My Darling, My Disaster (Lords of Essex)

by Morgan, Angie

  Your servant, as always, L.

  The edges of the parchment crumpled in her hand. Her arms shook, a hard, hot sob lodged in her throat. Irina. The Frenchman had succeeded. He’d taken her. After so many days of only imagining the worst, it had come to pass.

  Lana let out a whimper and squeezed her eyes shut. Tears stung them, her heart shuddering madly in her chest.

  She’d failed her sister. She’d said she would protect her, and she hadn’t. No, she’d been tucked away in London and Essex doing Lady Briannon’s hair and falling in love with a man she had no right loving in the first place.

  Love. She loved her sister. And she needed to get to her.

  Langlevit didn’t know what had happened, clearly. The letter was dated four days prior, first sent to Bishop House, then redirected to Essex. He hadn’t known Eloise had died. He had no idea she and the family had returned to Ferndale. Though if he’d been on his way to Essex four days ago, he had likely arrived.

  She left the stillroom, her pulse a staggered beat, her mind whirling. Where had Lana been when Irina had been attacked and stolen? Swinging in the Coopers’ backyard? Dreaming of an idyllic life with Gray and his daughter? Lana felt so guilty. So wrong. And angry.

  Viktor would not harm her. Lana wouldn’t let him. Langlevit had advised staying in London and seeking out Gray’s help, but it was too late for that. She was already in Essex, and she most certainly couldn’t go to Gray now, not after what she’d said to him after Eloise’s funeral. She knew he’d remained behind because of her, and she’d been grateful for it. She’d been happy to not be tortured by his presence at every turn. But now, Lana couldn’t help but wish he were here. He would know exactly what to do…what to say. But Gray was gone.

  And now, so was Irina.

  As she climbed the servant staircase, her tears fell hot and fast, and she swiped at them furiously. What good would they do for Irina? Tears, like hopeless wishes, were useless. Lana reached her room in the attics and threw off her cloak. She placed Langlevit’s letter in a ceramic washbasin and, striking a match, lit it on fire. As Lana watched it burn to cinders, she dried her eyes and tried to steady her breathing.

  The knot of worry that had settled in Lana’s stomach grew heavier with every passing moment. The earl had ordered her to stay put. It was something she could not do.

  His Essex home, Hartstone, was only a fifteen-minute ride from Ferndale. With the skies about to unleash a torrent of rain, Brynn would most likely be returning from her outing very soon. Lana knew she should stay at Ferndale. It was her duty to see to her mistress. However, those rules weighed nothing compared to the duty Lana felt right then to her sister. She could no longer stay where she was, hiding and waiting.

  Lana made up her mind. She would see if the earl was in residence at Hartstone. At least it would be something to do. Resolute, she forwent her heavy woolen black cloak and donned her green cape, a lighter material and better suited for both rain and a fast ride through the countryside.

  She then took a circuitous route to the stables in order to arrive there unseen.

  Percival was in the stables, tending to the horses. He thought nothing of Lana’s request to take one of the lesser mounts out, though he did express concern about the coming storm.

  “Just a short ride,” she told him, making sure to smile widely and flutter her lashes a bit. She felt like a fool, but it was worth it. “You know my skill, Percy,” she added with a playful tap to his shoulder.

  The boy’s ears went pink, and he helped her saddle the bay. Within minutes, Lana was streaking down Ferndale’s lane, through the village of Breckenham, and onward to Langlevit’s estate.

  Anything at all could have happened in the four days since he’d written Lana. She prayed he had Irina with him and that the Frenchman her uncle and Viktor had hired was now in custody. Or dead. It was a heartless thought, but yes, she wanted the man dead. She wanted any person who threatened her sister’s safety dead.

  I should have been there to protect her.

  It was the thought that would not quit playing in her mind as she rode, the first drops of rain striking her heated cheeks. Of course, she knew nothing could be reversed. She’d thought she was doing the right thing—the best thing—for them when she’d taken a position as lady’s maid.

