My Darling, My Disaster (Lords of Essex)

by Morgan, Angie

  The count’s eyes narrowed, his lips thinning. “Where are the documents?”

  “Not until you admit the truth.”

  Lana was unprepared for him lurching forward or for the backhand that cracked across her face. Her sister’s cry was the only thing that kept her from fainting. Hot, white stars swam in her vision as warm blood seeped into her mouth. Her teeth ached as if they’d been loosened. “Don’t provoke me,” he snarled. “Where are the papers?”

  She swallowed a mouthful of blood and squared her shoulders. He wasn’t going to allow them to live, not after she handed over the papers. She’d risk another blow to her cheek for the one thing she’d been craving for months: “The truth.”

  Her uncle moved to the edge of the seat, sitting nose to nose with her, his hatred oozing out of every pore as his eyes bored into hers. “Grigori deserved to die. And yes. I killed him. Now, tell me where my documents are before I slit your darling sister’s throat.”

  Even though Lana already knew what he’d done, hearing the cold, unrepentant confession from his lips brought a wave of pain so agonizing that she almost doubled over. She vowed that she would find a way to make him pay, no matter the cost and no matter how long it took. And, if not in this lifetime, then in the next. She would never rest until he was punished for what he’d done.

  “Harm one hair on her head, and it will be the last thing that you do,” she snapped through her teeth. “The papers are at Ferndale.”

  Her mind was working furiously. The only thing she had to bargain with were the documents. Langlevit had written that the cryptographer he’d found had met with an unexpected end—no doubt at Viktor’s hands—and without being able to decipher the letters, she had no proof to use against either of the men. She didn’t care much for her own safety, but she worried for Irina’s.

  “I will give you the letters in exchange for Irina’s freedom,” she said as they pulled into the deserted courtyard at Ferndale.

  “Lana, no, not without you,” Irina blurted out.

  Her uncle laughed in her face. “You do not make terms.”

  “You should know that I have copied the letters, and that Lord Langlevit is not the only man at the war office who has seen the originals,” Lana said coolly. “One set is at Ferndale, and the other is elsewhere, safe and awaiting my word.”

  He froze in anger. “You are lying.”

  “That is for you to decide, uncle. It is your choice whether you live in constant fear of discovery or agree to my proposition: Irina’s freedom for the letters, including the hidden copies. I will send a message for them to be destroyed.”

  His expression shifted again, this time into something carefully blank. “What do I care? To anyone else, these are nothing but love letters.”

  “Until they are deciphered,” she replied, undaunted. “And you and I both know what they will say then. Do you really want to invite such risk, keep such a threat hanging over your head, ready to fall when you least expect it?”

  The count’s gaze flicked to Viktor, who hadn’t uttered a word since their arrival. A sadistic smile worked over his face. “Irina’s freedom and your hand in marriage to Viktor.”

  Everything within her recoiled at the base suggestion. It was what her uncle had been planning all along—he wanted the Volkonsky fortune, and a marriage to the odious baron would ensure it. She couldn’t fathom becoming that man’s wife…having him touch her as a husband would…having him touch her as Gray had. The mere thought revolted her. “No, I will not.”

  “I thought you would say that.” The oily voice was Viktor’s. “So I wish to provide some incentive. My man has been looking into yours and Lord Northridge’s activities, and your recent foray to north London. We have a lovely new guest with us.”

  “What guest?” Lana asked, her blood turning to ice in her veins.

  “A precious little thing with beautiful blond hair,” Viktor said. “She looks so much like her father, I must say.”

  Lana’s breath stalled as her hands curled into powerless fists at her sides. She leaned toward him and stopped short. “If you’ve hurt her—”

  Viktor’s smile was triumphant, as was her uncle’s. “She is safe and sound in London, Princess, and awaiting our arrival. Her continued safety, too, depends entirely upon you. Agree to marry me, and she will be returned safely home.”

  “You are despicable.” Helpless rage filled every part of her as she eyed her uncle, but there was nothing she could do. She was the one who had drawn Gray, and now Sofia, into this. She was the one who had put them in danger, and she would have to pay the price to release them. She closed her eyes. There was no other way. Irina was safe. And Sofia would be, too. Her sacrifice was a small cost.

