Zakorov’s thick eyebrows slammed together. “This is no trifling fantasy. They are traitors and must be found.”
Lord Fintan seemed oblivious to the man’s ire, his guileless blue eyes confused. “Even if they were spies, how can two princesses simply disappear? Someone must know of their whereabouts.”
“That is why I am here.” Zakorov snapped the words through his teeth. “To find them.”
“I am sure you will be successful in your task,” Lord Marsham offered, as if trying to deflect Zakorov’s thin-lipped fury. “They are women, after all, and there aren’t many visiting Russians in town. And with the season getting underway, two Russian princesses are certain to be on everyone’s invitation list.”
Gray shook his head, taking Marsham’s cue. “I’ve not heard of any Russian princesses in London.”
Esterborough grinned. “Trust me, if Northridge had, his mother would have arranged an introduction to be sure. She is a marriage juggernaut.”
Gray smiled around his next sip of whiskey. “Indeed.” He nodded at Zakorov, whose hooded gaze met his. “I do not have any information on the matter, but my sister does have a maid from Moscow. I could ask if she has heard of anything.”
“Thank you,” Zakorov said, “but that will not be necessary. I fail to see how a maid from another city could provide assistance.”
“As you say.” Gray looked away from the diplomat who had dismissed him and focused intently on his cards, just as Langlevit had been during the whole of the conversation. Like the unwitting Lord Fintan, the earl seemed oblivious to Zakorov’s abrasive manner and short temper. Langlevit spoke barely a word the next quarter hour, before standing up and announcing his departure with a curt nod.
Gray played for the better part of an hour until he, too, decided that he’d more than recouped his losses. “Gentlemen, enjoy the rest of your evening.” He stood and signaled to the factotum. “Mr. Simmons, please settle my accounts and call for my carriage.”
“Yes, at once, Lord Northridge.”
Thankfully, the ride to Bishop House was short, for Gray wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. His head was beginning to ache from the copious amounts of liquor he had consumed, and as the carriage made a slow turn into their street, the twinge of pain in his temple sharpened. About halfway around the square, he noticed a hired hack waiting at the curb adjacent to his residence. He wouldn’t have paid any extra notice to the coach had it not been for the cloaked female form hurrying up the belowstairs entrance steps of Bishop House, where the servants came and went. She glanced up and down the street, her profile visible for the briefest of moments.
Even in the shadowy lighting, Gray recognized her in a heartbeat. He blinked in disbelief as Lana crossed to the curb and climbed into the awaiting conveyance.
Chapter Eight
Lana knew the minute she stepped into the coach and seated herself across from the earl that something was wrong. Truth was, she’d known the moment the messenger arrived at Bishop House with a man’s card, stamped with what she recognized as Langlevit’s distinctive coat of arms instead of the leaping hare. There was no flowery language. Only a direct command:
I must see you. Black coach outside. - L.
It was too rushed, too unlike him to risk sending someone to her at so late an hour, and take no steps to disguise the correspondence, but luckily, the family was still at dinner and most of the servants were abed. Instantly panicked, she’d thrown on her cloak and slipped the note into her pocket. She didn’t have time to burn it, and she could not risk leaving it lying around the kitchen for someone to find.
Now, all the blood deserted her body at the look on Langlevit’s face. Her bones followed suit at his next words.
“I have seen Zakorov.”
She swallowed past the lump of fear in her throat, her numb fingers winding into the folds of her skirts. The moment she had dreaded for months was here. Panic threatened to erupt, but she forced herself to breathe and stay calm. “You are sure?”
“I had the misfortune of running into the bastard at White’s.” He didn’t apologize for his language. Instead, Langlevit leaned forward to take her cold palms in his. “He is looking for you.”
“Irina?” Her voice almost broke.
“Is safe for the moment. As are you. No one suspects your disguise, but you must be vigilant. Northridge mentioned something about his sister’s lady’s maid in passing, but I do not believe Zakorov paid him much heed.”
