasn’t eavesdropping.”

Elfreda kept squelching through the grass. Her clammy dress plastered her body and slapped at her shins.