My Darling, My Disaster (Lords of Essex)

by Morgan, Angie

  “I know what you are doing,” Lana said, her voice low.

  Gray looked at the sausages in his hands, one of which was already half eaten. Unfortunately, he had not finished chewing just yet. Hurriedly, he swallowed and licked his lips, concerned one of his ravenous bites may have left behind a drop of grease on his mouth.

  “Stealing sausages?” he said.

  She rolled her eyes, each bright green iris glittering in the light cast by the stairwell’s single wall sconce. “You and Lady Briannon are going to the attics,” she said. “Again.”

  Gray pulled back, this time with indignation. “Did you… Miss Volchek, did you just roll your eyes at me?” he asked, coming up to the same step on which she stood.

  She held her chin high and did not blink at his clear censure. Brynn adored her new lady’s maid, though Gray could not for the world see why. Yes, she had come highly recommended by the Countess of Langlevit, and her Russian heritage and accent gave an exotic flavor to an otherwise very English staff. But she spoke far too freely, something Brynn rashly allowed. Encouraged, even. Her previous lady’s maid, a woman named Nina, had been quiet as a mouse and much more…manageable. She’d also been plain of face and, on the whole, unattractive.

  Unlike this girl.

  Her eyes. They were what distracted him every time she had the audacity to meet his gaze and challenge him so boldly. As she was doing now. They were a rare shade of green, a color that reminded Gray of the stained glass panels in the family chapel, when the sun would catch the emerald shards at just the right angle and set them aglow. The tendrils of hair that escaped the white cap she wore while on duty was as dark as the thick cocoa his mother sipped every morning, and her skin as pale as the alabaster busts decorating the second-floor gallery. The top of Lana’s white bonnet barely reached Gray’s shoulder, but she held herself with a confidence that made her appear taller.

  No, this maid was not lacking in physical charms.

  Gray realized he was staring down at her, his gaze drawn to the gentle flare of her hips. His earlier discomfort, the one he’d woken to that morning, struck again. Frustrated, his grip around one sausage tightened.

  He scowled. “You make it sound as if Brynn and I are going to be plotting a murder up in the attics,” he said, refusing to meet Lana’s gaze again for fear she would see the raging desires in his.

  “You shouldn’t jest. You know how she struggles with her breathing. If she works herself up too much, she could—”

  “That is enough, Miss Volchek,” he cut in, exasperated and suddenly desperate to be away from her. Gray couldn’t remember the last time a servant had spoken to him in such a manner. Having dear old Mrs. Braxton throw potatoes at his head was one thing, but enduring the chastising of this maid, who had somehow worked her way so quickly and firmly into Brynn’s heart, was something else entirely.

  “I know my sister, thank you, and I have things well in hand. There is no need for you to concern yourself.” He then thought of something else. “And I do not know how things were done in Moscow, but here, it is wise to address members of the peerage as is suitable to their ranking.”

  Lana sealed her lips, cutting off whatever she had been about to say, though her eyes flashed with barely contained displeasure. Her sheer impudence astounded him. As if he had insulted her by reminding them of their positions in this household, and in society in general.

  “Of course, my lord Northridge,” she murmured, placing unmistakable stress on the proper address that bordered on sarcasm as she bobbed a short curtsy. Gray was far too eager to be parted from her company—and the warming scent of honeyed wildflowers that she had carried into the stairwell—to reprimand her for it.

  “Good day, then,” he said, and took the last four steps to the servants’ door in two bounds. Once he came into the back hall of the first floor, near the dining room and his mother’s morning room, he gathered a breath and held it in his lungs.

  He’d sounded like a complete brute reminding her of her place, but hell, the chit had deserved it. He only wished he hadn’t been coming up from the kitchens at the time—a place he hadn’t belonged, either.

  The sausages in his hands had grown cold, and damn it if he didn’t look like a fool holding them the way he was. Gray walked toward the front hall, and once there, shoved them through the bars of the cage holding his mother’s beloved parakeets. She kept the pair in the hallway, believing their bright green and yellow coloring were the perfect foils to the sky blue wallpaper.

  “At least you’ll enjoy them,” he muttered, as their little beaks began to peck happily.

  Gray started for the staircase up to his rooms to change out of his riding kit. What did his sister’s maid think, that he would push Brynn to the point of breathlessness while fencing? He was not so mindless or careless to risk his sister’s health. He still worried over the state of her lungs, even though it had been quite some time since she’d seriously taken ill. Those dark memories from when Brynn had been much younger, the many visits from doctors, and the many days and nights when the whole house would pause, listening to her wheezing and coughing, wondering if she might very well gasp her last breath, had not yet faded from Gray’s memory.