Lana tensed. “Lord Northridge was there?”
“Yes,” he replied with a frustrated nod. “Your Highness, I cannot caution you enough to remain alert. Although Zakorov will not be looking amongst the servant class, if he sees you, he will recognize you.” He squeezed her fingers. “There is something more.”
Lana didn’t know if she could endure more. She gathered a breath. “What is it?”
“The baron is accusing you and Princess Irina of treason. He says you’ve both committed crimes against the tsar and claims that he has been sent here to apprehend you.”
Lana tore her hands from his. “He is accusing us of treason?” She checked her rising voice at the earl’s worried glance toward the window. The shade was drawn, and the guttering carriage lamp hanging inside threw shadows over his face.
“He is openly searching for two Russian princesses—he needs to feed some convincing story to those who can help him,” Langlevit replied. He reached for her hands again, his white gloves warming her as they closed tightly around her fingers. Lana sighed, grateful for his support. More grateful than she could ever express.
“We both know he is the one who has committed crimes against the tsar. That he and your uncle are the criminals, not you. Not Irina. And when the letters you were wise enough to hold on to are deciphered, everyone else will know as well.”
Lana closed her eyes and lowered her head. She felt so defeated. It had been eight months. Eight long, torturous months, and they were no closer to figuring out the coding in her uncle’s false love letters. She and Langlevit were certain they contained treasonous information intended for a French contact, but she only had theories regarding how her father had intercepted the letters. Nothing solid.
At least, that is what she thought.
“I didn’t want to tell you until I had more to say, but I have been attempting to contact a certain man, formerly of St. Petersburg. Someone who has been known to determine ciphered text and, in some cases, create it. I have reason to believe that this man was an acquaintance of your father’s.”
Lana raised her face to his, her tears of frustration drying almost instantly. “Do you think he will be able to decipher the letters?”
The earl dragged in a long breath. “I can’t be sure, not until I meet with him. And it looks as if he is willing to do just that. Though not in London, and not for another week. There are, it seems, certain figures in town that he would not wish to cross paths with.”
She nodded, understanding on the surface. But this level of intrigue was not natural to her. It perhaps was to Langlevit, who, over the last many months, had let it be known that his military tasks were of a sensitive nature. He had seen battle before, on the Peninsula, but these days he aided the Prince Regent in other ways.
“So I am to stay out of sight,” Lana said, scrunching up her nose and gritting her teeth. “I was out this morning, on Bond Street with Lady Briannon.”
Langlevit squeezed her hands gently. “Had he seen you, he would not have been at White’s this evening, looking as though he had been served rancid mutton for dinner.”
Lana nodded, certain he was correct, but she would have to be more careful, especially when Brynn requested her presence outside her normal duties at Bishop House.
“I should go,” she said, taking her hands from the earl’s once more. “You’ll let me know how your meeting next week goes?”
“Of course,” he replied, rapping the ceiling twice with his walking stick to alert the driver. “And as usual, leave you
r correspondence for Irina with Mrs. Blakely.”
Mrs. Blakely was the wife of a butcher in Knightsbridge who knew Earl Langlevit and was indebted to him. The earl had vaguely explained that he’d helped her son escape a burning munitions bunker but had been reluctant to elaborate further. Mrs. Blakely had promised to help him in any way she could, and collecting Lana’s letters and handing them off to one of Langlevit’s messenger boys was her pleasure.
“Thank you, my lord,” Lana said, her worry slightly soothed by the earl’s insistence that all would be well.
“I have given you permission to call me Henry a number of times,” he said, smiling.
“And I have given you permission to address me as Lana.”
“I could not, Your Highness,” he replied with a solemn shake of his head.
She sighed. “Very well, then. Good evening, Lord Langlevit.”
He tipped his hat at her, still smiling, as the door opened. Lana accepted the driver’s hand as she descended onto the curb. She brought up the hood of her cape and started immediately for the steps leading down from the street level to the kitchen entrance. The hack pulled away a moment later, and the comfort she felt whenever she was in the earl’s presence dissipated. He alone knew the truth. He alone knew the danger she still faced.
