My Darling, My Disaster (Lords of Essex)

by Morgan, Angie

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more historical romance… Once a Courtesan

  Only a Duke Will Do

  One Step Behind

  The Madness of Lord Westfall

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Amalie Howard and Angie Frazier. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Select Historical is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Alethea Spiridon

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill

  Cover art from Period Images

  ISBN 978-1-63375-870-4

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition March 2017

  For all the badass princesses out there

  Prologue

  Volkonsky Palace

  St. Petersburg, Russia

  September 1816

  Princess Svetlanka Volkonsky moved noiselessly in her younger sister’s bedchamber, her hands shaking as she gathered a few articles of clothing and all the jewelry she could find.

  Earlier that day, the sound of her uncle’s anger had stopped her as she passed the second-floor landing on her way to the music room. Count Volkonsky rarely raised his voice, so hearing it boom from the direction of the hunting room had made her pause. And listen.

  What she’d heard told her that she and her younger sister, Irina, needed to get away from St. Petersburg as soon as they could. Out of the country, if possible, and far out of Count Volkonsky’s reach.

  Because her uncle meant to kill them.

  Lana had suspected for years that her uncle had been selling crown secrets to the French, but she had never guessed that he would be capable of murder…or capable of murdering his own brother. Her parents had died months before in an accident, their carriage having overturned and plummeted down a cliff, sending them, their driver, and footman all to their deaths. The blame had been firmly laid upon a faulty carriage wheel, and both she and Irina had been left orphans and wards of their uncle. Now, Lana knew the truth—thanks to what she had overheard earlier that afternoon.

  Lana tugged the drapes at the window closed and turned to her sister, who was plucking various items from an open chest and placing them into a small case spread open upon her bed. Lana fisted her hands in the folds of her own dark blue traveling dress. “Only what you need, Irina.”

  “Where are we going?” her sister asked, her violet eyes wide with fear.

  “I…don’t know,” Lana replied. “But I have sent word to someone who will help us.”

  Well before he’d died, her father had confided in Lana, telling her that if she ever required aid in an emergency and he was not there to give it, she need only send a note to a particular address. A candle shop, of all places. The note was to be addressed to LL and signed with her father’s royal seal. He will come if he is in St. Petersburg, her father had promised. Lana only hoped that her father’s trust in this man, at least, had not been misplaced.

  “But why must we leave?” Irina cried. “Our lives are here. Everyone we love is here. And why are we leaving in the middle of the night? Will we not say good-bye?”

  How could she tell her sister the things she had overheard their uncle saying that afternoon? That in his quest to get his hands on their considerable fortune he had arranged his brother’s accident, and now a marriage between Lana and his odious ally, Baron Zakorov. That he and Zakorov would share her inheritance, and soon after the wedding, Lana would not be alive to protest.

  If she refused the marriage, her scheming uncle would likely kill her anyway, or turn his attentions to Irina. Lana would never allow either of those things to happen. She shook her head decisively. No, this was the only way.

  “Because we must,” she answered. “Take any jewels. Anything of value you can find.”

  “Lana.” Her sister’s voice caught. “I’m scared.”

  She moved swiftly across the room to embrace Irina. “As am I.”

  Lana stared at her sister, who was valiantly trying to hold back her tears, and marveled at the extent of her bravery at the tender age of fourteen. Lana was only older by four years, but she had had more time with their mother and had already made her bow to Russian society. Irina had always been far more sheltered. Still, Lana knew that she should at least tell her a part of the truth. Irina was old enough to understand what was at stake. She took a deep breath and sat her sister on the edge of the bed.

  “We cannot trust in our uncle any longer. He means us harm. I have heard him confess it with my own ears.”

  Irina’s eyes widened to huge orbs, and Lana rushed to soothe her. “But you must have faith in me. Believe me when I say I will make us safe again.”

  The tears that had been shimmering in Irina’s eyes broke free, coursing down her cheeks in an unhindered waterfall. “I believe you,” she sobbed. “But I miss Mama.”

  “I do, too, but I need you to be strong, Irina.” Lana wiped her sister’s face with her sleeve. “I cannot do this without you. So dry your eyes, and pack what you can. A few simple gowns, and whatever else you treasure.”

  She watched her sister rally, and although her fingers shook with every swiftly chosen item she placed in the small suitcase, Lana knew that she could count on Irina not to fall apart. At least not until they arrived somewhere safe, out of the reach of their greedy uncle.

  Lana had already canvassed her mother’s rooms, untouched since the accident, and emptied her jewelry cases. Gems of every hue glittered among ropes of gold and silver. She hoped it would be enough to get them to safety. Her uncle controlled their inheritance and the small monthly allowance they were given, though Lana had not thought to save a single kopek of it. How could she have planned for this?

