Page 27

“Who is it, my love?” James heard his friend’s baritone before he saw him.

As Lady Petra led him to a well-lit library with an impressive collection, St. George observed his formerly cynical friend’s face alight at the sight of his wife, a warmth he had not known the man to be capable of. Lady Wolfridge rushed over to pull Wolfridge from his leather wingback chair. “It is Lord St. George! You told me you would introduce me the next time you saw him and now he is here!”

Looking over his wife’s head, which was a rather easy feat given her diminutive stature, Wolf did not give him such a warm reception.

“St. George.” He nodded stiffly. “This is not a typical hour to call.” Wolf glanced down at his wife, then back at James, a warning in his eyes. “I shan’t be going out with you, St. George. Especially not with those half-polished boots with those trousers.”

Damn, James prayed that Griggs had half the eye that Pickett had possessed. Still, it was worth losing the man for Mariah’s sake. “James, please call me James. And that is not why I am here.”

Lady Wolfridge, who had settled on the edge of the wingback chair once her husband sat back down in, leapt back up. “Oh, are we disposing of formalities? I do so love to get rid of such things. Seems silly, do they not? You may call me Petra and call him Julian.”

“Julian?” James blinked, realizing he had never known his friend’s Christian name in all the years they spent together in London. Some friend James was.

“Yes, only I am allowed to call him Jules. Though I am told he grants the honor to others on Sundays.”

“Down, Lady Wolf,” her husband squeezed her hand with affection. “Let us find out why my acquaintance of many years, who clearly did not know my Christian name, has come to call.”

Two pairs of eyes turned toward him just as James became acutely aware that by bypassing the butler, he remained encumbered by his hat and walking stick. Within his heavy great coat, the burgeoning heat of the library began to feel oppressive, and a bead of sweat began a slow descent down his neck.

“May I?” he gestured toward an empty wingback chair opposite Wolf. Or Julian he supposed.

Lady Wolfridge hopped up. “Oh, I am sorry, Lord St. George, I should have let the butler meet you at the door. I apologize, sometimes I…” she glanced at her husband. “Sometimes I forget the formalities. Let me ring for him to take your hat and great coat.”

Five minutes later, James had been divested of all that encumbered him, and yet a profound sense of inadequacy lingered, leaving him loath to disclose the purpose of his visit. He had never had to ask for help before. His marriage had been arranged by a friend of his late mother. When Harrison had been injured and sent to Portsmouth from Scutari, Mariah had arranged all his travel to see his brother.

The thought of Mariah and all that she did steady his nerves and he shifted from his position toward the hearth to face Wolf and his wife.

“I came because…I have some trouble. I do not mean to bring it to your door, of course…”

Wolf made a gesture as if brushing his words aside. “Go on, St. George.”

“James,” Lady Wolfridge corrected.

“James,” Wolf added with a sly glance to his wife. “Lady Wolfridge is quite adept at handling all sorts of trouble.’

“What do you know of Barrymore?”

At the name both of their faces took on a blank look, as if they were sorting through bits of information in their minds.

After a moment Wolf offered a slow shake of his head, yet Petra’s features remained impassive. Then, as her gaze sharpened with clarity, her throat worked in a labored swallow.

“Petra?” her husband laid a hand on top of hers.

Drawing a deep breath, Lady Wolfridge, or Petra, turned toward James. “I cannot give you the full details of how I know this information, but I…I run a sanctuary for domestic workers who have been abused by their employers and have no reference. Someone did come in from Barrymore’s household here in London recently.”

James gripped the rosewood arm of his chair, his fingers curling with a tension he could not mask. Wolf mirrored the gesture across from him though his friend’s remaining hand sought the small of his wife’s back in a silent, possessive tether.

“He did not—that is, the servant fled because she found something. Because she took something she thought might be…illegal. And needed a safe place to go. I should have done something about it, but my mind has been so scattered of late.” She glanced at her husband, whose hand had turned a shade of white.

“Illegal?”

Petra leaned forward. “She found correspondence proving blockade running.”

Wolf jumped up, pacing toward the fireplace before he swiftly turned. “The Queen issued a proclamation of neutrality in June. Unless the paper was dated before that, that’s treason. How did you not come forward before?”

Petra’s eyes darted toward James then back to her husband. “Never mind, Jules, I will tell you, but that is not the point here. The point is what Lord St. George is going to do with this information.” Her large brown eyes grew wide like saucers. “This is about more than Barrymore, is it not?”

“Petra, we are discussing matters of treason,” Wolf began. “Not to mention anyone who worked in his remaining mills would riot if Barrymore were funding the Confederacy while the cotton workers in the north starve.”