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Unbidden, Mrs. Wilson’s expression arose in her mind. Logic told her the lady was likely anxious because she’d arrived late, but her senses told her it was something more. Hesitation. A hint of fear.

When several more minutes passed and Mrs. Wilson had still not returned from the water closet, Electra found herself tapping her fingers against the stone and glancing at the mantel clock. As it chimed the three o’clock hour, she slipped the stone into her skirt pocket and strode out into the hall. She rapped softly on the lavatory door, then tried again when no answer came.

“Mrs. Wilson,” she called quietly, then opened the door to find the room empty.

At the sound of glass clinking in the study across the hall, she turned and stepped closer to the half-open door. The room should have been empty. Cordelia’s husband, Sir Christopher Redmayne, who sometimes resided at the Russell Square address and sometimes at separate lodgings, was not at home, and the study was his exclusive domain.

She watched as Mrs. Wilson stood with her back to the door, trailing a finger over the gilded frame of a pastoral landscape painting.

Suddenly, she seemed to sense Electra’s gaze and spun, eyes wide.

“Oh, Miss Poole. I thought I’d…walk a bit until my skirt dried.” She gestured down to the hem of her skirt, which was indeed still wet.

“There’s a fire in the drawing room,” Electra said. “It might hasten the process.”

Mrs. Wilson gave her an almost shy smile, but her lips trembled. “That sounds lovely.”

Electra nodded and started back toward the drawing room. Mrs. Wilson followed and stood before the fire, lifting the front edge of her skirt slightly.

“Tea, Mrs. Wilson?” Electra asked after sitting on the settee and pulling the tea tray toward her.

“Yes, please. Sugar, no milk.”

Electra poured out for both of them, and Mrs. Wilson took her teacup and sat on a damask-covered chair across from her.

Mrs. Wilson’s hair had begun to dry, and Electra could tell now that it was a striking auburn shade. She sipped her tea and let out a sigh of contentment, but her shoulders remained ramrod straight. The tightness of her jaw made the smile she offered Electra seem like a grimace. Even when she looked to have settled against the settee, her teacup rattled each time she returned it to its saucer.

“You have a lovely home, Miss Poole.” Mrs. Wilson had an appealing voice, almost musical. Though she looked no more than thirty, there was a kind of mature resonance to her tone when she spoke.

Electra wondered if she sang either professionally or as an avocation. She had been trying to hone her ability to read the emotions of others without touching them, merely by centering her entire focus on them. With Mrs. Wilson, she attempted to glean any emotions or impressions, yet all she sensed was a gray sort of murkiness. A bit like the stormy sky visible through the sash windows.

“Thank you, but it is not my home,” Electra told her. “I have the very good fortune of being a guest of the Redmaynes.”

Mrs. Wilson pressed her lips together, then nodded, taking in that detail, or perhaps reassessing Electra.

“Well, it is elegant and well-appointed, nonetheless.” She added with a half-smile as she studied the room’s details once again.

Electra watched as Mrs. Wilson’s gaze traced over the Aubusson carpet, Chippendale chairs, the art on the walls, and the various vases and knickknacks on the mantel. All of it seemed to fascinate the lady.

Yet when Mrs. Wilson returned her gaze to Electra, all that enthusiasm seemed to fade. She sensed that same agitation she’d noted when she walked through the front door.

“Shall we commence?” Mrs. Wilson asked after another sip of tea. “I confess I am not certain how this is meant to proceed.”

There was a flash of skepticism that Electra sensed from Mrs. Wilson.

That was something she had come to expect, even from those who sought answers from her. The psychical gifts she’d seemingly inherited from her mother were still, in many ways, a mystery even to Electra, but she did not doubt them now. Her abilities had proven correct too often.

“Shall we speak a bit of what brought you here, Mrs. Wilson, before we begin? Your letter provided few details.”

Her visitor set her teacup aside immediately, as if eager for this turn in their conversation.

“Please do call me Jane, Miss Poole. Wilson was my late husband’s name.”

Electra felt a flare of disdain toward the man.

“Indeed, he is why I’ve come to speak to you. Phineas died quite recently, and I believe there has been deception from his family since that time.”

“Deception in what regard?”