Page 9 of Lady Petra and the Wolf

Several days later, Petra sat in the drawing room finishing her embroidery while her cousin Jillian changed into a walking dress to go visit with an old friend. Focusing on the rose at the center of her tambour frame, Petra smiled to herself, delighted in the knowledge that she had stitched a sword and a shield behind it in much lighter thread. Petra glanced around the room, then realizing she was alone, held the tambour up to catch the lazy rays of the late afternoon sun coming through the bay window, the hidden design was only visible when the hoop was held up to the light.

The sight set off a ripple of satisfaction inside her, for she always loved secret messages and meanings. Which often meant she was searching for things that were never there in the first place.

Petra froze, almost pricking her finger at the unpleasant realization that this was what she was often doing in her exchanges with Lord John: looking for feelings or interest that weren’t there. Whenever she saw him, he was unfailingly polite and kind. And yet, had he ever shown particular interest in her? Not like—

No she would not think of it. Lord Wolfridge’s attention was not true interest, it was self-interest. While he was ostensibly helping her, she intuited he had another motive for his actions that she could not quite discern. Though perhaps she was being overzealous, growing up with her father, Petra suspected ulterior motives of most people she encountered.

Petra was shaken from her thoughts as her cousin re-entered the drawing room in a respectable lavender gown. Since arriving in London, Jillian had not taken to full mourning to honor her father, and Petra could not blame her. After everything the late baron had done, the man did not deserve full mourning. And besides, six months was just about out from his passing, and Jillian was not mourning a husband. She had already done that, Petra thought sadly.

Appearing more like her old self, Jillian was buzzing with industry, her smart outfit reflecting the sense of adventure that Petra had always admired in her.

“You do love your hidden things, do you not, cousin?” Jillian asked as she eyed Petra’s embroidery, which Petra snatched back to her lap.

Petra yearned to unveil the full scope of her secret labors these last few years to Jillian, yet she found words failed her whenever the truth hovered on the tip of her tongue. Jillian still held so many secrets herself, she did not want to burden her cousin, who despite her lighter air in this moment, seemed to hold the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“You have the appearance of a lady detective, Jillian, off to go investigate under the cover of respectability,” Petra attempted to change the subject as she took in her cousin’s well-made but muted walking gown.

“A lady detective? Me? As if the world would allow such a thing.” Jillian shook her head ruefully. “Besides, my mind would have to slow down to observe. I always have trouble taking in too many things at once.”

Petra was aware her cousin was easily overstimulated and had difficulty focusing on singular details. However, she did not see herself as others saw her.

“I do not think that is a weakness, Jillian, but a strength.”

Jillian waved off what Petra said. “I think you would be the true detective. Your secret is you can blend in and listen. That is something I have never been capable of.”

Jillian looked so despondent at this observation that Petra strove to change the subject.

“I doubt my father would ever allow me to be anything he did not consider proper so that matter is unfortunately moot,” Petra added as she glanced at her embroidery.

Jillian nodded sagely and came to touch Petra’s shoulder.

“That’s the thing about fathers, cousin,” Jillian leaned down and her voice dropped, “we do not always need to listen to them.”

Petra glanced over at Jillian just then, and a flash of immense sadness crossed her cousin’s face. Petra searched for something, anything to say to take it away.

“Someday, Jillian, we will solve mysteries together.”

Jillian bestowed upon her a wistful, fleeting half-smile and kissed her cheek, bidding her good day. Petra knew that half-smile signified that Petra’s words were a mere flight of fancy, the hopeful, if quite impractical, musings of a young woman yet confined within her lonely tower. The ormolu clock on the mantel chimed, reminding Petra she needed to change into a day gown for her own approaching outing with Lord Wolfridge. As she stood, she willed herself to shake off the melancholy from the previous encounter and resolved to enjoy the afternoon, whatever may come of it.

* * *

“No chaperone?” Wolf was rarely one for propriety, but even he would never risk a lady’s reputation. While it was not a great breach of propriety to go riding with a gentleman as they were out in the open with little opportunity for anything untoward, most fine ladies would be scandalized to step anywhere without a maid.

“I was not sure your phaeton would seat three,” Lady Petra responded as she surveyed his Hooper. “And besides, Cecile does not enjoy phaetons.” After a pause, she added, “She does not like to be crowded. Besides, you have your tiger.” Petra smiled warmly at Mason, the special footman who sat at the back of the conveyance with a ladder, who flushed slightly, then gave her a brisk nod.

Leaping down to help her up to the low-slung conveyance he drove, a burst of unexpected warmth filled his chest. Lady Petra truly cared about the other woman’s comfort, he thought as he helped her step up, reluctantly relishing the brief contact it afforded him. She was unlike most ladies of the ton he had ever met. She almost reminded him of… No, he would not think of Bristol at the moment.

He glanced over at her in her demure rose day gown, shawl, and bonnet. He reflected, not without a touch of pity, that the crinolines so favored by the haute ton these days likely possessed a weight nearly equal to her own fairy-like frame. Yet, despite the obvious encumbrance of her attire, she remained a striking vision. Squaring her shoulders with a practiced grace, she offered him a nod of surprising raffishness before she turned her head to view their surroundings.

Observing the animation that transformed her features as she leaned forward to embrace the wind, Wolf recognized a suppressed yearning for adventure within Lady Petra. It was a sentiment he had already suspected from their discourse at the theatre.

Within the shelter of this pretend courtship, he found a previously unknown satisfaction in granting her that small liberty. They might savor these fleeting moments of shared exhilaration, though he knew they must inevitably conclude. Wrestling with a confounding preoccupation for the lady’s desires, a consideration he had never possessed before, Wolf gave the reins a sharp snap. As he commanded the bays to advance, his gaze snagged upon the delicate ornament at her throat.

“That cameo, is that of your mother?”

Lady Petra’s hand flew to the delicate hollow of her neck in a sharp, reflexive motion. Out of the corner of his eye, Wolf observed her draw a ragged breath that momentarily shattered her carefully guarded composure.

“Yes.” Her voice was muted over the clip-clop of his bays over the cobblestones.