  Lana crossed the floor of the carriage to her sister, pulling her into her arms, her whisper soft against her ear. “If Lord Northridge is alive, find him and tell him everything. He will make sure you are safe. I love you, my sister.”

  “Lana, no, you can’t do this!” Irina cried.

  Lana wiped the tears from her sister’s face, memorizing every curve and every hollow, and the way her soft dark hair curled into her cheeks. “I must.”

  She turned to her uncle, her chin high. “Once Irina is safe and Sofia is out of harm’s way, you have my word.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Gray wasn’t going to take any chances being seen or heard coming upon Ferndale. It was an overcast night, but the moon was high and bright behind the clouds. If he could easily see the bright swells and shadowy dips of Ferndale’s meadows as he rode over them, then Zakorov and his comrades would be able to see a horse and rider streaking toward the main house.

  They would be keeping watch on the main drive up to the manor, waiting either for the three brutish men he and Langlevit had dispatched, or for any signal that the three had failed in their task. So Gray had traveled through the woods he knew well, aided by the unusual gleam of moonlight, and approached the house around the rear, near the pagoda just outside his father’s library. Langlevit, meanwhile, had taken the obvious main drive with a mission to distract Zakorov’s cronies long enough for Gray to slip inside the manor through a rear entrance or window. The Russian had entered Hartstone with three men at his side, but he undoubtedly had more in the carriage in which he’d whisked Lana away in.

  Gray was going to kill Zakorov. He held no qualms about that. The man was a traitor and a threat to Lana—Svetlanka. His mind had still not grasped the truth. She wasn’t the princesses’ maid. She hadn’t been cast aside, as she’d led Gray to believe. She was Russian nobility.

  He had known, at some level, that she was no servant. Her poise and her stubborn pride, her elegance and educated mind, her skill at dancing and riding, and even her ability to read French, they had all spoken the truth, even if Gray’s ears and eyes hadn’t been listening or seeing at the time. He’d only been focused on one thing: his all-consuming attraction to her.

  But now was not the time to focus on who Lana was. He only needed to focus on how to get her to safety. And then, how to make sure Zakorov and Lana’s duplicitous uncle could not do any more harm.

  Gray dismounted his horse and tied him off on the low-hanging branch of an apple tree near the pagoda. He took the pistol Langlevit had armed him with and listened. Any commotion at the front of the manor would signal Langlevit had been spotted. But nothing came. Pure silence. Gray entered his father’s library through the pair of glass doors on a small, secluded terrace. The grand room was dark, the only noise the soft scuffing of his Hessians’ soles over the Persian rug. When he reached the door that led into a dimly lit corridor, he paused—and knew.

  They were not here.

  Gray threw open the door and stormed down the corridor to the foyer, and at that same moment, the front door crashed open. Langlevit appeared, pistol in hand, a second holstered at his thigh.

  “We are too late,” he grit out.

  “Or they were never here,” Gray replied, annoyed and infuriated, but
not with the earl.

  “They must have been. Lana keeps the letters with her at all times, and if she had returned to Ferndale, they would be among her possessions—”

  “Lord Langlevit!”

  A wisp of a girl with long, untended dark hair darted from the front sitting room and collided with the earl. She threw her arms around him and buried her head in his chest. Gray had never set eyes upon her before, but at once, he knew who she was.

  “Irina,” Langlevit said, the hand not holding the pistol coming up to cup the back of her head. She wore a yellow day dress, creased with wrinkles, and when she pulled her face from Langlevit’s waistcoat, Gray’s breath left him in a rush. Though still young, the girl bore such a resemblance to Lana that he couldn’t think for a minute. She had the same proud cheekbones and long, glossy hair, though her eyes were violet instead of green.

  “Lana’s sister,” Langlevit said to Gray, bringing the girl’s startled eyes to him. “Where is she? Where is Lana?”

  Braxton’s shoes tapped quickly into the foyer behind Gray, followed almost as quickly by those of his parents. They emerged from the sitting room cautiously, their eyes wide with alarm.