  Hartstone was not as large as Ferndale, but it was stately just the same. Its many windows were dark, and with the storm eclipsing the last bit of sunlight in the sky, the house looked eerie. She would have believed it was vacant, had there not been a few windows along the ground level dimly lit by firelight. She turned up the long, straight drive to the front courtyard. It was indecent, really, a servant showing up unannounced at this time of night. But Lana could not have cared less. What did it matter now? Her secrets were crumbling out from underneath her. If they had found Irina, it was only a matter of time before they found her, too.

  She tied her mount off on one of the posts and went straight to the front door. Her pounding knock was answered almost immediately by none other than the earl himself.

  He stared at her, a clicking sound coming from behind his back where he held his arm hidden. When he brought his hand into view, she saw a pistol.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” he hissed, grabbing her elbow and pulling her inside the foyer.

  “Where is Irina?” she asked, her eyes jumping to the stairs and the balustrade above the foyer. She saw no one. Heard no one. The place was utterly dark, except for a receiving room to the right. In there, she saw the flickers of a fire in the hearth.

  “I told you to stay in London,” he said, ignoring her question. She supposed it was only fair. She’d ignored his, after all.

  “I was already at Ferndale when I received your note. We left London shortly after—” She broke off and shook her head, not wanting to explain about Lord and Lady Dinsmore’s early departure from London. There had been talk, Lana knew, among the servants, that Eloise had become of an interest to Langlevit. If he did not yet know of her death, Lana didn’t want to be the one to inform him. Selfishly, she didn’t want him distracted either. “Never mind why, I’ll explain later. My sister. Where is she?”

  Langlevit muttered something underneath his breath and locked the front door, throwing the bolts and placing the pistol’s barrel into the waist of his trousers. The weapon did not bode well.

  “She’s not here,” he answered, his tone rich with impatience and exasperation. The stony knot in Lana’s stomach grew larger, and she bit back tears. “I’ve only arrived tonight,” he said, gesturing for her to enter the receiving room. “I’ve sent my staff away as a precaution. I can’t put them in harm’s way should anyone unsavory arrive.” He slanted a look at Lana. “Why have you come here, Princess?”

  “My uncle. He’s in London. It’s not safe there. And after learning Irina might be here—”

  “I should never have written to you. They are using her as a lure! Don’t you understand that?”

  A part of her had, yes. Dangling Irina’s life or death over Lana’s head would certainly entice her to come out of hiding. Viktor and her uncle both must have known to what extent Lana would go in order to protect her sister. They had to have known that she would give herself up in an instant. But the impossibility of it still lingered. Irina knew about the letters. She knew Viktor and Count Volkonsky were spies. So did Langlevit. They were all in danger no matter where they were.

  “She depends upon me!” Lana cried. “If anything should happen to her—”

  She couldn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t know how. A world without Irina was not a world she wanted to live in. Irina was the only real family she had left, and she could not lose her. Lana shook her head again, trying to dispel the tears brimming in her eyes. Frustration and fear bound her tongue, and she couldn’t speak.

  Langlevit stepped forward and took her shoulders in his hands. They gripped her firmly, and when she dragged in a breath and opened her eyes, she saw the earl’s head cocke
d to the side, his eyes boring into hers. Firelight danced on one half of his face. He was a handsome man. Stately, like his home. As trustworthy as its walls and as strong as its foundation stones. Lana relaxed under his steady gaze.

  “I gave you my promise in St. Petersburg, Lana. Your father was a trusted friend, and I will not allow any injustice or harm to come to his daughters.”

  Hearing him address her by her given name for the first time surprised her. Oddly, though, it made her feel even more at ease in his presence. With a shaky nod, she placed her hands upon his chest. He wore his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his collar unadorned by a cravat. His hair was rumpled and his jaw unshaven. Of course. He’d let his valet go to protect him. The same way she’d pushed Gray away in London in order to protect him.