  Lana lifted the two cases she had packed for herself earlier that evening, one of which was filled with something much more valuable than clothing and treasured memories. When her father had been alive, she had often seen him tuck the small key to his private safe inside a hidden desk drawer. After his death, she had found the key and used it to open the safe.

  There had been no money but a number of papers and documents, many of them strangely wor
ded love letters written by her uncle. Curious as to what they said, Lana had kept the documents rather than turn them over to her uncle—a stroke of serendipity, it seemed. They had been an entertaining puzzle to try to sort out while she worked through her grief, and they’d made her feel closer to her departed father.

  But now something else her uncle had said to Baron Zakorov that afternoon in the hunting room, about searching for evidence and a cipher, had made her remember them. The papers had to be important if he was looking for them. Lana had hidden the documents in the lining of her own suitcase, determined that her uncle would never get his traitorous hands on them.

  The last thing she packed was a small portrait of her family that had stood for years upon her parents’ bedside table. Leaving everything else behind would hurt dearly, but it was the smart thing to do. The safest thing to do.

  “Ready?” she asked her sister, fastening a heavy woolen cloak similar to the one she wore around Irina.

  “I think so.”

  Hand in hand, they slipped down the narrow back stairs of the house, careful not to make any noise or wake the sleeping servants. Once outside, they hurried across the darkened grounds, making their way by the light of a crescent moon to the far end of the estate. There, on a rarely used horse trail, a plain black coach sat waiting, just as she had requested in the note to her father’s trusted, yet anonymous, friend. The horses whinnied nervously beside a hulking shadow of a man. Lana’s heartbeat tripped. For a moment, she experienced real fear. What if the note had been intercepted by her uncle? What if this giant was his man?

  “Princess,” the shadowy figure said. “Lord Langlevit bids you welcome.”

  Lord Langlevit? Lana did not know this man, but his initials aligned with the ones she had written on the note: LL. He had come. Just as her father had promised. The terror drained from her body, and with a nod to her sister, Lana let the man help Irina into the waiting coach. She glanced over her shoulder, looking in bittersweet sorrow at her home.

  Her birthright.

  Lana gritted her teeth at the thought of her devious, conniving uncle. One day, she would find a way to get Volkonsky Palace back and bring her uncle to justice for his crimes—against her family and, possibly, against his country.

  For now, her only priority was her sister’s safety.

  Chapter One

  Ferndale

  Essex, England

  April 1817

  Lord Graham Findlay, Viscount Northridge and heir to the title and holdings of the Earl of Dinsmore, rode over Ferndale’s western field like the hounds of hell were after him. His chestnut’s deep burgundy crest and withers shimmered with every powerful stride, Gray’s own blood burning beneath his skin. The exercise wasn’t just for his favorite mount, Pharaoh, but for Gray as well. Early-morning rides, while the sky was still rising with color, were the only things that kept Gray from unraveling during the rest of the day.

  He spent his nights alone and, without fail, woke each morning with a keen ache deep in his loins. It always hurt worse when he was in London, where his evenings were devoted to dinners with friends, cards at White’s, or a more hazardous bit of gambling at one of the gaming hells he’d once frequented far too often. The temptations London held came to him in the most enticing forms—revealing dresses, coy smiles, a hiked skirt to display the shapely turn of an ankle, and at some establishments, much, much more than an ankle.

  Gray allowed himself to look, but he didn’t touch, and for that reason alone he preferred Essex to London, by far.

  Here at Ferndale, the ache he woke with every morning, the one he’d come to trust in and yet still despise, wasn’t as great. With his evenings spent sedately among his parents and sister, Gray could more easily ignore the fact that he had not taken a woman to his bed in nearly three years. It was a decision he had made for himself, and one he would abide by.

  One he would stake his honor upon.

  For one reason: Sofia.

  The ride with Pharaoh that morning had done more than alleviate the sensation of loneliness. It had strengthened his fortitude to stand by his vow—a private vow, born of a mistake Gray promised himself on a daily basis he would never repeat.

  He reined in Pharaoh and turned him to face the ridge of oak and ash trees. The sunrise was a honeyed hue this morning, with large streaks of clouds and blue sky cutting through the gold. Gray took a deep breath and finally allowed his mind to rush forward, into the day that lay ahead of him.

  His younger sister, Briannon, would be expecting him in the attics above the servants’ quarters shortly after breakfast. It was where they secretly stored their fencing gear, and being situated so high within the manor, the clashing of their foils would not be heard by their oblivious mother several stories below. Lady Dinsmore absolutely forbade her only daughter to participate in anything so active as fencing, the threat of one of Brynn’s breathing attacks always there, hovering in the background.

