My Darling, My Disaster (Lords of Essex)

by Morgan, Angie

  His eyes slid to his sister’s maid standing quietly in the corner of the room. Lana wasn’t looking at him, but at the carpet at her feet. “I am not interested in Cordelia Vandermere or any other simpering debutante on parade this season. I shall go to Ferndale and return with all haste.”

  So long as Sofia recovered without complication. He could not allow himself to think otherwise and expect to maintain his composure, or at least the facade of it. It was all such a facade, and it weighed heavier than ever right then.

  Lady Dinsmore shook her head, muttering to herself. “I fail to see how a foaling requires your urgent presence. Surely the stable master is capable and can do his job.”

  “I asked to be summoned,” he said, cringing inwardly at the white lie. One of the mares was indeed to foal in a few weeks, though no such request for Gray’s presence had been made. However, he’d needed an excuse to go back to Essex, and this one was as good as any.

  Lady Dinsmore sighed and capitulated. “If you must. Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise. There is pair of silk gloves that will be perfect for Briannon’s engagement ball in my armoire, along with some lace I have been saving for a special occasion such as this one.”

  Gray’s eyes narrowed at the thought of rifling through his mother’s possessions. “Anything else? Gowns you may have forgotten? Slippers?”

  She leveled him with an unimpressed glare. “No need to take that tone.”

  “I had planned to ride Pharaoh,” he replied, thinking only of how quickly he could arrive in Essex. “But now it seems I shall have to take the carriage.”

  He could not stuff boxes of lace and silk into his saddlebags and expect them to weather a ride back to London.

  “Of course you will,” his mother said. She then brightened. “Take Lana with you. She knows well the lace I am speaking about. Briannon’s undermaid shall perform her duties until your return.”

  Again, Gray’s eyes went to Lana, and he knew he was not the only one struck by the surprise of his mother’s suggestion. Her gaze had peeled free of the carpet and now fairly goggled between Lady Dinsmore and himself.

  “Oh, but I could not, my lady,” she said. “This is much too important of a week for Lady Briannon, and Mrs. Frommer needs my help—”

  “Yes, it is. Far too important to be falling ill. You were dismissed this morning for not feeling well, were you not?” Lady Dinsmore shook her head. “And Mrs. Frommer will have more than enough help. I insist upon it.”

  Lana’s lips remained parted with shock, and for the briefest moment, Gray imagined the things he could do to them—and with them. He felt a dangerous stirring low in his stomach. The very kind of stirring he fought so rigidly to stamp out every morning with vigorous horse rides and cold baths.

  “Yes, my lady, but—”

  “I cannot see around it, Lana. Briannon’s health is far too precarious as it stands. A day or two should put you to rights.”

  “Mama, please, my health is not precarious,” Brynn groaned as she settled her teacup in its saucer. But Lady Dinsmore waved her hand and stopped her from insisting she was perfectly well.

  “No. I won’t hear another word of argument. Lana, ready your things. And don’t forget the silk gloves—the ones with the abalone cuff buttons, dear, not the pearls.”

  Lana managed to hinge her jaw shut and nod obediently, though Gray’s pulse continued to thud at the thought of a lengthy confined carriage ride with her. He could barely restrain himself in open quarters where she was concerned, and he had no doubt that such a prospect would be a special kind of purgatory. In the arbor, Lana had responded to him. She had been the one to initiate the kiss. Something had shifted between them, he realized. Something subtle and infinitely hazardous.

  It was nearly midafternoon. Leaving now meant they would arrive in Essex well after nightfall. Once he arrived, he would make his way directly to Sir Cooper’s home, and damn the late arrival. But that left over six hours in the carriage with Lana. Six protracted hours to endure—and to do with as he wished. His mind gorged itself on the possibilities, making his groin clench even as he forced his depraved thoughts at bay.

  He would be a gentleman, he vowed. He would have to. For her sake, and his. Gray squared his shoulders, and his eyes met the maid’s clear green ones for a scant second.

  “Fine. We leave within the hour.”