  Distracted by thoughts of Gray upon thoughts of Irina, her fingertips frantically worked the small, embroidered pattern of ivy on the earl’s waistcoat, a dry sob catching in her throat. “I know. And I’m so grateful. I truly can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done.”

  “Stop,” he said, and gently pulled her closer, into a brotherly embrace. “I want no thanks, not until I retrieve Irina. And I will,” he added, pulling back so he could see her fully. “Even without me, you would have other help. Northridge, for example. I know that he is suspicious of Zakorov.”

  Lana dropped her eyes, her distraught fingers stalling out on the embroidery.

  “If anything should happen to me, Lana, you must go to Northridge. He’s a good man. You can trust him.”

  She gathered a breath, the calming pressure of Langlevit’s hands on her shoulders making her swirling thoughts be still for the first time. “I know. He knows,” she said, her voice soft. “About me, I mean.”

  Langlevit let go of one shoulder and nudged Lana’s chin up so he could look at her, incredulous. “What are you saying? He knows you are the princess?”

  She shook her head quickly, her chin trapped in Langlevit’s hand. “No! Not that. He thinks I’m the missing princesses’ maid. He knew something was off about me, and he now knows Zakorov is searching for them—I mean, me—but he doesn’t know it, and…oh! I didn’t know how to explain it to you. And then you were going to meet with your contact about the cipher, and Gray wouldn’t stop pressing me to tell him the truth—”

  “Gray?” Langlevit said, interrupting her incomprehensible rambling.

  She sealed her lips, her eyes wide. She shouldn’t have called him that.

  The earl opened his mouth to speak again when several loud bangs on the front door cracked through the silence. He released Lana and stepped away, drawing the pistol from his waist. He held out a hand to her. “Stay here,” he whispered, then pointed to the hearth. “Take up a weapon. Hide.”

  She stared at the iron shovel and poker that hung on a stand next to the fire, her heart in her throat. The next knock on the front door practically shook the house. She heard the person rattling the locked knob, trying to get inside. Lana raced to the hearth and took up the heavy iron poker as Langlevit called out to their unexpected visitor.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Gray slammed his fist down upon the entrance to Hartstone. He seethed with fury, his roiling temper seconds away from overwhelming his ability to think. And thinking was all he’d been doing for the last twenty-four hours, ever since Croyden’s arrival outside the King’s Theatre. Worrying that Zakorov would be headed straight for Essex. Straight for Lana. Even if she’d been telling the truth about a betrothal, which he now suspected she wasn’t, Gray didn’t want her in any danger, especially at the hands of Zakorov.

  It had been close to midnight, and setting off on the north road out of London at such an hour would have been asking to be robbed at gunpoint, stripped of his horse, his coin, and very possibly, his life. So he’d paced Bishop House, his muscles tense and his mind roiling with unease, waiting restlessly until the first drop of dawn’s light lit the sky. He’d taken off for Essex, nearly riding Pharaoh into the ground that first hour on the road.

  When Gray had finally reached Breckenham in the waning daylight as a ceiling of foreboding clouds settled overhead, he’d pushed his lathered mount up Ferndale’s long drive, muttering a slew of curses. He’d avoided the front door, and ultimately his parents, and had gone straight to the kitchens in search of Lana. The other servants had shaken their heads with alarm. She had not been seen for some time, they’d said. James, the footman, had said she’d received a letter and had rushed off to read it.

  Gray had chucked every last shred of propriety out the window and climbed the four flights of stairs to the servants’ quarters. He’d gone into each and every room, not knowing which one belonged to Lana until he’d found it. He recognized her scent the moment he stepped over the threshold. And her familiar black cloak had been tossed without care onto the floor. He’d stepped in and picked up the cloak, only to find a folded white card slipping from its pocket.

  Gray had read it, and his blood began to boil.

  I must see you. Black coach outside. - L.

  The bloody handwriting. It was the same from the poem he’d found on the floor of the coach when he’d been convinced Lana had been meeting with a lover. He’d memorized every silly line, laughing to himself that women could find such nonsense appealing. He’d thought the poet to be some local swain in Breckenham. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Langlevit was the author of both.

