Page 20 of Lady Petra and the Wolf

His mind lagged far behind his feet as he meandered through Green Park, through the gas lights of Piccadilly, his thoughts caught on whispered conversations in a garden and wide, sad brown eyes. Despite the fog of his mind, his feet carried him to the destination that represented his father almost more than any other. Like a marionette, he turned from St. James, his footfall echoing lightly in the stone entrance hall of Brooks, then up the Grand Staircase toward the Great Subscription room. Upon crossing the threshold, Wolf stood momentarily rooted, much as if the phantom marionette strings of his youth had been jerked taut by some unseen hand. The sensation inevitably transported him to that afternoon years prior, when his father had first ushered him into these hallowed halls, long before he had attained the right of membership.

As a green lad, he had regarded the chamber with reverent awe, believing it a magnificent testament to human industry and the curated stillness an aristocrat might command. Yet, following his recent excursion to reach Brooks’, he found himself plagued by an unsettling clarity. He began to observe the absences, the hidden lives of those who remained forever excluded. The shadows of those who would never, by right of birth or station, be invited to cross the threshold.

As he turned to leave, cursing whatever memory had possessed him to return to the grand room that he had so admired in his youth, his gaze fell to the betting book on its mahogany stand. He did not need to approach to know that Petra’s name was scrawled on those pages, the bets on her marriage to John now quite a long shot after what transpired at the Bromley Ball became public knowledge.

A gleam from the chandelier towering over the room like an opulent jellyfish caught Wolf’s eye and he turned to witness Lord St. George down an entire snifter of a cinnamon-colored liquid Wolf judged to be brandy.

St. George was not a friend, but neither was he a mere acquaintance. After several years of drinking and playing cards with the man, Wolf struggled to define him as one or the other. Taking the gleam of the crystal as a sign he ought to slow St. George’s hand on the brandy while he played cards, Wolf gave in to the temptation of the room, willing himself to forget who was missing, forget who would never be seated there.

He found St. George locked in an obstinate game of Vingt-et-un, banked by an old friend of his father’s, Lord Huxworth. Wolf subdued a grimace at another reminder of his father, Kemberley’s words still fresh on his ears.

Huxworth appeared resigned as St. George doubled down half-heartedly, flipping the card to reveal that St. George had gone far over. St. George signaled for more brandy as Huxworth glanced over at Wolf joining them.

“As much as I enjoy watching you waste away your coffers, perhaps Wolfridge’s appearance is a sign for temperance.” While good advice, the older man could not help but sound sanctimonious in the offer.

St. George, who, though more unkempt than usual with his slightly wilted cravat and rumpled waistcoat, did not appear in his cups. Yet recklessness poured off of him in droves. Wolf warred with himself for a moment, then decided that as St. George’s almost friend, he ought to at least attempt to reign him in.

“St. George,” he drawled as he dropped into the oxblood chair of tufted leather beside the man.

“Wolfridge,” St. George acknowledged as he signaled for Huxworth to deal again. Huxworth obliged, offering to deal Wolf in. After a moment, Wolf gave a minute nod, leaning forward to receive his bones, then his cards after the Groom of the Chambers brought forth a silk lined box of ivory counters.

“Haven’t seen you in quite some time. I thought perhaps you had forsaken me,” St. George drawled, not taking his eyes from his cards. “Or could it be your new courtship with the delectable Lady P?” Although he used the same moniker only recently, Wolf found himself gripping his card more tightly than he intended at that name on St. George’s tongue.

“I saw something of note earlier today. In the betting book.” St. George held, as did Wolf, and were both rewarded with winning hands.

“I presume you saw her name linked with Lord John.” Wolf wished he had not dignified St. George with a response, yet the baron went on.

“That is old news, and besides those odds are so long now, even I would not take that bet. No, I saw your name linked with hers. Were you planning on getting leg-shackled and you did not tell me?”

Wolf gestured for another card after putting forward his counter, weighing his response. He had not thought much of marriage until recently. Yes, his father had impressed upon him his duty to marry and produce an heir, but he was not like St. George, who had to wed to save his estate. Marriage had previously occupied the realm of a distant and purely speculative possibility, rather than an immediate need. Until a spider had lured him into his lair and convinced him he could spin his own web.

Before Wolf could respond, St. George lost again and sat back in his chair, almost swallowed by the ancient, tufted leather.

“At least you would get a beautiful peer’s daughter in the bargain. You would not be saddled with a woman from trade with no connections and difficulty speaking. I swear I hear looms clicking every time she speaks.”

“Because she is in trade or—never mind.” Wolf also lost again, then turned to face St. George. “It must be such a chore to be married to a woman who lets you spend all her dowry on gambling and women.”

“I don’t spend it on women,” St. George bit out, sitting up straight. “Even with everything, I wouldn’t—” He sighed and swirled his newly refilled brandy, the refractions of the liquid amplified by the chandelier above, creating a surprisingly ethereal aura around the young baron. “Forgive my lamentations, I suppose she is not as dreadful as that. But I would have much preferred Kemberley’s heavy purse and connections if I had a choice. Hell, I’d rather not marry at all so I could travel.”

Huxworth huffed and both younger men turned toward him. “You want to steer clear of that Greek blood. The Kemberley line is quite pure, goes back to the Conqueror, they say. But the other side.” Huxworth huffed again. “Foreign murderers and lunatics. You might as well write to Bedlam ahead of time, young man.”

Without thought, Wolf rose to strike the man, but St. George set his hand upon Wolf’s forearm. “Wasn’t the lady’s grandfather a great friend of Byron?” St. George asked off-handedly, giving Wolf an appeasing look. “That was your time, wasn’t it Huxworth?”

The older man turned an unappealing shade of red at St. George’s question. Wolf swore his sideburns quivered, though he maintained his composure. “I am not so old as all that, young pup!” he hissed. “I was a lad about town the same as your father, Wolfridge. I knew the man better than most. He would be wary of such a union.”

If Wolf stayed, he was going to murder the man.

“My intentions are not up for debate, gentlemen. I bid you good day.” Recalling why he typically eschewed Brooks’, Wolf exchanged bone counters with the croupier, then stalked out of the room. Once he reached the stone entrance, his name echoed around him as St. George called from behind.

“Wolfridge.”

Despite bouts of recklessness, St. George was not one to make a scene, especially at Brooks’, so rather than call his name again, St. George hurried to meet Wolf once he had his attention.

“Forgive Huxworth for—” St. George began.

“You do not need to apologize for the small-mindedness of others,” Wolf said sharply. “You also do not need to excuse it away.”

St. George appeared to weigh this, his fashionable beard twitching as ground his teeth but he nodded and gestured toward the entrance.