Guy let the statement lie. He reached over her shoulder and closed the lid of the jewel box. “I’d like you to wear the rubies this evening.”

She looked up at him. “Any special reason?”

“Not exactly. I’ll fetch them. They’re in the safe.” He went back into the bedroom.

Petra frowned at herself in the dressing mirror. Wearing the rubies would be a statement, a statement of her position as a Granville, the wife of Baron Ashton. She was certain that that was what Guy intended to demonstrate. The stones were a stamp, a brand that assigned her place in the world. It wouldn’t occur to any of the guests at Ashton Court that evening that their hostess, resplendent in the family gems, was a passionate suffragist intent on disrupting the social order as they understood it. But if Guy hoped that dressing his wife in the outward manifestation of her social place would weaken her passionate ideals he was very much mistaken.

Guy came back with the casket that contained the rubies nestled in velvet. He fastened the necklace and helped her with the bracelet, but when he handed her the silver-and-ruby fillet for her hair, Petra shook her head. “No, that’s too formal, Guy. It’s not as if we’re going to one of the queen’s drawing rooms. I prefer a more casual style for my hair, particularly when we’re dining at home.” Dottie had arranged the rich chestnut mass twisted in a loose knot on her nape, artfully stray tendrils drifting over her forehead and about her ears.

“As you wish.” He shrugged and placed the ornament back in the casket. “It looks very pretty. By the way, I thought we might get up some foursomes for bridge after dinner.”

“That should keep people occupied,” Petra agreed. “At least those who don’t want to play billiards.” She stood up, smoothing the skirts of her turquoise damask dress as Dottie draped an Indian silk shawl over her elbows. She took one last look at her reflection in the long mirror. The rubies dominated the image, blood red, deep fires glowing in their depths. They were as gorgeous as they were intimidating, dangerous almost. But that was fanciful. “Shall we go down?”

Guy offered his arm. He was acutely aware of how fragile the present truce was. Occasionally Petra’s customary warmth and bubbling good humor would show itself, but not for long. In its place was a somewhat chill composure as she performed her hostly duties to perfection. But once the weekend was done and there was no longer a need for the pretense there would have to be a real reckoning, however bloody it turned out to be.

“Tomorrow will be less of a trial,” he said as they went downstairs. “Some of our neighbors are amusing and in general not particularly interested in politics.”

“As long as the status quo remains,” Petra responded.