Page 30 of Lady Petra and the Wolf

“What do we have here? A little ladybird, trying to hide her face. Do you think she’s an ugly one, mates?” Wolf sensed the warm, ale-soaked breath of the man to his right, who had just spoken.

“I’m more interested in what’s in that fancy reticule.” Wolf glanced down at the reticule he carried. Although the reticule bore the deceptive character of an adornment befitting an opulently dowered gentlewoman of the ton, it remained, in actuality, a hollow artifact of the theatre, a discarded prop of no true consequence. Upon redirecting his gaze, the men he had run into now stood close enough to constrict his movements. From the voice speaking about the reticule, he knew at least one man was behind him. Even in his usual attire, he could not easily best three men. A voice reminded him that in his usual attire, it would have been unlikely that these men would have approached him.

From the all-encompassing scent of whiskey on the man’s breath, the one on Wolf’s right was obviously in his cups. Perhaps if he…

With much greater force than he hit John, Wolf delivered a punishing blow to the assailant at his left, propelling him into the path of the man’s companion. He made to pivot with a predatory swiftness, yet a searing agony erupted somewhere between his back and his thigh.

Blast, he hadn’t considered that the man behind him would have a blade. The cold metal cut into his flesh, then pulled out.

“Stop!” a woman’s voice cried.

The blade scratched his shoulder blade but then he heard a great battering behind him as the man grunted and he heard a body drop to the ground, he sank to his knees.

“I have you,” said the accented voice, and a tall, familiar woman put her hand around his shoulders. “You are safe now.”

As Wolf felt the blood drain from his body, his mind began to float into an inky darkness, his last thought that there was something oddly familiar about his savior…

* * *

Two weeks of independence.

A fortnight earlier, Petra had set out on her own, her destination the sanctuary she secretly created over the years. She had never thought that she had been one to need sanctuary, it had been intended for others. But then, she should never have underestimated her father. Not since that day…

Petra bit her finger nail as she put the finishing touches on a letter to Jillian at her desk. She longed to tell Jillian about the sanctuary. How she had met with her grandfather’s solicitor and trustee to understand how her inheritance was independent of her father, though it would not be independent of a husband, and how she had secretly used it since she reached majority to build this empire. A place of safety for domestics to escape the threat of abuse and no references as well as a place to learn skills to support themselves should they wish to leave. Using a former theatre allowed for space for self-defense lessons but Petra wished there was a better space to learn secretarial skills in the crumbling, nondescript building, purchased discreetly via her grandfather’s estate.

Her father would likely work that out now that she had fled. He was probably already searching for the asset he had so recently lost. But she hazarded a guess that he was looking amongst the ton as he believed it was the only world she knew.

While she had underestimated his reach in using Lord Wolfridge to trap her, her father had always severely underestimated her. For all his brilliant manipulation and reading of human weakness, Petra doubted her father would have ever expected this of her. Setting aside her letter for Jillian, Petra was about to begin a new list of tasks for herself when a commotion at the back entrance gave her pause. The sound was far away from the areas converted for living quarters that had once belonged to actors years earlier. Who would be up in the back at this hour?

“Lady Petra!” Cecile’s voice carried down the hall and Petra stood immediately. Something was wrong. At the end of the hall, Petra glimpsed Cecile and a slumped figure wearing a veil.

“Lady Petra,” Cecile’s voice grew closer as she slowly made her way down the hall with the woman. “This lady was attacked in the street. I beat back her attackers and brought her here. I hope…that is—”

“You did right, Cecile.” Petra reassured her. “Can you take her to the clinic and bring some clean linens when you can?”

“Yes, my lady.” The clinic was no more than a room with scant medical supplies, but Petra had needed them to treat the wounds of abused domestics in the past. While she was no Miss Nightingale, she had developed basic medical skills such as bandaging and stitching up wounds over the years.

Petra helped Cecile lay the woman down on the padded table on her back, but when the figure groaned, Petra rolled her to her side.

“Oh no, she was stabbed?” Cecile gave a grave nod at the evident wound. “Would you also find a nightgown for her? I am going to have to remove her clothes to treat these wounds.”

Cecile gave another nod as Petra went to the cabinet to retrieve the large set of scissors. She had been given basic tools of the medical trade by a generous doctor who often ministered to those on the streets.

“I am sorry, miss, I will do everything I can to protect your modesty.”

Starting at the back of the woman’s gown, Petra used the scissors to cut away the woman’s gown, corset, and chemise. Petra marveled at the strength of the scissors and she hoped Cecile would be swift in bringing a nightgown.

“My apologies,” she whispered to the woman, who seemed to be fading in and out of consciousness, “the linens are…”

Before she could finish that thought, she realized the woman wore no stockings or drawers as the garments fell away.

Petra furrowed her brow as she stared at the evidence before her, taking in the wounds but also the hair on the person’s back, legs, and… This was certainly the hairiest woman she had ever seen. As the figure began to writhe on the table, they turned again, providing Petra clear evidence that the person before her was most definitely not a female. To confirm her conclusion, she reached up to the person’s head and loosened the bonnet and the veil.

Before her, lying naked and injured was the 7th Viscount Wolfridge. The last person she would have expected when Cecile brought someone in.

After a moment of shock, she drew a deep breath and willed her heartbeat to slow. “I am going to save you, Wolfridge. Lord help your soul if you bring my father down upon us,” she whispered, both to him and to herself. Petra eased his body so that he was lying on his front and she could study his wounds. From what she could tell through all the blood, he had a shallow wound at his shoulder blade and a deep cut between his buttock and thigh.

“That will have to be first.”