Chapter Nine
Just as they had arrived at the ball, Petra and her father rode home in silence.
Her conviction that her father and Lord Wolfridge had conspired to entrap her that evening was intensified by the latter’s contemplation out the window.
Any caring father would be near apoplexy to find their daughter so publicly ruined, but once he entered the carriage her father did not mention Lord Wolfridge.
For he would never be just Wolf to her again.
Her eyes watered at the pain until she forced her gaze to the roof of the carriage to prevent tears from leaking out.
Never again would she show her father weakness.
Swallowing her anger and frustration down, she allowed herself to rage internally.
How was it that just hours earlier that she was finally admitting to herself a kernel of affection for the gentleman?
He had burned any warm feeling she might have had toward him with his actions, she thought, as an ache bloomed deep inside of her.
Never had she been so alone, even after her governess, Miss Winston, left her years ago.
She had stupidly, briefly, thought her connection with Wolfridge could have been a partnership, could have led to trust or even love.
It had made her feel oddly hopeful, and surprisingly it felt more real than any moment she had shared with Lord John.
In fairness, Lord Wolfridge likely did not know the depths of her father’s treachery.
That her sire had been using her for years, leaving her to be groped by lecherous peers in the hopes that he could keep them in his pocket should he need a favor.
And Petra had let herself be used, let herself be a pawn in her father’s larger game.
For so long, it had been to protect anyone else from that suffering.
When she had learned how Kemberley had been setting up the maids years ago, it had destroyed any fundamental faith in her father that she possessed.
When she had fought to save them, bargaining with her own person to protect the domestic servants at Kemberley House, Petra’s heart had almost turned to stone.
While Wolfridge did not know the full extent of her father’s villainy, she could never marry someone who would manipulate her so for their own benefit. While the viscount’s heart may not be black like her father’s, it was too selfish for her to want for her own.
The carriage stopped briefly at something on the street and her father descended from the velvet-lined interior to confer with the coachmen.
Watching the door close, Petra knew that tonight was her only chance to escape. She could no longer stay with her father and she would not be forced into a marriage of entrapment.
As she sat waiting, a blanket of certainty settled over her. Since the day she had discovered that her Greek grandfather left her an inheritance outside of her father’s control, she had built a secret empire strong enough to protect those that her father sought to hurt.
Which now included herself.
As he reentered the carriage, Petra’s father eyed her, as if expecting her to object to his clear intention to marry her off to Lord Wolfridge the next day. She vowed she would sit quietly on their return, knowing she would never give him the chance.
For she would be gone before sunlight.
* * *
Wolf was in the exact same place he had been just a day earlier.
Physically at least. Mentally, Wolf could scarcely recall an instance in his existence that had descended to such a level of emptiness.
He noted with a clinical detachment that Kemberley appeared seized by an uncharacteristic tension as the man rose to wend his way toward the sideboard, his knuckles blanching to a ghostly pallor against the glass of the decanter he so forcefully gripped.
The earl was uttering some further pronouncement, yet his voice reached Wolf as a series of disjointed, muffled echoes, much as if he were struggling to perceive a conversation from beneath the surface of the water.
“What was that, my lord?”
“Would you like a brandy?” Kemberley offered as he poured something for himself.
Wolf nodded, knowing he would not touch one drop of the brandy that Kemberley then handed to him.
“You have come here today so that we may work on a marriage contract.” Kemberley paused, and for the first time in their acquaintance, Wolf realized the man was unsure of what to say before he went on.
“We will come to some kind of understanding. At the moment, though, I need to—” The man’s lip twitched, which was disconcerting for someone whose face was usually a mask of smooth surety. “Let me speak frankly. Lady Petra is not currently here, yet I know we will locate her within the day.”
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.