Chapter Thirteen
Wolf walked dazedly back to Wolfridge House in a pair of costume boots a size too small.
Instead of calling for his valet to get out of the ridiculous and itchy costume clothing he was wearing, a conversation he was not looking forward to, he marched straight to his library and sat down.
Ever since that evening at the Stillwell library, he had avoided his own, a painful reminder of his own duplicity.
Yet now that he knew where Petra was, that she was safe, his mind finally allowed him to leap to the beloved room. He had extended the safety of Wolfridge House to her and he believed that she was not so proud as to not to seek help if she needed it. Even if she did not trust him…
But did she trust him? Wolf could have sworn something healed between them as they came together that morning, which he now recognized took a significant amount of trust between two people.
Yes, she had trusted him with her body, but did she trust him with her heart?
Wolf would give all his fortune, everything he had for her to see that she could, to find some way to prove himself.
He glanced down at the book before him, unsure of why he had pulled this particular stack of books.
Raking his hands through his hair, he acknowledged that he was lying to himself.
After he had left Petra, something unlocked within Wolf, pushing him to gather and read books that reminded him of her or that he thought she would like, starting with The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe, which began with the story he had mentioned at the theatre, The Murders in the Rue Morgue.
Once he began reading, he discovered that he wished for her insight or commentary, though he did not dare go back out to her sanctuary.
Kemberley likely had someone watching him and he would never bring that devil to her doorstep again.
As he read, he began to leave notes of his thoughts, though his soul recoiled to think of marking a book.
So instead, there he was, leaving bits of paper throughout the book, marking parts that he thought Petra would like or that he wished her opinion on.
The pessimist in him told him that she would never be present in his library to read them, yet that twisted ball of hope in his chest would not give up.
Turning a page, he bit the inside of his cheek as the true murderer was revealed in The Murders in the Rue Morgue. Petra would either think it brilliant or ridiculous. Or both.
Just as he finished his note for her, Escher stood before him.
“My lord, I wish to inform you—”
“Julian!” His aunt and uncle burst into the room behind the man, his aunt racing toward him before Escher could announce them.
“Forgive me, Escher, but I saw no need to stand on ceremony.” His aunt cast the butler a sympathetic gaze as she pulled Wolf into an all-encompassing embrace.
Wolf huffed, biting back a laugh at Escher’s clear discomfort despite the man’s unwillingness to speak ill of a guest. He brought an arm around his aunt, the tension that had haunted his steps since he returned from Petra’s sanctuary melting away with her familiar warmth.
How had he gone all these years without this?
His uncle slapped an affectionate hand on his shoulder, and Wolf moved to help him sit down in one of the wingback armchairs by the fire.
“Would you like tea?” Wolf gestured toward the drawing room. “Or would you wish to refresh yourselves after your journey?”
“Yes, in a moment,” Diana was still hugging him. “I suppose after not seeing you for so long, we just wanted to make the most of the amount of time we spent together.”
A pang of guilt crept slowly through Wolf at her words. He had ignored them for so many years. His aunt and uncle had no child and they had raised him like a son.
“What is all this?” Diana finally moved past Wolf, gesturing to the table where all the books and notes lay before them.
“Murder at the…? Since when did you read about murder?” His aunt looked at him incredulously.
Yet the softness in her gaze suggested she was teasing him, a glimmer of that playful mockery she had so often employed to ruffle his feathers in his youth.
“I’ve leaned toward mystery in the last few years. You know I was always a curious lad.” Wolf went to shut The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe, but unfortunately, this caused several of his notes to flutter out onto the table before them.
“Oh, I see.” As his aunt’s eyes danced across the notes, a knowing smile graced Diana’s face.
“You see?” He bit out, shoving his hands in the scratchy pockets of the costume trousers in an effort not to hide the papers away.
“This is for her. She likes a good mystery, like Wilkie Collins.” His aunt almost purred, looking like the cat who got the cream. “Have you won her back, Julian?”
