Sick of Shadows - M. C. Beaton [45]
They backed away from him, turned, and walked rapidly out of the square.
“Needs to be taught a lesson,” growled Berrow. “Have you seen that motor of his? He’s making a fortune out of his grubby business. I’d like to punish him. Are you sure Lady Rose really fancies you? I mean, she got engaged to Petrey.”
“And we all know what Petrey is. I tell you, Lady Rose was all over me. Think of her fortune. Think of getting the Ice Queen into bed. But I’ve got to get rid of Petrey and I’ve thought of a way.”
Sir Peter Petrey was leaving The Club two days later. London was in the grip of a particularly nasty thick yellow fog. It was one of those lung-searing fogs of winter blanketing London, blotting out landmarks. He knew if he could even get a hansom, it would take him ages to get home.
It was late afternoon and he realized he would need to walk home if he was to manage to change into his evening clothes and escort Rose to a dinner party.
He bumped into someone in the fog. “I say, I am sorry,” he said.
“It’s all right. Beastly weather,” said a young voice. “Do you know the way to Charles Street?”
“I’m going there myself. Come along.”
They walked on together. As they passed a lighted shop front, the fog swirled for a moment and thinned. Peter looked at his companion and caught his breath. He was looking at the face of an angel. Golden hair like guineas glinted under a silk hat, large deep eyes, a perfect skin, and a mouth like Cupid’s bow.
“Are you visiting London?” he asked.
“No, I live here. I’m going to visit friends. This is awfully good of you, sir.”
“My name is Peter Petrey. And you are . . . ?”
“Jonathan Wilks.”
“I am glad of the company on such a filthy night, Mr. Wilks.”
“Do call me Jonathan, everyone does.”
They talked about plays they had seen and poetry they had read. Peter began not to notice the fog. He felt he was enclosed in a golden bubble with this dazzling youth.
Just before they reached Peter’s house, the young man stopped. “This is where I leave you.”
“Here is my card,” said Peter. “Do call. I’ll wait to see you get in safely.”
Jonathan knocked at the door. Then he came back down the front steps. “They don’t seem to be at home. I must have forgotten the day. This is Friday, is it not?”
“No, it’s Thursday.”
“Oh dear.”
“Look, come in with me and have a sherry while I dress.”
When Peter arrived slightly late and out of breath, Rose noticed he seemed to shine with an inner glow. Oh dear, she thought, I hope I haven’t made a mistake about him. He looks like a man in love.
Peter had never been in better form than during the dinner. He told jokes, he told gossip, and he delighted the company.
Shrewd Daisy watched him with anxious eyes. I hope it’s Rose that has given him this extra sparkle, she thought. I hope it isn’t anyone it shouldn’t be.
Daisy’s concerns grew when, after dinner, she heard Peter tell Rose that he was going away on Friday and would not return until the following Monday.
“Where?” asked Rose. “Anywhere pleasant?”
“Just visiting some friends.”
“You will miss the ball tomorrow.”
“Oh dear. Can you find someone to escort you? Captain Cathcart, perhaps?”
Rose raised her brows in amazement. “Have you forgotten I ended my engagement to the captain and became engaged to you?”
“No, my dearest. It is just that it is very important that I go away this weekend.”
“What is so important?”
Peter manufactured a laugh. “You sound like a wife already. Ah, there is Lady Simpson looking for me.”
He darted off.
Daisy joined Rose. “I heard that.”
“Most odd,” said Rose. “Just a day ago he seemed to delight in my company.”
“Let’s just hope he isn’t delighting in anyone else’s.”
Peter and Jonathan went down to Oxford the following day. The fog had disappeared, but Oxford was shrouded in a hard frost. They walked along by the icy river where the last leaves hung rimed with the frost, which glinted like rubies under a hard red sun. Peter kept glancing at his companion, becoming even more and more besotted. Those large eyes that he had first seen in the fog