by Jane Feather
“How . . . what . . .” Jonathan stammered.
“I’m sure Petra will tell you everything. I’ll be by later this morning.” Guy put a reassuring hand on Jonathan’s shoulder as he passed him in the doorway and went out into the faint light of the false dawn.
Jonathan took the stairs two at a time and burst into his sister’s room without ceremony. “What happened, Petra? I just saw Granville.”
“Then I daresay he told you all you need to know,” Petra said, yawning. “Go away, Joth. Can’t you see I’m only half dressed.”
Her brother belatedly took in her state of undress and backed out of the room, apologizing profusely as he did so. Petra sighed and slid into bed as Dottie held up the crisp white sheets. She sank into the feather mattress with a groan. “Thank you, Dottie. Go back to bed now. I’ll ring when I need you.” Her eyes had closed before Dottie could even offer the sleeping draft.
* * *
“Petra, dearest, what happened . . . are you all right? Oh, poor Charlie. It’s all over town.” Diana and Fenella came into Petra’s bedroom on a rush of words just before noon.
Petra, propped on a mound of pillows and sipping hot chocolate, greeted them with a faint smile. “What’s all over town, or, rather, how could it be all over town?”
“Serena Vernon,” Fenella informed her, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Charlie’s sister. You know how her tongue runs away with her.”
“Yes, apparently she told Lizzie Greenward, who told—”
“Spare me the gossip mongering,” Petra begged. “Do you at least know how Charlie is?”
Diana sat on the other side of the bed. “Apparently, Serena wanted to take him back to Eaton Square, but Guy wouldn’t let her until the doctor said it was safe to do so. She was very put out. So what happened exactly?”
Her friends listened to Petra’s unvarnished narrative without interruption. “How are you feeling?” Diana asked when Petra fell silent.
“Like hell, quite frankly,” Petra responded. “I ache as if I’ve been on the rack, and my knee’s swollen and bruised, and my elbow too, somehow. I must have fallen from the carriage harder than I realized. I was just so frightened for Charlie.” She leaned sideways to set down her chocolate cup. “I need to get up and go and see how he is. It was awful . . . so much blood and his arm at the most horrid angle.” She pushed aside the covers and swung her legs off the mattress. “Ouch.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Fenella asked.
“It’s most definitely not a good idea,” Guy Granville stated, coming into the room with Jonathan. He held a bunch of sweet-smelling freesias, laying them on the foot of the bed. “Your brother said you were holding court from your bed this morning so I came to give you an update on the patient.”
Petra shot an irritated look at her brother, who seemed not to notice. Dottie, who had been mending a tear in a flounce on one of Petra’s gowns, set aside her work and hurried to the bed. Hastily she helped Petra to get back under the covers, plumping the pillows at her back before draping a cashmere shawl discreetly over her shoulders.
“Thank you, Dottie. I appear to be holding a levee,” she remarked pointedly.
“I’ll put the flowers in water, Miss Petra. Is there anything I can get you?”
“No, I’m getting up in a minute. Would you run me a bath?”
Dottie curtsied and left with the freesias. Her mistress was more than adequately chaperoned by her brother, not to mention her two friends.
“So, how is Charlie?” Petra asked directly.
“In pain, too much to be moved just yet, much to his sister’s annoyance. But the doctor set the arm this morning and there’s no infection in the wound so far. He’s sedated and I hope sleep and quiet will work its healing magic,” Guy told her. “How are your bruises and scrapes, dear girl?”
“Tiresome,” she responded. “But I intend to get up.” The statement sounded more like a challenge, she thought, as if she was expecting Guy to object. Which was silly, she told herself. He had no right to object, no say at all in any decisions she made for herself. Still she caught herself waiting for an objection.
“I’m sure you know best,” he said easily. “I’ll leave you to your toilette, then.” He moved away to the door. Joth said quickly, “I have to be somewhere too, Petra, but I can come back later if you need company.”
“No, I won’t need company,” she reassured him, waving him away with a smile.