And now Viktor was here.
Lana paused with her hand on the doorknob. She had to compose herself before entering, in case Mrs. Braxton was still puttering about the kitchen, getting ready for next morning’s breakfast.
It was not so out of the ordinary that Viktor would come to London, she supposed. It was a large city, a hub of politics, and he, a diplomat, had every right to be here. She should have expected that he would arrive at some point. She thought she’d be better ready for it, though.
“You will not avoid me this time.”
Lana jumped in fright, slamming her shoulder against the door as she turned to see who had crept up behind her. A dark-stamped figure wearing a greatcoat and top hat stood at the top of the stairs, at street level. Though she could not make out his face, she knew his voice. And when he descended the steps toward her, she realized she knew the motions of his body as well.
“Lord Northridge,” she said, then hiked her chin. Good Lord. Had he seen her descend from the hack? “I was just going in—”
“You will first answer my question,” he said, deliberately placing his palm against the door so that she could not open it. “You were meeting with someone in that hackney cab. Who was it?”
For the love of God, did the man have to turn up at every inconvenient moment? What did he do, wait under rocks and between hedges for her to do something suspicious?
Lana attempted to shrug, though her muscles quivered in her arms. “I don’t know what you mean. It’s rather foggy out tonight. Perhaps you saw someone else—”
He cut her off again, only this time with his hand curling around her elbow. “Enough, Lana. You will tell me the truth. No more of your lies. Now.”
Lana considered launching yet another verbal tête-à-tête, in which she could accuse him of ungentlemanly behavior and maybe emerge victorious. She considered—seriously, and for at least three full seconds—seducing him to distraction. But Langlevit’s news of Viktor’s presence in London, and his advice for her to stay hidden and safe, had scared her enough to subdue her. Enough to do anything in order to keep her position as lady’s maid. Even tell the truth.
“All right,” she conceded. “I’ll tell you, but not here.” Being discovered in the stairwell with Lord Northridge by another servant, or worse, the eagle-eyed Mrs. Frommer, who also seemed to wait in the shadows for Lana to step out of line, would ensure disaster.
Gray exhaled, his grip on her elbow loosening. “Go inside. Come to my rooms—”
“Absolutely not.”
Being alone with him there would ensure worse than disaster. And honestly, Lana wasn’t certain she could resist him should he make another advance.
“It is the only place we can be certain we aren’t disturbed. Or overheard. And I give you my word,” he said, inclining his head and placing his gloved hand over his heart in a faintly mocking salute, “I will restrain every desire I have to touch you.”
Warmth flooded her lower abdomen. It reached down her thighs and threatened the integrity of her maidenhood.
He wants to touch me.
But he wouldn’t. And for that Lana both ached and sighed in relief. For if Gray put his hands or mouth upon her again, she may say things she regretted. Like the entire truth, rather than the limited one she planned to divulge.
She nodded, opened the door, and swept inside.
…
Standing at his window and staring blindly out into the shadowy courtyard beyond, Gray waited in silence. He’d dismissed his valet almost as soon as Harrison had entered his chamber, claiming he could see to his own nightly ablutions. He presumed Lana would have known to wait out Harrison’s departure before sneaking into Gray’s bedchamber. Once he was dismissed, there would be no one else to disturb them. But as the perpetual tick tock of the clock wore on, he wondered if he’d made a mistake in allowing her to go to her room first.
For a moment, he worried Lana wouldn’t keep her word—that she’d take any opportunity to escape a confrontation with him. Something she’d become curiously adept at lately. But his instinct told him she wasn’t so cowardly. No, regardless of her station, Lana possessed an innate strength and stubborn pride. She’d given him her word. And he had given her his. He would not touch her. He would not give her any cause to feel pressured or forced, and hell, he would make certain she did not run from him, not when she had promised to tell him the truth.