  “Graham?” his mother said, her coloring high on her cheeks. She was upset and, if her lack of speech was any sign, utterly confused.

  “What the devil is happening here?” Lord Dinsmore asked.

  “I’d like to know the same thing,” Gray replied, and then echoed Langlevit’s question: “Where is Lana?”

  Braxton spoke first.

  “My lord, it is utterly preposterous what this girl is saying, but at least one thing is true—there was a carriage. It trundled up the drive with Lady Briannon’s maid, who was accompanied by one of Lord Dinsmore’s prior guests, Baron Zakorov.”

  Despite his usual stoic composure, the butler had trouble concealing his scandalized expression. Gray understood instantly what Braxton would be thinking having seen Lana arrive alone in such company.

  “I’ve already told you, Braxton, you cannot possibly have it right,” Lord Dinsmore grumbled. “What on earth would Zakorov be doing in Essex, and with Briannon’s maid, no less?”

  Gray ignored his father for the moment. There was no time to explain.

  “What then?” he asked Braxton.

  “Miss Volchek went to her room, accompanied by Lord Zakorov. They tarried but for a moment before bolting off again and leaving this waif—whom I can only assume is some relation—on the doorstep. I am deeply sorry, my lords. My lady,” he said, bowing to them all. “I will have her sent to the kitchens at once.”

  “You will do no such thing,” Gray said tiredly, scrubbing a palm through his hair. “This young lady is indeed Miss Volchek’s sister, but she is Princess Irina Volkonsky, and you will accord her with the proper respect.”

  His mother’s speech came roaring back to her. “Princess?” she shrieked.

  Braxton’s surprise flashed in his eyes as well, but he bowed quickly. “Of course, my lord. My apologies, Your Highness.”

  “How long ago did they leave in the carriage?” Gray asked, already anxious to find a fresh mount and follow.

  “Less than ten minutes, my lord, at the most,” Braxton answered.

  “Graham!” his mother cried, coming forward. She stopped abruptly and made a small, perfunctory curtsy toward the young princess, still wrapped protectively under Langlevit’s arm. “Please tell us what is happening!”

  “Lana is in danger. I can’t explain all of it right now, but I will, I promise. Thank you, Braxton. Please have a footman fetch me some paper and a quill.”

  “If this young lady is a princess and Miss Volchek’s sister,” Lord Dinsmore began. Two seconds hadn’t passed before Lady Dinsmore strangled a gasp and clapped her hands over her mouth.

  “I see I don’t need to explain after all,” Gray said, knowing his mother had made the connection.

  Braxton returned, and Gray scribbled a note on the piece of parchment and signaled to the waiting footman. “Send our fastest messenger to deliver this to Lord Thorndale at this address in London, and have James saddle two of the strongest mounts at once.” He turned to the earl, who still held the girl cradled under one arm. “Our window is small even if we ride at a breakneck pace. We have no idea if they will go to where the count is staying or Zakorov’s old apartments at the Stevens Hotel, or somewhere else altogether.”

  Langlevit held the girl out so he could peer down into her frightened face. “Did you hear anything? Do you know where they are going, Princess?”

  She jutted her chin in a way that reminded Gray of Lana, though it wobbled slightly. “Back to London,” she said. “They are planning to set sail for home, where Lana and the baron will be wed.”

  “Wed?” Langlevit choked. His eyes met Gray’s, whose hands clenched into fists at his sides. The storm brewing in his veins hit full force at the thought of Zakorov anywhere near Lana.

  “I thought Zakorov wanted the princesses for treason,” Lord Dinsmore said at a near shout. “What is this about a marriage?”

  Irina shook her head, her curls springing. “He is the treasonous one! And Uncle Ivan forced her to agree.”

  Gray frowned. “In exchange for the letters and your freedom?” His eyes narrowed as the girl nodded. “And she went to her quarters here with Zakorov?”

  “Yes.”

  Gray set off at a run, taking the stairs two at a time, the earl hot on his heels. He pushed open the door to her room for the second time that day, his heart in his throat. The spartan chamber wasn’t empty. Mrs. Frommer, the housekeeper, stood near the bed, rifling through Lana’s possessions, some articles of clothing already draped over one arm. The woman was worse than a bloody vulture. Gray’s gaze narrowed as he made his presence known.