  God, he’d been so blind. So goddamned gullible.

  Lana had told him herself she didn’t want to be with any man of her acquaintance. Yet, in her hour of need, Lana had gone to one of them. She’d trusted Langlevit, not Gray.

  I must see you.

  He’d crumpled the note in his fist.

  Gray’s heart clenched in agony—clearly, having a betrothed hadn’t been her only secret. How often had she and Langlevit met like this in the past months? How many times had they written such sonnets of undying love to each other? Was it before or after she’d lain with Gray? He’d never figured the earl for a poet, but apparently love turned men into colossal fools.

  It certainly had turned him into one.

  Gray thought of that night in London, when he’d spied Lana slipping into a waiting carriage, not knowing then that the earl was within. She’d promised that there was nothing untoward happening between her and her anonymous peer protector…and Gray had believed her. And even when he’d discovered Langlevit’s note, a small part of him had hoped that Lana’s feelings for the earl had been in the past. Before him. Before Gray.

  But he’d never been more wrong.

  He’d come to Hartstone and, through the wide windows, had seen Lana looking up into Langlevit’s face, his fingers caressing her jaw…holding her in a lover’s embrace, their bodies so close together that not an inch of space remained between them. Her profile had been lit partially by the firelight, and the devoted look in her eyes as she’d gazed at the earl had made Gray nearly stagger to his knees.

  She’d stared at him with the same trust before. The night in his bedroom, when she’d admitted to needing help with Zakorov. When she’d broken down in panic outside the mews upon learning her sister had been found. When she’d won her hand in vingt-et-un and claimed her prize. She’d gazed at him with rapturous certainty when her luscious, deceitful body had been splayed beneath him.

  Gray drew a ragged breath. His hand shook as he raised it again to slam into the mahogany panel of the door. Rage and jealousy consumed him, incapacitating any ability to think clearly. Had she given herself to Langlevit as well? Had she also wanted to know what it was to lie with a goddamned earl? None of her words at the funeral service had been lies after all. He’d just been too blind—too infatuated—to see it.

  “Who is it?” A man’s voice. Muffled and cautious. Gray’s fury simmered anew. Of course the bastard would be cautious. Lana had come to his home in the middle of the night. For what, comfort?

  “Northridge. Open this door.”

  �
��North? What are you doing—”

  The door opened far enough for Gray to get enough leverage with his shoulder to smash his fist into Langlevit’s face. Grim satisfaction overtook him as Langlevit stumbled backward, a pistol clattering to the floor as the earl clutched his bleeding mouth. Gray kicked the door shut behind him, only partially taking in the lack of lighting and the absence of any staff. The other part of him saw Langlevit’s state of half dress. Gray’s lewd imaginings took flight like a provoked swarm of bees.

  “I know she is here,” he growled, advancing toward the double doors that led to the salon Lana and Langlevit had been standing in moments before.

  Langlevit swiped at the blood flecking his lips and spit a mouthful to the polished marble floor. His voice was calm. “For Christ’s sake, Northridge, what the hell has gotten into you?”

  “A healthy dose of the truth, it would seem,” he answered before pushing the doors open wide.

  “Gray?” The soft voice came from a shadowed corner of the salon. She came forward, her feminine form taking shape out of the darkness. He couldn’t stop the immediate stutter of his heart at the sight of her and gritted his teeth in disgust at his body’s weak response.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, the poker in her hand falling to her side.

  Gray took in little details, like the heightened color in her cheeks and her tousled hair, half of the dark mass hanging loose as if she’d only just tumbled out of bed. His anger escalated. He drew his eyes along her person and flared his nostrils, annoyed at the emotion knotting his throat. How could a woman look so angelic and be such a scheming opportunist at the same time? She was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A chameleon. And he’d fallen for every one of her lies. “The question, love,” he drawled, “is what have you been doing?”