  Gray himself did not enjoy indulging his sister’s adventurous streak, however he had long ago realized she could not be kept high on a shelf, wrapped in cotton linen. As stubborn as a mule and far too clever by half, she was going to get herself into trouble one way or another. Gray only thought it wise that he be there with her in case her health took a turn for the worse.

  This skewed sense of duty was what had led him to teach Brynn how to ride, how to fence, and even how to shoot, heaven help him. The thought made him remember why he was at Ferndale to begin with. The visit had not been planned, but when he had learned that his father’s coach had been set upon by the Masked Marauder—the notorious highwayman terrorizing the ton from London to Essex—en route to the Worthington Abbey ball, and that Brynn had been accosted by the blackguard, Gray had left Bishop House in London at once.

  He had expected to find his family in a state of distress. Instead, he’d arrived the morning before to find only one of them still in a lather: Mother, of course. Brynn had been perfectly well, if a little distracted. His father had been grumbling about the loss of a pair of fine cufflinks but had otherwise appeared unaffected. Gray’s hasty departure from London hadn’t seemed all that necessary after all, though he never regretted an excursion to Ferndale, and not just to flee the seemingly endless supply of fine women willing to help him crumble his vows of celibacy. Gray looked forward to every visit to Ferndale, and most especially to the neighboring village of Breckenham.

  He guided Pharaoh back through the field at a steady trot, unable to suppress the grin stealing over his lips. After an hour or two with Brynn in the attics, he would wash up and make some excuse for missing tea with mother. The Coopers would not be expecting him, of course. He hadn’t had the time to send ahead a letter before rushing out of London. He would deliver a note today, announcing himself and requesting a visit, perhaps tomorrow. Gray didn’t trust any of Ferndale’s servants not to gossip, so he would deliver the note himself.

  Discretion was paramount. This he had promised the Coopers and himself.

  Gray was still smiling when he dismounted Pharaoh at the estate’s stable doors and walked the chestnut in. Hatcher, one of the stable boys, set down a pitchfork and rushed forward for the reins. Gray gave his mount one last affectionate rub against his chin and began for the kitchens. It wasn’t a proper entrance for the future master of the house, but it was the most appealing, especially when Cook had breakfast preparations well underway and Gray’s stomach was rumbling with hunger.

  The kitchens were a vast network of subterranean rooms underneath the first floor of the manor, and it was a place he admitted to knowing next to nothing about. This was not his territory, to be sure, however his nose had been guiding him to Mrs. Braxton’s great hearth and stove for as long as memory served. It didn’t fail him now. When he slinked into the main kitchen, two scullery maids glanced up from a long table where they were peeling hard-boiled eggs.

  He lifted a finger to his lips, and the girls stifled their giggles, their eyes darting toward the cook, who s
tood with her back to the rest of the room. Mrs. Braxton was a short, lean woman, all bones and sinew—everything most cooks in noble houses were not. The only roundness to Mrs. Braxton was her face, which was the shape of a plump tomato, and usually the color of one as well.

  As Gray tiptoed up behind her and reached a hand toward the tray she was busy piling with sausages, he felt like a boy again.

  “I know you’re there, Master Gray, and so help me I’ll rap your knuckles with me fork if you don’t—oh!”

  Mrs. Braxton jumped nearly a foot into the air as Gray swatted her backside, distracting her long enough to pluck two sausages from the tray. The scullery maids burst out with their giggles as Mrs. Braxton swung her fork at him like a sword. He bounded away, holding up his prizes, one in each hand.

  “Oh, you scoundrel!” she cried, her cheeks coloring a deeper crimson. She couldn’t contain her own grin though. “If that’s the way you’re treating the young women in London, you’ll be a bachelor forever!”

  “Or married in a fortnight,” he said, winking at her.

  Gray laughed and darted out of the kitchen as a new potato came sailing toward his head. Their butler’s wife had extraordinarily good aim, and a welt on his forehead was not something he desired, especially if he was going to pay the Coopers a visit tomorrow.

  His smile dulled somewhat as Mrs. Frommer came around the corner in the hallway and met him with her usual, dour expression. The strict housekeeper could scatter the rest of the staff under her watch with one glance, and the effect was much the same with him. She bobbed her head, continuing into the kitchen, and Gray made good on his escape.

  He was nearly to the top of the servant stairs to the first floor when the door at the landing opened. Brynn’s new lady’s maid, Lana Volchek, rushed down the first few steps, only glancing up when she had reached the step above Gray’s. When she saw him, she didn’t widen her eyes the way the two scullery maids had. She didn’t gasp or falter at the unexpected sight of a lord in the servant stairwell.

  She glared at him, one imperious, dark brow vaulted high. The laughter froze on his cheeks as she regarded him with a disapproving stare far beyond the reaches of her position.