  Mrs. Frommer paled. “My lord,” she began with a guilty look. “That scheming little thief ran in here with a man who must be her lover to—”

  “Get out,” he snapped. “Or so help me, I’ll remove you myself.”

  Paling further, she bobbed and fled from the room.

  He entered the chamber and saw Lana’s black cloak on the floor still. Only, this time, there was a suitcase open on her bed, and some strewn clothing around it. A nearby chest was open, but it offered no clues. Gray frowned, his eyes searching the room methodically. The Lana he knew would not have left without a sign of some sort…a trail of breadcrumbs. She was too smart not to know—not to trust—that he would be close behind.

  Following the earl, Irina entered the small room tentatively, blinking back tears. Gray was about to give up his search when his eyes fell on the discarded clothes on the bed that hadn’t been there earlier. It was a pair of Brynn’s breeches—the ones Lana had worn when she’d taken it upon herself to break into Zakorov’s rooms at the Stevens alone.

  A breadcrumb, as it were. He almost sighed with relief.

  “They’re going to the Stevens Hotel,” he said.

  “Are you certain?” Langlevit asked.

  “Yes. Let’s go.”

  Gray’s eyes moved to Irina, who stood near Lana’s chest of drawers. She held a small, framed portrait. Tears were pouring down her face, and Gray felt the oddest inclination to comfort her. “All will be well again, Princess,” he said. “I’ll get her back.”

  The girl bit her lips, raising her bleak eyes to his. “She told me to find you. She said you would make sure that I was safe.” Gray’s heart hammered in his chest at her soft words. Lana had trusted him enough to want to put Irina in his care.

  Irina fingered the gold frame of the portrait, and Gray frowned at it. Lana must have kept the portrait tucked away. Such a frame would be out of place in servants’ quarters. It was made of heavy, ornate gold—easily worth two years’ wages of any maid. Lana was younger in the portrait, likely the same age as Irina was now, standing and smiling with their parents.

  “May I?” Gray asked, reaching for it at the same moment that she released it. The frame clattered to the wooden floor,
the glass cracking and the backing coming loose. They both knelt at the same time, Irina uttering a sharp cry of disappointment as she reached for the portrait. A piece of thick parchment coming loose from the frame’s backing caught Gray’s attention.

  “Langlevit,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Is this what I think it is?”

  The earl stooped beside him. His eyes met Gray’s as he unfolded it. It was a rectangle of stiff parchment with odd cutouts at various intervals. “It’s the key,” Langlevit said, staring at it in shocked disbelief, as if expecting it to disappear at any moment. His triumphant gaze lifted to the young girl at his side, and he grabbed her in a jubilant embrace. “You did it, Irina!”

  A blush suffused her cheeks as she gazed wide-eyed at the earl. “Did what?”

  “Found the cipher your father hid for safekeeping,” Gray finished and rose to his feet. “Come, we have no time to waste.”

  They made their way back downstairs, where his parents were still standing in hushed conversation and a few more curious staff had gathered.

  “Lord Dinsmore, Princess Irina will have to stay here, if that is fine by you,” Langlevit said as they entered the foyer.

  Gray’s father and mother both nodded, Lady Dinsmore with a touch too much vigor.

  “But of course! She is most welcome,” his mother said, her eyes clouding over. “But, Graham, this all sounds so very dangerous—”

  “It is. That is why I must go.” Taking a breath, he added, “Lana—Princess Svetlanka—needs my help.”

  And he was losing time every second he stood still.

  Langlevit peered down at Irina. “You will be quite safe here, Your Highness.”

  Gray kissed his mother’s cheek. “Do not let her out of your sight, Mother.” He turned back to Irina with a gentler tone. “Lady Dinsmore here will take lovely care of you. And Cook”—he pointed out Mrs. Braxton standing with the other servants—“makes the best raspberry puddings in England.” Seeing the tears brewing in her eyes, he bent to kiss the back of Irina’s hand. “I swear on my life that I will bring your sister back to you.”