The door closed on the two men and Petra had the oddest sensation of an absence in the air, a void left by Guy’s departure. Perhaps she’d hit her head last night without noticing and now she was hallucinating.
“Guy seems quite at home in your bedroom,” Diana observed with a wicked smile. “You certainly seem remarkably at ease with each other now.”
Petra grimaced. “He just seems to take over,” she said. “I don’t think it ever occurs to him that he might be unwelcome, or that perhaps it’s not a good time. . . .” She sighed. “I don’t quite know how to explain it. Guy Granville is a force in his own right.”
Fenella gave her a shrewd look. “Maybe it’s my imagination but you don’t seem to be fighting against that force with much conviction, dearest.”
“It doesn’t seem to do any good,” Petra said flatly, still keeping her own counsel on the subject of her own physical responses to the force that was Lord Ashton.
“Was it like that ten years ago?” Diana asked.
“I was too young to realize what was going on,” Petra answered. “I thought he was wonderful, God’s gift specially to me. Of course I followed his lead, hanging on his every word. And he seems to think nothing’s changed and I’m supposed to be still like that.”
“Then I think you’d better put him straight,” Fenella stated. “For both your sakes.” She got off the bed. “I have to go.” She bent to kiss Petra’s cheek. “You aren’t an impressionable schoolgirl any longer, Petra darling.”
Petra shook her head with a tiny laugh of agreement. “I know, but he makes me forget that I’m not sometimes. He doesn’t seem to leave any room for me to assert myself.”
“Well, that won’t help the plan to ensnare his lordship in your toils.” Diana pointed out.
“No, I still appear to be snared in his.” Petra shook her head, defeated. But only for a moment, with renewed vigor she declared, “But I can still play the game. In fact, if he thinks I’m still as malleable and yielding as I was ten years ago, it might be even more of an unpleasant surprise for him when he sees who I really am. I’ll shatter his preconceived notions like crystal on concrete. That’ll teach him to make assumptions.”
“Bravo.” Diana laughed. “That’s more like you. I could almost imagine playing such a game with his lofty lordship myself, if I didn’t have enough masculine attitude in my life already. Talking of which, or do I mean whose, Rupert is expecting me to organize the invitations and details for our Kimberley Diamond lunch party at Royal Ascot. Should we invite Guy, Petra?”
“Absolutely,” she said, without hesitation. “It’s time for me to initiate things. Maybe I’ll casually let slip that I asked you to invite him, what do you think?”
“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Diana said. “I’ll send out the invitations this afternoon. Guy will get his this evening and you can work your mischief any time after that.” She gathered up her scattered belongings. “Are you going my way, Fenella?”
“As far as Oxford Street.”
Petra leaned back against the pillows in the sudden quiet of her bedroom as the door closed on her friends. Despite her aches and pains she was restless. Staying in bed had never appealed. She kicked off the covers and stood up, stretching.
“Your bath’s all ready, Miss Petra.” Dottie came in from the bathroom, a cloud of steam in her wake. “You’ll not be going out, of course.”
“On the contrary, Dottie. I am definitely going out. I have something to do. I’ll have lunch and go out afterward, just for an hour or so.�
�� She walked into the steam, saying over her shoulder, “The gray suit, I think, with the red shirt.”
She slipped gingerly into the bath, wincing as the hot water stung the abrasions on her knees and hands. She should count her blessings, she reflected, thinking of poor Charlie. As soon as she was dressed and had had lunch she would stroll round to Berkeley Square and see how he was doing. A box of his favorite pralines would go down well, she decided. One of the footmen could run to Mulberry’s in Bond Street and fetch her a box to take with her.
Chapter Nine
Refreshed after her bath, her abrasions liberally dressed with some magic ointment from Mrs. Evans’s still room, Petra was finishing a light lunch when Foster came into her parlor with a prettily wrapped box. “The pralines, Miss Petra.”
