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

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.”