  …

  Lana took the stairs to her small room, tucked high in the eaves of Bishop House. Her ears had not stopped ringing since Lady Dinsmore had announced the order for Lana to travel with Gray to Essex. Lace gloves. She was being sent off, practically in the arms of her seducer, to fetch a pair of lace gloves. It was absurd. And yet, it was her own fault. She had claimed feeling faint, and of course Lady Dinsmore would not want to risk Brynn’s health during such an important week.

  She rubbed her forehead as she hurried along the warm, slightly claustrophobic attic corridor toward her room. They wouldn’t be entirely alone at Ferndale, what with a skeleton staff left to oversee the house and grounds during the London season. However, there would not be nearly as many eyes upon them there as there were here.

  Then again, his daughter was ill. The prospect of being alone with Lana was most likely the last thing on his mind right now. It should be the last thing on her mind as well. The more she thought of him, it seemed, the less control she had over her own desires.

  Lana opened the door to her room, trying to push the kiss in the arbor out of her mind—and came to an abrupt halt. She stared, open-mouthed, as Mrs. Frommer straightened her back, having been stooped over Lana’s bed. Lana’s valises, the ones she’d taken with her the night she’d fled Volkonsky Palace, lay open, the contents of both in a scattered mess.

  “What are you doing?” Lana whispered, her throat bound in a knot of dread. Copies of her uncle’s coded love letters, the originals still with Lord Langlevit, were among her exposed belongings, as was the miniature painted portrait of her family, a few articles of clothing, and all that was left of her mother’s jewels—a stunning diamond bracelet worth more than five times Lana’s yearly earnings.

  She had slowly pawned the rest of her mother’s jewelry over the last many months, accumulating a small fortune of British pounds and sterling—of which all was divided up and hidden within her room. While she knew Lord Langlevit and his mother would do anything to help her, she also did not want to be naive. There could very well come a time when she had no one to depend upon. Should that day come to pass, Lana would need immediate funds. A large portion of her savings was divided and sewn inside the silk lining in both of her valises, right underneath Mrs. Frommer’s nose.

  Mrs. Frommer snatched the diamond bracelet from the bed and held it aloft for Lana to see. “Proving my suspicions correct, Miss Volchek. What is a lady’s maid doing with such valuable jewels hidden among her things?”

  Lana entered her room fully and closed the door behind her, not wanting the housekeeper’s voice to carry. Or her own.

  “And by whose authority do you dare enter my room and search my possessions?” she asked, her temper flaring alongside her dread, each one urging the other on.

  Mrs. Frommer came out from behind the bed, toward Lana, the bracelet still raised and on display in her hand. “My own authority, as I am housekeeper here and in charge of maintaining a decent and moral staff of employees for this household! Now answer me—where did you get this?”

  Lana did not shift her stare from Mrs. Frommer’s in order to view the bracelet, gleaming in her upheld fist. She could not believe the woman had let herself into this room and gone snooping.

  “I don’t recognize these as one of her ladyship’s pieces. Did you take this bracelet from Countess Langlevit before you left employment there?” the housekeeper spat, her voice rising.

  “Of course not!” Lana reacted, both insulted and shocked that the woman would accuse her of thievery.

  Mrs. Frommer lifted her chin, bearing down on Lana with a cold gaze. “Then perhap
s they were a gift for a job well done? From a certain lord?” She scoffed as Lana’s cheeks blazed red. “I know exactly what sort of girl you are, Miss Volchek. The kind that goes panting like a dog in heat around the masters, hoping for castoffs and favors, perhaps even a future set up in the country as a mistress.”

  Lana’s blood boiled just beneath her skin, her heart an unsteady cadence in her chest. This woman was a beast. A horrible, lashing snake. Lana intensely wished for the right to fire her from her position and, better still, the ability to banish her from England!

  “I hardly require a setup in the country, Mrs. Frommer,” she said through a tight jaw. “And those diamonds are a family heirloom. Not a trinket from any man of my acquaintance. I demand you give them back to me at once.”