Gray had no idea what that truth would be, though the half-formed presumptions rollicking around inside his mind tortured him. The person she’d been meeting with in the unmarked coach—was he her lover? Had she kissed him? Allowed him to undress her as Gray had at Ferndale? Had this unknown lover sampled other secrets her body had to offer?
Who was he?
The question tortured him, and Gray understood the core reason beneath it. He was jealous…jealous of some unknown man who seemed to have won Lana’s trust—among other things. Gray grunted and turned from the window, stalking toward the cushioned mahogany settee beside the lit fireplace. He stared at the crystal decanter of whiskey sitting on the mantel and had to force himself not to down the entire bottle. For all he’d already consumed, he wanted his wits about him when Lana finally told him what she was hiding. If it was a lover, he decided, he would give her the chance to end the relationship.
It had nothing to do with his own feelings on the matter, or the jealousy that still coiled like a venomous snake within him. Nothing. No, he would do it to protect his sister. She was sheltered in the ways of the opposite sex, and the last thing he wanted was for her to be exposed to such lewd, scandalous behavior. Though his own reasoning was flimsy at best, he latched on to it with the desperation of a man thrown a life preserver in perilous waters—it was his duty to protect Brynn.
Gray turned from the fire and approached his bed, trying to regain focus.
Despite seeing her descend from the hired hackney cab that night, and the few times he’d caught her walking alone along Ferndale’s drive with a convicted look about her person, Gray found it difficult to believe Lana was a woman of loose moral character. Her response to him in the sewing room at Ferndale had been passionate, yes, but her innocence had been evident as well. It had announced itself in her every caress, from the shake of her hands as she’d pulled off his cravat, to the gasp of surprise when his tongue had stroked and parried with hers.
His body tensed at the memory. Damnation. He drew a ragged breath and slammed his fist into the solid wooden bedpost, swearing as agony lanced through his fingers. The pain eclipsed everything else—just as he had intended. He’d made a promise to restrain his every desire where Lana was concerned. A daunting task, to be sure, but the fresh ache in his knuckles would
serve as a reminder.
Nursing his bruised hand, his eyes flicked to the clock. Where was she? A quarter of an hour had passed. He whirled on his heel, determined to drag the infuriating girl down by her hair if necessary. Gray flung open the door, and drew to a halt.
Lana stood before him, her hand poised to knock, her mouth parted in surprise.
“Lord Northridge,” she said with a nervous glance down the empty hallway.
Gray stood aside. She passed him in a swish of skirts, honey and wildflowers drifting in her wake. Another faint scent followed the first—this one he recognized as the richer odor of cigar smoke. All of his recent rationale regarding her innocence shriveled. With cigar smoke came the certain knowledge that she had indeed been in close quarters with a man inside that hackney. His scent remained on her clothing.
Gray squeezed his injured fist, and clarity returned.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” he said gruffly, swiftly closing the door behind her.
“I told you I would.” She stood with her hands clasped in front of her and eyed him with trepidation. Her gaze slid to the closed door as if considering escape.
Gray forced himself to relax and attempted to remove the scowl he knew had taken up permanent residence on his brow. Lana stood now at rigid attention with her back to the door. No longer garbed in her black cloak, she wore a simple dress and, oddly enough, a butter yellow spencer. As if she were about to go out for a stroll. The cropped jacket covered her arms, neck, and bosom almost completely. Ah. She had worn it for protection from his prying eyes.
Wise girl.
Lana’s wary gaze roamed the room. She’d likely never been in this wing of the house…or his bedroom, for that matter. He witnessed her eyes flick to the massive four-poster bed that dominated the space. They almost immediately fell away, a rosy blush staining her cheeks.
Hiding a smile, Gray steered her toward the sofa and walked to the mantel. “Please sit. Drink?”
“No, thank you,” she said, perching on the very edge of the seat.
My Darling, My Disaster (Lords of Essex) Page 11