Chapter Three
That evening, Wolf wheedled his way into Lord Kemberley’s box at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. Seeing Lady Petra on the way back from the docks set off something curious and feral inside of him, telling him instinctively that he must rush this faux courtship along.
Wolf had not yet crossed the threshold of the newly fashioned theatre, which was recently rebuilt following the devastating fire that had swept through several houses of drama the year prior.
Indeed, a full quarter of the neighborhood remained either a site of reconstruction or sat as a collection of scorched, skeletal remains.
Wolf observed that the newly fashioned theatre was an edifice of sleek modernity, yet it somehow retained the echoes of its predecessor’s grandeur.
There was a singular, almost mysterious quality to theatres, he mused, with their intricate machinery and hidden lives concealed forever behind the heavy velvet curtain.
They remained quite unlike any other structure fashioned by human industry.
He offered a small, self-deprecating huff at his own maudlin attempt at philosophizing as he surveyed the interior from the confines of Lord Kemberley’s box, resolving to subject the exterior to a more thorough perusal when the hour permitted.
Reclining within the confines of his seat, Wolf observed the collective hush that descended upon the assembly the very instant the heavy velvet rose to unveil the battlements of a Danish castle.
He had long possessed a singular appreciation for the acoustic alchemy of the theatre, in which a jarring, overwhelming cacophony was transfigured into a state of sharp, relentless focus within the span of a heartbeat.
He savored that moment as the players assumed their positions, reflecting that the interval immediately preceding the rise of the curtain remained unlike any other, a rare instance in this life where the weight of anticipation was so bountifully rewarded.
Wolf had been intent on questioning Lady Petra over the mystery of why she had been in Covent Garden earlier in the day.
However, from his seat behind her, he was instead captivated by the opportunity to observe her unmasked.
Her fascination with the unfolding tragedy of Hamlet was absolute, her dark eyes remaining fixed upon the stage with a singular, rapt focus throughout the entirety of the first two acts.
He found the opportunity to speak with her during the entr’acte after Act Two. Offering to retrieve her a lemonade, he handed the drink to her and inquired:
“What is your opinion of the play, Lady Petra?”
“As it is considered one of the greatest plays of all time, I’m sure my opinion will hardly contribute to or damage Mr. Shakespeare’s reputation.
” Lady Petra’s face was impassive as she took a small sip of lemonade.
Wolf’s lip ticked as a burst of something like pleasure spilled through him at her response.
“I am hearing both an unbecoming self-deprecation and an indication that this is not your favorite work of art in that response.”
Wolf could almost feel Lady Petra will herself not to roll her eyes at him. He could not explain or quantify the delight this knowledge brought him.
“I am aware this is considered one of the greatest works of all time. What it says about mortality and humanity is unparalleled. But I suppose I just prefer a little—” Her voice dipped quite low so that he could hardly hear her in the echoing room. “Mystery.”
“Mystery,” he repeated, for the moment, without a witty comeback.
Something dipped and twisted in Wolf’s chest as he recalled that moment before the curtain rose.
The uncertainty and buzzing expectation of the unknown.
Perhaps that feeling was not solely about the stage, but about the world, and perhaps it was the puzzle of this lady herself.
This perfectly lovely paragon who also disappeared around corners of Covent Garden. Who apparently longed for greater mystery in her life.
“We know very early on what happened in the story. The ghost of his father literally tells the prince that his uncle killed him in Act One. Why not allow the audience the opportunity to divine the answer for themselves? Give them more potential killers, more motivation.”
Wolf tried very hard to fight the oncoming smile her critique of Hamlet brought him.
“Do you read stories of mystery, Lady Petra?”
She regarded him with those large brown eyes for a long moment. At first he thought they were doe-like, but now he realized they held hidden depths, that perhaps there was more to her than the perfect lady he had observed for years.
“I can hardly admit to that amongst all of Polite Society, Lord Wolfridge.”
“Come, come, my lady, surely you can tell your betrothed. And you can at least call me Wolf.”
“My false betrothed.”
“False sounds as though I have done you a great disservice.” Wolf pressed a hand to his chest as though she had caused him a fatal wound to the heart.