  The housekeeper snorted her amusement and disbelief, her fingers still curled around the bracelet. “There you go again putting on airs, pretending to be lady of the manor. Do you expect me to believe such poppycock? If these are a family heirloom, you wouldn’t need employment here. And you will not have employment here if I ever catch you dallying with Lord Northridge again!”

  She stepped forward, practically lunging at Lana. “Make no mistake, Miss Volchek, Lady Briannon’s fondness for you is the only thing protecting you from your immediate dismissal. And with no references, how far would you get? Without my goodwill, you’d be on your back, whoring for coin in Covent Garden.”

  Lana gasped at the vile words, but she held her tongue. If she opened her trembling mouth, she could not be certain of what would emerge. And she had to be calm. She had to be smart, not like the last time the housekeeper had accused her of trying to seduce Gray.

  Mrs. Frommer’s eyes glittered with malice, as if also recalling their conversation in the sewing room. “You think you are the first girl in this household to turn the eye of Lord Northridge? You are a fool if you think his lordship can secure you anything at all. I’ll see you out on your ear before that happens.”

  Flinching at the threat, Lana’s temple pulsed, her patience nearing its limit. She gritted her teeth and held out her hand. “My property, Mrs. Frommer. Now.”

  The woman’s thin nostrils flared, her upper lip pulling into a sneer. She leaned closer and hissed, “You have no property here. You are nothing.”

  She walked swiftly by Lana, brushing against her shoulder. “These, I will keep. One misstep, and I will turn them over to Lady Dinsmore. I highly doubt she will believe your story either. Once you are accused of thievery, you will find no estate in the whole of England willing to take you on.”

  Mrs. Frommer slammed the door behind her as she left. Lana’s skin prickled with unspent energy. The woman had not just stolen from her but threatened her as well. Lady Dinsmore would dismiss Lana in a flash if her trusted housekeeper brought her those diamonds. She knew how it appeared. A servant in possession of such fine jewelry? And if her hidden money was also found… Oh, Lord. One would only have to put two and two together, and she would have no believable defense, not for a mere maid.

  Her cover was thin enough as it was; no genteel woman fallen on hard times would have such a fortune at her disposal. She wouldn’t be able to send word to Langlevit, and without him to vouch for her in the short term, she would be carted off to Newgate. Once there, it would be easy for a powerful man such as her uncle to silence her for good. Even Gray would not be able to help her then.

  Or Irina…

  With shaking hands, Lana started to collect her things and stuff them into her valises, remembering then that she was supposed to be packing for her trip to Essex. With Gray. Once Mrs. Frommer learned of that…no doubt it would add fuel to the fire, placing her in even more jeopardy. But it seemed that the bracelet had bought her some “goodwill.” It was a small price to pay for Mrs. Frommer’s silence, but who knew how long that would last? Lana’s safety—and Irina’s—now hinged on the housekeeper’s capricious humor.

  It was her own fault. Curse her infernal pride. She should have done whatever was necessary to gain Mrs. Frommer’s trust, and now, it was far too late.

  Lana closed her eyes, feeling trapped.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The roads leading out of London and into the countryside, whether one’s carriage was headed south to Sussex or Surrey, west to Hampshire, Devon, or Cornwall, or far north to Derbyshire or Yorkshire, were well known as narrow, rutted, and generally painful to travel. After nearly an hour of lurching and jolting along the dirt road that lead directly northeast, toward their country seat nestled in the heart of Essex, Gray was quite certain he could have gotten out and run on foot to Ferndale faster than this godforsaken carriage was managing, and with less exhaustion as well.

  His knee would not quit jumping, and his muscles were tight with intolerance for his stationary position upon the forward-facing bench within the carriage. His daughter was ill, for Christ’s sake. He should already have been at her side, not riding at a snail’s pace to reach her. Not even the beautiful woman sitting opposite him could detract from his restlessness. If anything, she added to it.

  Lana had barely spoken a single word since departing Bishop House. As lady’s maid, she should have been seated up front with the driver, however Lady Dinsmore had insisted she break from position and ride inside the warm carriage, to avoid catching a chill and worsening whatever ailed her. For that, Gray cursed and thanked his mother in the same breath.