“Oh, excellent, Foster, thank you. Viscount Aldershot is very partial to them. I hope they’ll cheer him up.” She scrunched her napkin on the table as she got up. “I’m going to deliver them to him at Lord Ashton’s house in Berkeley Square, could you tell Mr. Jonathan if he comes home and wants to know where I am?”
“Certainly, ma’am. Should I send the lad for a hackney?”
“No, I’ll walk, it’s only a couple of streets away and it’s a pleasant afternoon.”
Foster bowed and held the door for her as she left the parlor, taking the box of pralines with her, and headed back to her bedroom for her hat and gloves. She took stock of herself in the mirror as she pinned a straw hat into the heavy braided knot on top of her head. Rather paler than usual, she decided, which made the scattering of freckles across her nose stand out more than she cared for. A certain heaviness under her hazel eyes. Only to be expected after such a short night of alarums and excursions, aches and pains, Petra concluded, turning away from the mirror, drawing on her gray kid gloves.
She dropped the box of sweets into a straw handbag and hastened downstairs, out into the sunny afternoon. She strolled to Berkeley Square, enjoying the summer air, despite its lacing of city smells, horse dung and odiferous garbage receptacles in the basement areas of the town houses she passed. As always the lingering sensation of coal dust hung in the atmosphere, coating everything with a film, more like a miasma, of sooty smut.
Babbit, the Granville butler, opened the door to Petra’s knock. “Miss Rutherford.” He greeted her warmly, holding the door wide. “I trust you suffered no ill effects from last night.”
“Not really, Babbit. I’m so sorry you were disturbed at such a dreadful hour.” She stepped into the galleried hall. It looked different in the daylight, the softness of gaslight yielding to bright sunlight from the windows on either side of the doors and the stained glass transom over them, the marble and gilded cornices, the grand sweep of the horseshoe staircase giving an overall impression of established grandeur.
“No trouble at all, Miss Rutherford. I’m afraid his lordship is not at home.”
“Actually I’ve come to see how Lord Aldershot is today. I understand the doctor doesn’t want him moved for a while.”
“That is so, ma’am. I’ll take you up to his room. If you’d follow me.”
Petra followed the man upstairs to the bedroom floor and into a large, sunny bedroom at the rear of the house, away from street noise. Charlie was in bed, slumped against a mound of pillows, his arm in a sling across his bandaged chest.
“Oh, Charlie, dearest, I’m so, so sorry,” Petra said, hurrying to the bedside. “I feel so guilty.”
“Good God, Petra, why would you feel guilty?” he asked, struggling higher on his pillows, giving her a wan smile.
“Well, if I hadn’t wanted to drive around a bit we wouldn’t have come into the square and that cat, if it was a cat, wouldn’t have frightened the horse and the carriage wouldn’t have tipped—”
“And I wouldn’t have fallen out,” Charlie finished for her with a gallant grin. “Fate, dear girl. It had nothing to do with you.”
“Can I bring you some refreshment, my lord?” Babbit asked, still standing in the doorway.
“Petra?” Charlie invited.
“Tea, please, Babbit. Is there anything else you’d like, Charlie?”
“Just tea.”
The butler withdrew and Petra set the box of pralines on the bed. “You probably don’t feel like these at the moment, but when you feel better . . .”
“My favorites, thank you.” Charlie reached for the box with his good arm and then subsided with a stifled groan. “I keep forgetting these damned ribs. According to the sawbones they’ll take months to knit back together again. I’m going to be stuck like this forever.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and took a deep breath, struggling again to pull himself higher on the pillows.
“Let me help.” Petra bent over him, trying to support him with one arm while pulling up the pillows with the other.
“Babbit said you were here, Petra.” Guy came into the room followed by a footman with a tray of tea. “Let me do that. You arrange the pillows.” He reached around her, hoisting Charlie higher with a swift deftness that caused the patient very little discomfort, while Petra plumped up the pillows and piled them behind him.
“Thank you.” Charlie heaved a sigh of mingled relief and frustration. “I can’t stand feeling this helpless.”
“You’ll get stronger every day.” Petra poured tea and brought a cup to him. “Shall I hold it?”
