Page 22 of Lady Petra and the Wolf

“We can show her what she is missing—”

“I say,” St. George repeated again, raising the end of his walking stick toward the ringleader. “If you three gentlemen do not turn around and head back to whatever cesspit you were birthed from, you will find yourselves on the wrong end of a good thrashing. Lord Wolfridge and I were both almost sent down from Oxford for fighting.”

Wolf shoved past the tallest man to the woman, who was hunched over. Only then did he see how frayed her gray cloak was. It was not the muted but well-made garment he had seen on Petra in Covent Garden after all. It was not her, after all.

This was confirmed as gray eyes looked up at him as one of the men spit.

“Eye-talian whore.”

St. George backhanded the man and moved from acquaintance to friend in Wolf’s estimation.

The tall man Wolf had shoved aside raised his fist, then paused as he took Wolf and St. George’s clothing in. Wolf could see him mouth the word “Lord Wolfridge,” as though processing that striking a peer of the realm in a public street would not end well for them.

The man spit like his friend, but stayed silent, nodding for the other men to join him in the opposite direction.

“I had them in hand.” The woman’s accented voice also told him that this was not Lady Petra. She flashed a small, rusted dagger in her palm. “Still, I must thank you, gentlemen, unless you are going to harass me as well.” The woman, who Wolf identified as being from some region of Italy, eyed both of them warily.

“We are not here to harass you.” Wolf held up his arms in a placating gesture. “But we can pay for a hack for you.”

The young woman’s eyes stayed fixed on him and she exhaled slowly. She was quite pretty behind the grime on her face, though Wolf had not noticed other women since…

Since he had begun this faux courtship with Petra.

“I thank you for your generosity, but what about the next time? Or the time after that? I need to protect myself every day because I cannot walk down the street without…” She gestured angrily toward the departing men. Wolf watched the woman, struck by something that seemed so obvious. The ton fretted constantly over the purity and safety of gentlewomen, but all women walked down the street with one eye to their lives, while fellows like he and St. George wandered about town with no fear at all. The realization left him feeling oddly small. “You would not understand. Not ever,” she added as she began to turn away.

“Can you at least take the cost of the hackney?” he offered, willing her to allow him any way to make this right, aware that such a small and meaningless gesture would not make it right.

The woman shifted where she stood. “For the sake of my child, yes, I will accept your charity.” She put out her hand, though her mouth stayed in a flat line.

Wolf dropped five shillings, far more than the cost of the hackney, in her palm, eyeing St. George, who matched him. The woman closed her fist and nodded, pulling her hood back over her head, likely necessary to divert any unwanted attention.

“Right decent of you to do that,” St. George remarked as they walked in the opposite direction from the young woman.

“It wasn’t decent, it was—” Wolf abruptly severed his train of thought, finding himself utterly bereft of the vocabulary required to convey the hollow sense of uselessness that now permeated his being. “Women should not have to accept charity to feel safe.”

St. George absorbed this statement. “It seems I am to be frequently humbled today.” He glanced about. “Where are you headed, Wolfridge? I did not bother to ask when we left.”

Having reached Coventry Street, clarity struck him, at last. His feet had been carrying him toward Covent Garden. Yet his encounter with the young woman had shaken him.

What if that had been Petra?

If trapping her was the only way to protect her and to have her, then so be it.

Chapter Eight

Jillian was gone from her life again. And now, so was Lord John, though they had parted in deep friendship, with the promise that he would do everything in his power to bring back the light in her cousin’s eyes. And yet, Petra did not feel quite as alone as she had before. The odd friendship, for lack of a better word, she had developed with Lord Wolfridge had kindled a previously unknown warmth in her. Though he still harbored designs that she could not yet entirely divine, Lord Wolfridge, nay, Wolf, saw her. He attempted to protect her at the Bromley Ball. Even Lord John, in all his goodness and chivalry, had never done such a thing for her.

Petra stood in front of the beveled mirror in her bedchamber as Cecile put the finishing touches on her flower crown. Petra was so pleased that flower crowns had grown in popularity of late as Cecile also secured several fresh flowers to Petra’s cream gown, that was otherwise plain but for its lace. The flowers brought a much-needed natural aura to gowns that were growing frillier and puffier by the Season. Petra generally disliked the frippery of ballgowns, aiming for simpler styles with elegant draping. But flowers were a lovely accessory.

In that moment, she was overcome by a bout of itchy anticipation at the thought of seeing Wolf that evening. Now that Lord John was gone, what was the point of their faux courtship? Should they dance together for appearances, then part for good? In the throes of allowing herself to indulge in a fondness for Wolf, Petra had no answers how their odd friendship might shift or change.

“You look lovely, my lady,” Cecile breathed in her faint accent.

“Thank you, Cecile, it is all by your hand.” Truly it was remarkable that Cecile had no experience as a lady’s maid before their meeting. Despite the fact that Petra knew Cecile had been forced to fight, she had a gentleness and an eye for artistry that even the highest society dame would envy.

That evening Cecile had worked her magic on Petra for the annual Stillwell Ball. Petra recalled attending the previous years, watching and waiting for Lord John to appear. She saw now how naïve and immature she had been in her approach. Lord John had never formally asked for her hand. And she had never told him what she wanted or expected. How was he to know he was hurting her feelings every time he failed to appear in town when she had never communicated such a desire to him?

Since Jillian’s return and the development of her sham courtship with Wolf, Petra felt the need more than ever to finally state what she wanted. She had told her father unequivocally that she would not be persuaded to marry Lord John under any circumstances the night of the Bromley Ball. He is meant for Jillian, she thought as she walked down the grand staircase at Kemberley House. Her father gave a perfunctory nod then turned away. Petra held in a sigh. While she had made him hear her that night, she doubted that he really listened.