“Fake?” She offered.
“I am not sure I like that much better,” Wolf grumbled.
“Lord John mentioned that Wolf is not your Christian name. It is just a diminutive of your title, correct? I do not believe I ever heard your Christian name before.”
Wolf felt his throat work with the urge to tell her as he offered a minute nod. He felt himself laid bare under the searching intensity of her gaze, much as if she were peeling back the very layers of his composure, leaving him profoundly exposed.
As if sensing his discomfort, Lady Petra deftly changed the subject before he told her his name. “Besides, I have not agreed to your scheme quite yet.”
“And yet, I think you have.”
“Have I?” she asked, staring down at her glass, the ghost of a smile emerging.
“You did the moment your father invited me to his box.”
Lady Petra’s lip ticked. “I suppose I shall allow it. Or at least the appearance of a courtship. I do not like to prevaricate.”
Wolf studied her as she focused again on the lemonade in her hand, taking a small, ladylike sip.
Wolf perceived a certain kernel of truth in her utterance, despite the nagging conviction that some vital fragment remained obscured from his view.
An indolent gentleman he might have been, yet even he possessed a profound and abiding distaste for the base utility of a falsehood.
The truth of his own life, however, remained a source of infinite mystery: was it the man he had been during his first fourteen years, or the philosophy his father had instilled in him before his death?
“Just the appearance then, Lady Petra,” he quipped.
“So you do not mind having a pretend betrothed—” he chortled at her choice of words but she continued without acknowledging his interruption “—who may seek out more mystery from the Prince of Denmark but does not openly admit to having read a mystery?”
“If I were to recommend one,” he began, seized by an unbidden urgency to share his favorite author with her. Why he could not say. “Mystery, that is. Not for reading, of course, just suggesting to the ether.”
“Naturally.”
“There is an American author who died a few years ago. He had a short story called The Murders in the Rue Morgue. The story kept me guessing and the ending had me quite perplexed. He—” Wolf abruptly stopped speaking, struck by the profound impropriety of the book he was currently recommending.
He was, after all, addressing a lady of the ton, the innocent daughter of a powerful peer.
Ladies were not meant to read such dark and disturbing writing.
“Oh please, I beg you, do not tell me the ending!” At that moment, Lady Petra performed the first breach of propriety Wolf had ever known her to commit. She took her gloved hand and put a finger to his mouth, as if intent on silencing him from telling her the ending.
“I wasn’t going to spoil the ending.” Or he attempted to say that. His breath had stopped the second she touched his lips.
Lady Petra stared at her finger on his lips as if unsure what to do next, how to redress the situation.
Her eyes darted around the room, then very slowly, she pulled her hand away, as if, by moving at that pace, no one would notice where her finger had just been.
While he knew it was the right thing to do, something within Wolf willed her to keep her finger there.
“I believe Act Three is beginning shortly,” Petra said with complete composure, as though the previous moment had never happened.
She was not the only one who could recover quickly.
“Then I shall escort you back to your father’s box.
” Wolf held out his arm and she looped her arm around his, as if she had done so hundreds of times.
Like the moment before, there was a certain rightness to that motion that set his teeth on edge. He needed a distraction.
“Courtship,” he blurted out and the lady’s gaze fixed upon him with a searching intensity.
“Pretend courtship,” he corrected smoothly, “should be undertaken before the Bromley ball, which I have on good authority, Lord John will attend. I believe we should take a phaeton ride through Hyde Park beforehand, my lady. To establish our courtship to Polite Society.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Petra lean her head to one side as if considering his proposition.
“You have a phaeton, my lord?”
“I do indeed. A park phaeton. It’s a sleek ride,” he said with pride. “Will your father be concerned?”
“Of me?” She peered up at him. “No, not in the way you might think. But he will not wish me to do anything to jeopardize a betrothal with Lord John. He is quite set on that course.”
Something acidic entered Wolf’s chest at her words, but he brushed it off as a feeling of protectiveness for John. “You can inform him of my intentions to hasten your nuptials. Your father will want to marry me himself for that.”