Page 1 of Lady Petra and the Wolf

Prologue

Petra had never been a sound sleeper. Perhaps it was her racing thoughts, which always ran through her head like petulant children right as she attempted to close her eyes at night. Of late, the high turnover of female servants in her father’s employ kept her awake while the rest of the household lay in silent repose. The matter of the disappearing maids had plagued her since she first noticed the phenomenon after her step-mama’s death several years earlier. Petra recognized that any direct inquiry posed to her sire regarding these observations would inevitably be met with the dismissive charge of that female affliction he so habitually bemoaned: hysteria.

All thoughts of disappearances and hysteria dissipated the second Petra heard the soft tread of footsteps and the dragging of something heavy just outside her door. Carefully pulling back her coverlet, she made quick work of finding her wrapper and a candle before setting out to locate the owner of said footsteps.

Miss Winston, her governess, was just about the last person she expected to find. The diminutive woman was swamped in a heavy cloak while dragging a decrepit portmanteau and a cracked leather satchel under the cover of darkness.

“Miss Winston?”

Miss Winston’s head whipped around, although her expression told Petra that the light from her candle had given her away. As she gazed at Petra, it morphed into something else entirely.

Sorrow. Defiance. Pity.

“Please don’t go.” Judging from Miss Winston’s set expression, her mind was already made up, yet Petra’s tongue compelled her to try.

“Lady Petra.” Miss Winston was the only friend she had left, if she could call her that. Her mother was long gone. Her step-mama was gone as well. Her favorite cousins had been caught up in the scandal of their mother’s death and had been scattered to the winds, far, far away.

Her voice was full of compassion now. “I cannot stay here. You must understand.”

Petra felt a nod escape her, a sharp, involuntary movement that did little to quell the turmoil in her chest. The unsettling nature of the constantly changing maids had become a persistent, gnawing discomfort, a dull ache that recently sharpened into a keen, cold fear.

She could not quite pinpoint the reason for the unease. The maids were efficient, silent, and seemed to vanish as soon as they appeared, never staying long enough for their faces to become familiar or their routines to feel secure. It wasn’t just the turnover, though; it was the way it happened. There were no farewells, just a new, expressionless face folding linens or setting the dinner tray.

A small voice in the back of her mind screamed that she was not paranoid. She was certain something was amiss. As Petra gazed at the usually unflappable Miss Winston hunched and afraid, an unsettling certainty came over her that this ceaseless change wasn’t accidental. And the thought of who was orchestrating it sent a fresh, icy shiver down her spine.

Steeling herself, she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, stifling a sob that threatened to erupt with the force of a tidal wave. She would not have her last moments with Miss Winston stained with tears.

Miss Winston set her bags down and walked toward her, her feet padding against the Turkish rug Petra’s father was so fond of. While he hated spending money, he loved anything that gave the appearance of a powerful, well-traveled aristocrat. For years, Petra thought he was just that, but lately…

“You may not believe me, but you are my favorite charge, Petra. Ever.” Miss Winston had been a governess for over ten years, but Petra chose to believe her in that moment. “There is no one quite like you. Never let anyone make you feel otherwise.” She squeezed Petra’s bare hands with her gloved ones, then slowly backed away. The feel of Miss Winston’s threadbare gloves against her skin only served to reinforce the wrongness of this moment. Miss Winston would not leave her station unless she had no other choice.

“You must be brave now, Petra.” She began to walk away, but then turned slowly. “As I am about to flee with no reference, I feel no remorse for leaving you with these.” From her satchel, Miss Winston extricated a stack of books that she left in Petra’s arms.

“These will be a better teacher to you than I could ever be.”

A tear threatened to fall as Petra heard her father’s voice in her head: Don’t cry. Crying is for weak, manipulative females, Pet.

“Goodbye.”

The sheets of rain masked any sound as Petra’s final protector silently slipped out of the townhouse.

She could not be sure what exactly caused her governess to flee with such desperate haste, but cold certainty began to settle in her stomach: it must have had something to do with the string of disappearing maids. The unsettling pattern of young women vanishing from the household without a trace had already cast a long, ominous shadow, and now Miss Winston’s departure seemed to confirm Petra’s darkest suspicions.

This single, terrifying notion consumed Petra’s thoughts in the lonely, monotonous days that followed. Days that stretched into weeks without her governess’s familiar presence. The silence of the great house was now oppressive, magnifying her sense of isolation. She spent these empty hours dwelling on her losses, an ache of longing for all the women who had been a part of her life: Miss Winston, with her sharp wit and quiet competence, her cousin Jillian, now married and a world away, her late mother, whose memory was becoming fragile and faded, like lace that had been stored in darkness for many years without seeing the sun, and even her late stepmother.

The days bled into one another, marked only by the shifting light in her grand, empty rooms, until one day, Petra turned sixteen. And then she discovered why Miss Winston ran.

Chapter One

She was doing it again.

Lady Petra Newkirk, daughter of the Earl of Kemberley, watched the entrance of the Marswell ballroom expectantly.

Oh, she tried to hide it, strove to only turn her eyes ever so often to the entryway, but Wolf knew what she was doing. Yet, one could hardly blame her for the convergence of their attentions upon the same person. Still, for reasons he remained quite unwilling to scrutinize, the evident eagerness with which she anticipated the arrival of his oldest friend, Lord John Longley, ignited a fierce and unbidden irritation.

Like an itch in an unreachable location.

“He isn’t coming,” Wolf said, leaning forward until his breath grazed the delicate shell of her ear.