  Lana had deigned to remove her bonnet and gloves for the long journey but otherwise sat primly, her back ramrod stiff. She’d seated herself on the backward-facing bench seat, garbed in the plainly cut dress and cloak common to a woman of her position, and had insisted on staring out the window ever since. Not that she could manage to appear plain, even in such practical clothing. There was a graceful delicatesse to her, one that lived deep within. Gray saw it in the way she held her chin high and looked down the slope of her pert nose at the passing countryside. A cool, almost untouchable reserve had settled over her features—one that looked entirely at home. It was as though the attentive, subservient expression she wore while tending to Brynn were the mask instead.

  The contradiction drove him to distraction. And perhaps, given the current situation, that was not a bad thing. If he had to endure five more hours in this carriage with nothing to think about than little Sofia, feverish in a bed far away, he would go insane. He needed such a diversion badly right now. But the freedom Lana had felt earlier, to speak plainly as they’d walked through the arbor, had been left behind in town. The passion and desire she’d shown him as they had kissed had dried up as well. Instead, as their driver had taken them from the crowded, bustling city streets, Lana had seemed to be practically sinking backward into the squabs. Avoiding him.

  No more.

  “Are you truly unwell as my mother said?”

  He should have asked sooner. These roads were not easy on the hale and hearty, let alone those who were ailing. Perhaps that is why she had grown silent. Yet, he knew deep down that was not it.

  Lana stopped gazing out the window, but she did not look directly at him. “No. I’m afraid it was only an excuse to be granted a dismissal from Madame Despain’s visit earlier.”

  “Why?” he asked, crossing one leg over the other to try to cease fidgeting.

  Her attention sprang at him, like a cat onto a windowsill. “Have you heard about the dinner Lady Dinsmore is hosting two evenings from now?”

  Gray had not. His mother’s failure to inform him could mean only one thing: there would be no marriageable ladies in attendance. He shook his head.

  Lana’s eyes fell to the harsh clamp of her fingers in her lap. “Viktor Zakorov is attending.”

  He sat forward, his crossed leg coming down hard onto the floor. “Are you certain?”

  At Lana’s jerky nod, Gray swore under his breath and shifted even closer to the edge of the bench. He wanted to stand and pace, but he was stuck in this cramped box. How the bloody hell had Zakorov secured an invitation to Bishop House? His f
ather hosted dignitaries and men from the House of Lords from time to time, like Helmford Monti, but the timing was too coincidental. Perhaps the Russian had not dismissed Gray’s comment about having a maid from Moscow on staff after all. He closed his eyes and berated himself for having been so free with his words.

  “I’ll be there,” he said, his fingers flexing and releasing. “Whatever conversation he attempts to begin regarding the princesses will be smothered. And you will stay tucked away belowstairs, out of his sight.”

  The warnings Langlevit had given Gray regarding Zakorov had not faded. Men who cross Zakorov have a propensity to disappear. Do not underestimate him, no matter your intentions.

  Clearly, this Russian was a dangerous man.

  Lana nodded but was still strangling her fingers. He slid forward, until his knees were nearly touching hers. “Lana,” he began. She stilled, as if sensing what he was about to say. “Tell me where the princesses are. If they are in trouble, in danger of being rooted out by this Zakorov fellow, then they will require adequate protection.”

  Her mouth remained sealed, her eyes drifting back to the window. “They are being protected.”

  He sat taller. “By this friend of yours? The peer.”

  Her lashes flitted a bit, but she didn’t face him. Nor did she answer. Gray rubbed his jaw, the bristle his valet, Harrison, had taken a straight razor to early that morning starting to return. The woman was a fortress. How to breach her walls? The question had both his mind and his loins kicking into gear.

  He was alone with her, hours of privacy stretching before them. Should he decide to risk it, he knew that she would allow his advances. She had welcomed his kisses in the arbor, and when she’d felt the evidence of his arousal pressing against her, she had been shocked, but not horrified. Not disgusted. Had the footman bearing the letter from Sir Cooper not interrupted them, what more would she have allowed?