Wolf shoved his hands deeper, glancing anywhere but as his aunt. “No.”
“No…but you have reason to hope?”
Wolf redirected his gaze toward the floor, feeling like the green lad who had once so desperately craved his aunt’s reassurance. Finally, he looked up. “Hope hurts.”
“Oh,” Diana reached forward and grasped his forearm.
Though she had to feel the low quality of the cotton tailcoat he wore, seemed far too concerned to ask why he was wearing such clothing.
“I know it does, I know.” Wolf was seized by a fresh pang of shame as he realized she was likely referring to the hope and pain they felt at the prospect of his returning but was far too polite to say so.
“But that hurt means that what you feel is real, love. And this…” Diana gestured at the books, glanced over at her husband who had collapsed into the armchair but was watching wife and nephew with great attention.
“This here has to be one of the more romantic gestures I can think of.”
Wolf scoffed, “This isn’t a gesture. I just happened to be reading all of these.”
His aunt cast him a dry look before turning her attention to the scattered volumes.
“You never left notes in books before. Or left piles and piles of them together. You were more of a ‘one book at a time’ sort of lad.”
Wolf gave up, stalking back to the table of books his aunt was perusing and started to stack them, heedless of book size.
“Stop right there, Julian.” His aunt began to help him stack up the books.
“I see you retreating into yourself. You, my boy, are not your father. There is no weakness in admitting love. In being kind. That is the excuse those who are cruel and empty use to assuage any moral quandaries they have for stepping on top of others to achieve their goals. You are better than that, Julian. This is amazing. If your lady ever saw this, she would marry you on the spot.”
Julian stared at his aunt for a moment as her deeper message sank into his bones.
It was one he had been aware of, it had just been at war with the gentleman his father had molded him to be.
The idea of a gentleman that Kemberley had dangled before him and he had so stupidly blundered into being.
But he did not wish to be that gentleman anymore.
He wanted to be someone worthy of Petra, even if she would never have him.
He needed to do something to help free her from Kemberley’s power, to allow her to have her sanctuary without fear.
He sighed as the words swam around inside of him and something greater than shame took hold of his soul and would not let go. “I miss her.”
Aunt Diana smiled up at him. “With this treasure trove of books waiting for her here, I have a feeling she will be here sooner than you think.”
* * *
Petra had found herself in what her old governess, Miss Winston, would have called a peccadillo.
Ever since Wolf returned to his London dwellings, Petra had been consumed by a previously unknown restlessness that stole her sleep, much as the mystery of the disappearing maids at Kemberley House once had danced through her mind late at night.
That morning she had woken before dawn in her bed in the converted dormitory for the women who found refuge at the old theatre.
With its lumpy mattress and creaky frame, it was a far cry from her bed at Kemberley House, with its canopy and damask curtains, but given that she had helped craft the space with her own drive, she relished the threadbare blanket on the cot she slept on.
For that moment between dreams and waking, Petra willed herself to return to sleep.
In her dream, Wolf kept whispering in her ear, but the dream version of her could not make out if he was saying “Come for me” or “Come to me”.
A shiver ran down her spine that forced her to sit up.
Blinking at the sunshine surrounding her, she acknowledged she would not be returning to sleep that morning.
When she fled, Petra had purposefully selected practical day gowns that she could dress herself in.
She did not want to be a burden to Cecile here, unlike at Kemberley House where she was Petra’s lady’s maid.
Here Cecile had the important role of teaching the women to fight back, no longer an employee of her father, which she was currently doing on the stage, which was the largest open space.
Since the moment she had vacated her father’s townhouse, Petra had not set foot outside the sanctuary and had hardly seen the sun.
As she peered into the old theatre mirror before her, she noted how pallid her usually honey-colored skin appeared now.
Much to her father’s chagrin, she had inherited her mother’s darker Mediterranean complexion, which had always been a small point of pride to Petra.
Another way she could silently defy him.