Page 18 of Lady Petra and the Wolf

As she finished, Petra looked between her cousin’s eyes, determined to discover more.

“You are not staying in London long, are you?”

“I cannot say for sure, Petra.” Jillian bit her lip, and Petra was filled with the uncomfortable sensation that her cousin was still hiding something. “But I can tell you I will be doing everything in my power to look for Stephen. Which likely means travelling.”

“I will cover for you, Jill. I will let it be known that you have returned to Madrid or Italy, or wherever. Just do what needs to be done to find him. If you need money–”

“But your reputation, Petra, if it is known that I am—”

“Hang my reputation. Finding Stephen is all that matters.” Petra swallowed hard, letting go of her last remaining disappointed hopes. What did that matter in the face of true love? “And do give Lord John a chance, please?”

Jillian shook her head and merely repeated, “I don’t deserve you Petra.”

Petra brushed off the sentiment. “When we were girls, you were always my champion. Now let me be yours.”

Chapter Seven

One could tell a great deal about a man from his study. John’s cluttered office at the docks, filled with maps and nautical charts, spoke of a mind preoccupied with dreams of adventure rather than the practicalities of order. Lord Kemberley’s study, Wolf observed, confessed a different sort of gentleman. The decor somehow exemplified both striking efficiency and restrained English elegance. The mahogany of his massive desk gleamed with an almost liquid polish, an unmistakable statement of enduring power that Wolf’s own father would have deeply approved of. The muted tones, the carefully arranged antique globes, and the well-worn leather of the armchairs all worked in concert to suggest a man of tradition with only the touch of a worldly or foreign symbol of status, like the authentic Turkish carpet. Other than that singular detail from the Near East, every aspect was designed to convey a respectability untainted by the foreign blood of his late wife and daughter.

However, beyond this demonstrative “peer’s study” lay the true nature of the room: a predatory lair in which Kemberley sized up his prey. This was the level designed to lull a visitor into a false sense of security, to disarm them with the room’s simple, understated elegance, its pure and almost aggressive Englishness. Wolf, having spent years closely observing the House of Kemberley, recognized the signs of the man’s sly, calculating mind. Kemberley was not a friendly man; his eyes rarely held warmth, and his gestures were always precise, never effusive or cordial. Yet, despite this inherent coldness, he commanded a remarkable position in the House of Lords. He had cultivated a vast network of allies and possessed a minimal number of vocal enemies. This delicate and dangerous balance, Wolf knew, could not be achieved through mere charm or force. It demanded an almost clinical knowledge of human nature and a ruthlessness to exploit the vanities, weaknesses, and desires of those around him. The study, then, was not just an office but the arena where Kemberley’s true work was done. The cage where his carefully selected victims were allowed to feel comfortable just before the trap snapped shut.

Thankfully for Wolf, lupines were not prey. They were predators.

Waiting on the earl, who had invited him while Petra was out, Wolf acknowledged that, like the earl, he himself had few true friends. Except John, of course.

John had left shortly after the ball to allegedly oversee a new stop on a Gibraltar trading route, yet Wolf suspected this was the errand that John had spoken of when they met at his office. And it was only somewhat suspicious, at least to Wolf, that Jillian Eden, Petra’s cousin, had disappeared back to the Continent shortly after the Bromley ball as well.

Wolf did his best to dispel any untoward gossip about the pair, but after the dance they shared, the ton would be inclined to wag their tongues at the scandalous widow and the golden future marquess. Wolf almost growled when he recalled the scandal sheets that reveled in Petra’s public heartbreak and humiliation that night, though Petra had done much to quell any scandal by her quick thinking in the garden. In some ways, she was as sharp as her father, but Wolf had a profound sense that she worked her magic on the side of the angels rather than a chess master consolidating his power, like her father.

Wolf rose as Kemberley entered and, without blinking, took the man in. He saw little of Petra in her sire’s appearance. The warmth that permeated Petra’s eyes, hell, her whole countenance, was altogether missing from Kemberley, who gave off a cold drive, an assessing quality, as if he was always sizing the other person up and finding them wanting. He was a handsome man, but not too handsome that it was remarked upon. He was clearly clever, but he did not need to bask in his own brilliance, nor let his keen intelligence be widely known.

Kemberley surveyed Wolf from the soles of his boots to the crown of his head. Despite his shrewdness, Kemberley had likely thought little of Wolf over the years, having been so thoroughly set on John for his daughter. He was so singularly focused on the heir of Camborne that he failed to realize the depth of Wolf’s devotion to ensuring the future happiness of his one true friend.

In Wolf’s one unselfish pursuit he had come armed with the strongest weapon he had. He clutched his pocket through his frock coat, fully prepared to use the IOUs burning in a hole there should the man threaten to ruin his oldest friend.

While Kemberley had been watching John, Wolf had been watching Kemberley. He watched him at the club, he watched him in a ballroom. He watched him in a card room most of all. And while Kemberley was moderate in all interactions, always lulling his prey into a false sense of security, he had one occasional vice. Every now and then, all his carefully cultivated control would snap and the man would make an imprudent wager that he would only win about fifty percent of the time. Often, not a scandalous sum, of course.

But not nothing.

And in that fifty percent of the time that Kemberley lost? Well someone had to purchase those IOUs, didn’t they? Why Wolf had done so, he couldn’t say. At the time it felt like a safeguard for his friend who was far too good-natured to suspect Kemberley of any underhandedness. Yet now Wolf’s past actions assumed a character of singular and most fortuitous providence.

“Wolfridge.”

“Kemberley.”

Wolf sensed the earl’s intensity, despite the man’s relaxed posture behind the polished mahogany desk. Despite only speaking with him on a handful of occasions, Wolf had the sense that Kemberley never relaxed around anyone, not even his own shadow.

“I shan’t waste your time with small talk. I will get to the purpose of my invitation.”

Wolf bowed his head. In his candor, Wolf recognized the spider attempting to lull him into a false sense of security and did his best to stay on guard.

“It seems my daughter will not be wed to Lord John Longley after all.”

In spite of himself, something settled in Wolf at that statement. Though the Bromley ball had suggested this was true, hearing the words directly from the earl gave them a certain, undeniable finality. Wolf had to fight down a surge of overwhelming relief, maintaining a passive expression before the earl.

“My daughter, despite previous compliance, has sworn she will never marry the man. And the heir of Camborne has, for all intents and purposes, disappeared.”

Kemberley paused and looked directly at Wolf. “Perhaps I miscalculated in allowing her to engage in a lengthy arranged betrothal.” Wolf sensed Kemberley was again trying to lull him in admitting a flaw and he merely politely gazed at the man. “Her value to me will diminish by next Season. Therefore, I need a man who is fast-acting.”