Page 10 of Lady Petra and the Wolf

“When did you lose her?” From the little he knew of the former Lady Kemberley, he was aware she had been gone for a significant amount of time. The cynic inside of him wished to strangle him with the reins for asking such a question, yet his curiosity and wish to solve the mystery of the woman to his side triumphed over the cynic.

“Oh, I…” Lady Petra began, as if she were trying to sound offhand. “I must have been six or seven.” Despite her neutral tone, Wolf sensed that Petra knew exactly how old she had been, to the day.

“That’s an awful age to lose one’s mother. Mine died before I could remember her.”

The cynic inside of him slapped a hand to his head in consternation. He could not recall if he had ever spoken of his mother to anyone beside his aunt and uncle. Whyever was he doing so now?

Wolf became cognizant of a delicate, gloved hand coming to rest upon his thigh. He intuited that Petra had likely selected such a location, rather than his arm, to ensure his command of the bays remained entirely undisturbed. “It does not make the loss any less.”

Wolf nodded, and Petra, being the sensible daughter of Lord Kemberley, adeptly changed the conversation from a subject so far beyond polite conversation. “After that, you lived with relatives, yes?”

“Uh, yes, in Bristol. And you?” Wolf inquired before she found the opportunity to ask more about his time there.

“My father remarried but my stepmother died in childbirth soon after. He never had his heir or his spare. I think after that he gave up trying.”

“After her death, you did not go stay with your family?” Wolf asked, then almost bit his tongue. He had briefly forgotten the scandal around Beckforth and his wife.

“If you will not think me ghoulish for the discussion—” She straightened her bonnet as he took a sharp turn to enter the park “—I could not stay with family. My aunt, my mother’s sister, was…murdered. And I do not believe it was my cousin, Stephen,” she added as they crossed into the verdant expanse of the park. Wolf slowed the horses, bringing the phaeton to a more sedate pace so that he might study the lady at his side. Petra maintained a spine of steel, her posture so resolute that she seemed to be silently daring him to offer any manner of contradiction.

“My apologies, I had forgotten,” he murmured.

Petra gave a stiff nod, effectively closing the subject.

“Is that why—” He stopped himself. If he went on, he would give away how much he had noticed about, not just in their brief pretend courtship, but for the last few years.

But that was merely curiosity, was it not? Because she did not quite fit the idea he had previously held of her. She was merely a mystery he was eager to solve. The Lady Petra he had believed her to be did not sneak off through Covent Garden with her maid, nor did she take phaeton rides through Hyde Park with someone other than her betrothed. “That is, I noticed, you preferred stories to be something of a mystery. Is that because of what happened with your aunt?”

“I—I never thought of that before. Perhaps. What happened to her was so wrong. She was such a kind lady. And she never took well to England.” Petra swallowed as she gazed at the approaching Serpentine on her right. Wolf had only recently considered how difficult it must be to be half-foreign amongst Polite Society. She likely felt compelled to present herself as the epitome of a perfect lady at all times, lest the haute ton turn on her. Discarding her with the same ruthless indifference they had visited upon Lady Beckforth.

Lady Petra gave a small sniff then rapidly blinked and turned her face up to the sun. “But perhaps it is just my overly curious nature.”

Before he could respond, they both nodded in recognition at a curricle speeding by. Wolf was grateful for their clipped pace as he had forgotten the name of the young viscount who was sure to overturn his curricle if he continued at that rate.

As if reading his thoughts, Lady Petra noted, “You have a steady hand, Lord Wolfridge.”

“Perhaps I have precious cargo, Lady P.” He waggled his eyebrows and this time he could feel her roll her eyes next to him.

“Precious steeds, perhaps,” she said wryly, then her brow furrowed. “I can tell you care for your horses. That is very admirable of you, my lord. Not all lords are so kind to their horses, let alone— “She stopped speaking abruptly, then added lightly. “We should all be so kind to our horses.”

Wolf decided not to push her further on the subject. “Was that two compliments from the elusive Lady Petra? In under five minutes? What have I done in this lifetime to deserve such an honor?”

Lady Petra colored slightly, but then gave him a small nudge on his shoulder. Against his will, Wolf was rather tickled. In all his years watching her, as a friend of John of course, he had never seen her joke or tease in such a way. He could not recall anyone he had spoken to with such ease, not even John. Their recent conversations had been so business-oriented, there had been little room for the natural flow of their usual antics. He often played cards with Lord St. George, who had a barony in the north, but the baron hovered between friend and acquaintance.

“You will attend the Bromley Ball, yes?” he asked as they exited the park, satisfied with their first excursion amongst Polite Society. “Lord John will be there.” The words sat rather uncomfortably in his chest as Wolf reminded himself this was for the greater good.

“I shall,” Lady Petra began slowly. “Lord Wolfridge, do you think—”

“I think we have already begun, my lady.” He almost pressed his finger to her lips as she had at the theatre and he tried to force the image from his mind. “I shall claim two dances with you.”

“But that—” Her eyes widened again at the implication of his words.

“That is the plan, after all.” A familiar, almost comforting blanket of cool indifference settled over him, a state he deliberately cultivated. It was a necessary defense against the creeping anxiety that gnawed at the edges of his focus whenever he allowed his mind to drift too far into the future. To project the endgame of this scheme was to invite doubt and, worse, a paralyzing sense of consequence.

He recognized the pattern: the moment he started calculating the potential fallout, the joy of this false pretense began to curdle. And that joy, the delicate peeling back the layers of a mystery, remained the most precious discovery he had made in an age. He had not felt so thoroughly engaged or so profoundly alive since… well, the memory of such a sensation had grown quite fragile and faded. Every risk they undertook served only to heighten the reward, each meeting providing a visceral jolt that thrummed through his blood.

No, he absolutely refused to spoil the most compelling diversion he had encountered in an age by dwelling on the negative potential outcomes.

And yet, as he left Lady Petra at her father’s townhouse, a bitter taste remained on his tongue as the consequences of his actions reared their head. What if this plan pushes her further into John’s arms? He considered the possibility as he called to the horses to walk on, a strange acidic sparking in his chest.