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“Georgie! What have you done?”

Elfreda registered a shocked, high-pitched voice with one ear. The other ear was underwater. She pushed off the pond’s mucky bottom, struggling to her knees.

“You tried to drown a perfect stranger.” The scolding continued. “It was absolutely sinister.”

“She’s not a stranger,” came the low reply.

What Elfreda saw on the bank belied the claim. Strangers. Two of them. A tall young woman in a peach-blossom walking dress, blonde ringlets peeking from a bonnet of blue crepe. A hatless gentleman in top boots, buckskin breeches, and a riding coat, thick russet hair waving upon his brow.

There was no time to wonder how or why.

She relaxed her fisted fingers with difficulty, then gazed with horror into her hand.

It was empty.

She’d let go. When that sinister sprig of fashion had attacked, she’d let go.

“No.” She flung forward. She plunged both hands through insubstantial silt, buried them in clinging mud, and scooped.

Tadpoles. A slimy twig. A pebble. Another pebble. Another pebble. Pebbles by the hundred. By the thousand.

“No, no, no.” She pivoted wildly. Every movement spread billowing brown clouds through the water.

“Elf,” said the gentleman. “Did you lose something?”

She froze.

The gentleman strolled toward her. He had a loose-limbed, athletic stride, a way of moving that epitomized smugness. And that face. That unmistakable face.

She stared, spellbound by incipient dread.

The hair was short, and darker than it had been a half decade ago when she’d seen it last, arranged in shining twists and braids.

The wicked slant of the brows was the same.

The high cheekbones. The square jaw that framed a deceptively sweet-looking mouth.

The pale blue eyes edged with long black lashes.

Certainty struck like a lightning bolt.

Her mouth went dry. She was dripping everywhere, but she could barely unstick her tongue from her teeth.

“Georgina,” she croaked. “Damn you.”

She’d imagined uttering those words on innumerable occasions.

Saying them now brought no comfort.

Georgina Redmayne gave her a dazzling smile. “I’ve certainly been trying.”

Elfreda stifled a scream. She punched the pond instead, dredging up another handful of mud.

“Oh,” murmured the young lady, looking between them. “You are acquainted. Georgie, you tried to drown someone you know?”

“I thought she was Rosalie.” Georgina waved a hand. “Something about the hair. From behind.”

“You tried to drown Rosalie .” The young lady sounded outraged. “Your dearest friend. You are a monster.”

“Dunk, not drown.” Georgina sat and tugged off a boot. “She knocked me out of the boat the other day. You weren’t decrying attempted murder then.”

The young lady ignored this.

“Lucky for Rosalie, she escaped,” she said.

“Most un lucky for poor…” She trailed off as she picked her way along the bank, her ribboned slippers disappearing in the rushes at the verge.

“Should I call you Elf ?” she asked Elfreda, bending down, as one did when addressing a child.

“I gather you and Georgie grew up together? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in town. ”

“She doesn’t go to town.” Georgina tugged the second boot, more sharply. “She molders in Marsden Hall. The pile on the hill.”

“The pile on the hill!” The young lady beamed. “I adore it. So picturesque. I’m delighted to meet you, although I understand if you don’t return the sentiment at present. I hope we can renew our acquaintance when we both have dry feet.”

Elfreda didn’t offer her response.

I would rather dry my feet in the fires of hell.

She let the mud in her hands plop into the water.

“I’m Anne,” continued the young lady, undeterred, “Anne Poskitt, of the Halifax Poskitts. Did you lose a ring? A fish might have swallowed it. Fish are always swallowing rings, in fairy tales anyway, which usually have some truth to them. Did you know Bluebeard was a real person? And apples can poison you if you eat the seeds.”

Elfreda made a choking sound as she clawed up more mud. More pebbles. Her head was hot, and her toes were nubs of ice.

“Why were you wearing a ring?” Georgina splashed barefoot into the pond. “Don’t tell me you’re married.”

“I’m not telling you anything.” Elfreda rose to standing, rivulets streaming down her legs.

“Good Lord, you are married. How can that be?”

Elfreda pushed past her.

“Who is he?” Georgina followed. “Did he dress in sprinkled calfskin and trick you into thinking he’s a book?”

Elfreda spun. “You—” She failed to finish the insult. Georgina was an inch away, emanating dryness and warmth, her gaze the blue of woodsmoke. Mesmerizing as a flame.

“Me?” drawled Georgina. “A favorite topic. Go on.”

“Go to the devil,” muttered Elfreda and waded for the bank.

“Not until I find your ring,” called Georgina. “It’s the least I can do.”

“For God’s sake, I haven’t lost a ring .” Elfreda turned back. Georgina stood where she’d been standing, arms crossed.

“You’re not married,” she said, triumphantly smug. “I didn’t think so.”

Elfreda bristled. She was three and twenty, more than old enough for marriage—approaching old maid.

All the girls who’d played hoops with Georgina on the village green had been married for years.

Certainly, Georgina herself. Whenever she’d been in residence at Redmayne Manor, suitors had arrived from each of the cardinal directions, leaving swathes of flower-denuded meadow in their wake.

“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.

“You were very loud, though.” Anne fell into step with her. “I heard everything, despite attuning my ears to the birdsong. Are you Georgie’s age? Four and twenty? I’m one and twenty, and my father wants me married by Michaelmas.”

Elfreda reached the footpath, but she felt as though she were entering a new circle of hell. A hell where Georgina’s minions popped out from behind every tree to flaunt their fine figures and accomplishments and deliver lectures on matrimonial duty.

Anne continued, “That’s why I’m running away to Italy.”

Elfreda blinked. But she didn’t let surprise get the better of her. She walked faster. “If you started in London, you’re headed in the wrong direction.”

“We did start in London,” said Anne. “We arrived the day before yesterday. Georgie, Rosalie, and myself. Well, and my chaperone, but she’s been indisposed.

Bad fish pudding at the coaching inn. I don’t mind spending a fortnight in Derbyshire.

Georgie wanted company, and I’m not running away until July at the soonest.”

Elfreda couldn’t begin to parse this nonsensical chatter. She latched on to the bit that mattered. “A fortnight?” Thank God. She could endure a fortnight.

“Yes, a fortnight,” agreed Anne. “Rosalie and I can’t stay longer. Poor Georgie will have to carry on without us.”