Page 27 of Lady Petra and the Wolf

Kemberley’s words failed to penetrate the sudden, heavy fog in his mind. “She is gone?”

“Rest assured, Wolfridge, I have my ways. She will be yours and you and I will have an understanding, yes?”

Wolf stared at his hands, unsure of how to respond to this turn of events. He had hurt her so badly that she had left, running away to…what? The thought of any harm coming to her caused an ache within him as visceral as the memory of his own cold betrayal. Why had he let Kemberley and his father’s words affect him so? By what arrogance had he believed he had the right to force her hand?

Before he could respond, Kemberley went on, “You know the reach that I have. She will be found long before the lamplighters emerge this evening.” Very little in his tone gave away his worry, but Wolf had never seen Kemberley act thus, though Wolf doubted this behavior stemmed from actual worry for his daughter rather than concern for the loss of an asset. Wolf abhorred that particular aspect of the man, and held himself in even greater contempt for allowing Kemberley to so easily penetrate his thoughts, bringing his father’s very pronouncements into play. But neither Kemberley nor his late father could be blamed for what he had done: break her trust and the growing understanding between the two of them. Wolf had done that all by himself.

Not knowing what to say, Wolf excused himself and left Kemberley alone in his study. After receiving his hat from the butler as made to leave, Wolf descended the stone steps of Kemberley House. He heard an odd sound, something like the bird call of an exotic bird.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw one of the footmen peering out from behind one of the columns at the front of Kemberley House.

“Lord Wolfridge?” the man, who couldn’t be more than twenty, choked out.

“Aye,” Wolf nodded.

“This is for you.” The man extended a small, unassuming envelope, his gaze dropping to the ground in a study of practiced deference.

Guessing the likely identity of the correspondent, Wolf searched the young man’s face. “Do you know where she is?”

The man’s eyes flicked back up and he shook his head. “No, my lord. I was instructed by Miss R, that is, Cecile, to give this to you should you call.”

Having eschewed his carriage in his haste, Wolf found himself walking back to Wolfridge House with the letter burning a hole in his pocket. Handing his hat to Escher, he bounded to his study, fingers itching to open the thing. It was not the sort of letter he wished to read in public, no matter how desperate he was to find Petra. Forcing his twitching hands to still, he opened the letter before him.

Lord Wolfridge,

I think you know that I cannot marry you in good conscience. While I appreciate your support in the recent weeks, I cannot be a party to a marriage based in lies and entrapment. I have too long been a pawn of the men in my life and I have decided this will no longer be my fate.

Do not look for me, for you will not find me. I am striking out on my own.

While I do not wish you ill, my lord, you must see how we would not suit. I do wish to say, I think that perhaps underneath whatever motivated you to scheme with my father, you have a good sort of soul. I implore you, do not let that go to waste. I hope you use this experience to find that soul again, because I found I rather liked that gentleman who took me out in his phaeton.

Yours,

Lady Petra

Wolf’s fingers traced the word yours, aware she wrote them in formality, not affection, yet he seemed to want to grasp onto any piece of her and clutch it to his chest. He sniffed the vellum for any trace of her floral scent. He should have known what she meant to him ages ago, for he had determined it was lilacs years earlier. And yet all he could breathe in at the moment was the smell of parchment. Her letter was kind, like the lady herself, but offered no clue to her whereabouts, nor any suggestion she would wish to renew their brief attachment. Pretend attachment, he reminded himself. She mentioned striking out on her own. Petra hurrying away from Covent Garden came to mind. Was it possible that was where she went?

Shaking his head, Wolf chided himself. While he longed to find Petra, he did not want to risk alerting her father to her whereabouts. Petra’s letter and her bravery gave him the courage to retrieve the two letters that had been sitting in the bottom of a locked drawer. He pulled out the brittle, yellowed envelopes, sealed with faded wax, and forced himself to open them, one in his aunt’s elegant, spidery script and the other in his uncle’s heavier, authoritative hand. The wobbling of that script sent a chill through him that had him immediately grabbing his bell pull.

Once his valet packed his belongings that afternoon, Wolf found himself not on a search for Petra, but on the train to Bristol.

Chapter Ten

Compared to the London Docks, the docks of Bristol, though loud and bustling with stevedores, offered only a small taste of the intense smells and sensations of their eastern counterpart. Faced with returning to his temporary lodgings after a perfunctory visit to the Herron Shipping Company’s warehouse and offices at the docks, Wolf ran a hand down his face and endeavored to hire a hansom cab. He had not seen his aunt or uncle at the offices, which despite his promise of oversight to John, had been the primary purpose of his travel to Bristol.

Instead of returning to his inn, Wolf instructed the hansom past High Street, down the street he had traversed so many times as a boy with his aunt and uncle, where he came to the townhouse he was raised in. Nothing like the ostentatious Wolfridge House that was now his London abode, this townhouse was warm in its simplicity, its frame of wood built from the large amounts of timber that his family’s company imported to the docks. The wooden gables resembled the famous Dutch House not so far away, of course without the eccentricities that made Dutch House so well-known. The sight of the building after such a long time ignited a warmth within him, a feeling he had only recently discovered with Petra. That warmth was swiftly tempered by healthy amounts of guilt, the bitter fruit of the many years he had remained a stranger to the aunt and uncle who had raised him. He wondered if he would be turned away, then remembered that they had written to him after all.

Mullins, the same butler he had known as a lad, met him at the door. As a boy, Wolf had thought Mullins an old man, but now he appeared the same as the last time Wolf laid eyes on the man at fourteen. Perhaps all adults seem old to children, Wolf mused as Mullins’ gray brows ticked up, the only indication he was surprised by the appearance of a sudden guest.

“Lord Wolfridge,” the man took his hat and his coat and then led him to the drawing room. There was a time when he would not have needed to be led, but over a decade’s absence had a way of changing things.

In the drawing room, before Mullins announced him, Wolf took in the tableau of his aunt and uncle reading the evening post before him. Although they sat over five feet apart from each other, the quiet affection each held for the other was palpable in the air.

This is what you could have had with Petra, a voice inside reminded him and he cleared his throat, attempting to force away his own bitter regret at his thoughtless actions. He now understood the ease with which Kemberley had manipulated him, exploiting his intricate emotions regarding his father. Petra’s unexpected will and spine of steel, despite her fairy-like appearance, was something neither of them had anticipated.

At his announcement, his aunt and uncle both slowly looked up from their reading, their eyes meeting the other’s gaze, then widening and turning to Wolf.

“Julian?” His aunt rose tentatively, and Wolf braced for the rebuke he was sure was coming.