“No, I can do that at least for myself.” He extended his good hand and took the cup, lifting it rather shakily to his lips. Neither Petra nor Guy made the mistake of offering to help.
Guy took his own cup from Petra and sat in a chair by the bed while she perched on the edge of the bed. “So Serena came to visit you this morning?” she said with a meaningful glance.
“Oh, I have one boon to ask of you, Granville. Please, under no circumstances allow my sister to carry me off,” Charlie said with a mock groan. “While I’m bedridden and weak as a kitten she’ll try to take charge and if anything will keep me on my bed for eternity it will be that.”
Guy laughed. “I can safely promise you that I am proof against all managing sisters. You’ll leave my house only when you’re ready and willing to do so.”
“Serena means well,” Petra ventured. “But she can be overbearing.”
“An understatement,” Charlie responded.
“Your sister is in Scotland, isn’t she, Guy?” Petra asked. “She married the Duke of Brandon, didn’t she?”
“She did, and has the most enormous brood of children,” Guy said. “I have at least five nieces and three nephews.”
“Do you spend much time with them?” Petra found she was very curious to find out more about Baron Ashton. Ten years ago she’d been so immersed in the actual fact of the man himself anything else hadn’t interested her, but now she very much wanted to know what, or who, had contributed to making him the man he was. His family could prove fertile ground for exploration.
“I go to Innes in August for the opening of the grouse shooting and when I can for the salmon fishing in the spring,” he answered. “But I’m not always able to do so.” He shrugged lightly and leaned over to take the cup from Charlie, whose eyes were closing periodically. “I think we should leave the patient to sleep, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course.” Petra slid off the bed. “If you’ll lift him, I’ll put the pillows down a little.”
Guy obliged and she readjusted the pillows. “Is that all right, Charlie? Are you comfortable?”
“As much as I can be at the moment,” he responded, wincing.
“Take a spoonful of this.” Guy poured liquid from a medicine bottle onto a spoon and held it to Charlie’s lips.
Charlie obediently swallowed the dose and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry to be such a pathetic invalid,” he murmured.
Petra laughed and kissed his forehead. “I’ll come back tomorrow and we’ll play piquet if you’re up for it. Backgammon if you’re not.” She followed Guy to the door, which he was holding open for her.
> “Come into the library,” he said as they reached the gallery overlooking the hall. He ushered her down the stairs with an all-encompassing gesture.
Petra wasn’t sure whether a tête-à-tête in the library was her best move when she hadn’t had time to marshal her guns. The next steps in the game she was supposed to be playing were not yet mapped out, but as they reached the grand hall, Guy’s hand on her waist, warm, intimate, imperious, propelled her toward double doors at the rear.
“What can I get you, Petra? More tea, if you must. Sherry, madeira, a glass of claret?” He went to the sideboard where decanters were ranged like soldiers. “Or, a glass of champagne? Perfect for this time of day.” He rang the bell even as he spoke.
Petra glanced at the tall case clock. It was almost five o’clock and champagne, crisp and dry, was very appealing. She wandered across to one wall of floor-to-ceiling books, idly glancing at the titles on the leather-bound spines. She’d expected the usual heavy Greek and Latin tomes, encyclopedias, reference books, dictionaries, all generally to be found in a gentleman’s library, and they were certainly all there, but she was fascinated to see Thackeray and Austen, Trollope and Scott, Gaskell, Hardy and Dickens represented, all easily accessible on the lower shelves. Somehow she hadn’t thought of Guy as someone who would while away the hours with a good book. Salmon fishing and grouse shooting, certainly, but long evenings alone by the fire immersed in Dickens’s London? Another interesting piece to add to the slowly forming picture of Lord Ashton.
Guy perched on the massive mahogany desk in the bay window, one leg swinging casually, watching Petra as she wandered along the shelves. He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “A penny for them?”
Petra turned back from the shelves. “I wasn’t expecting such an array of novels,” she answered frankly.
“Why is that? Do you think it strange that men in general read such books, or me in particular?”