  Lana had been with their family for several months, and must have already learned that Brynn would not be subdued, not even by her own fluctuating health. He bristled again at Lana’s familiarity with him in the stairwell, and he was not proud of how easily his mind had turned to admiring her physical attributes.

  Gray swore, aloud this time, as he entered his chamber and kicked the door shut behind him. Damn. He’d been virtuous far too long if he was now lowering himself to eyeing the help. Maddening, belligerent, and far too appealing help.

  Sighing, he stripped. A cold bath, it seemed, was in order.

  Chapter Two

  Lana stroked the soft lilac silk of the evening dress Lady Briannon had discarded the night before, feeling the delicate fabric slip through her fingers. The wave of nostalgia was swift and brutal. She missed wearing such finery and dancing until the blushing hours of the morning. She had owned dozens of dresses like this one, but she had been forced to leave them all at Volkonsky Palace.

  It had been nearly eight months since that fateful night when she and Irina had fled for their lives. Eight months living in constant fear that her uncle would track them down and force them to return. But as the days passed and there continued to be no sign of the count or his man, Zakorov, Lana breathed more easily. There was no reason that her uncle would search for them in London, and less reason still that he would suspect the disguise she had undertaken.

  She was a lady’s maid, a position that was far beneath her true station as Lord Northridge had so clearly pointed out a day past. She smiled to herself thinking of how the arrogant young lord would react if he only knew her secret. That she was one of the exalted peerage he’d spoken about, and that she, in fact, outranked him. She’d give anything to see his face turn the color of the elegantly tailored plum waistcoat he’d been wearing.

  But, of course, Lana kept her mouth shut. Nothing was worth the risk of exposure, not even such satisfaction. Lord and Lady Dinsmore had been more than welcoming, and she and Lady Briannon had liked each other from the start. So much so, in fact, that Lady Briannon had forgiven Lana’s dreadful blunders during the first few weeks of her service. Blunders that would have gotten any other maid dismissed entirely—like placing a pair of hot curling tongs on one of Brynn’s gowns and burning a hole straight through the linen. As a princess, Lana had known what duties ladies’ maids were expected to perform, given that she’d had three of her own, but how to perform them properly had been an education. An oftentimes embarrassing one, at that.

  Though Lord Langlevit had balked at her plan at first—lowering herself into service was an unconscionable idea for someone of her rank—he had grudgingly agreed that the position was preferable, since ladies’ maids in wealthy households tended to have more freedom than most of the
staff. So the earl and his mother, the countess, who had not blinked an eye at her son’s middle-of-the-night return home with two heavily cloaked princesses, had provided Lana with a spotless letter of recommendation.

  She had been transformed into Lana Volchek—the genteel daughter of a respected modiste in Moscow who had come to England under hardships, and with a goal to be in service to a fine family. Irina, however, given her age, had traveled on to Lord Langlevit’s little used estate far north in Cumbria and was staying with the countess as her ward.

  It was more than either of them could have hoped for.

  Lord Langlevit had proved himself to be the trusted friend her father had claimed he would be. He’d spirited them away from Volkonsky Palace without hesitation or question. Eventually, on their journey to England, he had eased the truth from Lana, why they were in danger—that Count Volkonsky and Baron Zakorov planned to kill her the same way they had killed her parents. She’d imagined the truth would have shocked the earl, but he had simply reclined in his seat on the deck of their ship as it traveled out of the Gulf of Finland and into the Baltic Sea.

  “Zakorov. Yes, we have had our eye on him for quite some time,” he’d replied, his lack of a reaction startling her.

  “We?” she had echoed. “Whom do you refer to?”

  “I am not at liberty to say. However, you can be assured that they are people of import.”

  “Lords like yourself? Members of polite society?” Lana had suppressed a bitter laugh as she’d looked out at the choppy sea. “Not that I am ungrateful for your efforts, but I hardly think a few English lords can stop a brute like Zakorov. Or my uncle.”

  “You should know by now, Your Highness, that I am more than what I appear to be on the surface,” Langlevit had replied quietly.

  Lana had not uncovered every truth hiding behind the earl’s titled and privileged exterior, but she had since discerned that he was tied to the British War Office, and that his visits to St. Petersburg and Moscow were more than likely of a clandestine nature. He had not admitted it in so many words, but Lana knew what he was. A spy, like Zakorov. Like her uncle. Only he was friend, not foe, and he had the trust of the Russian ministry. Hers as well.

  Langlevit had offered to let Lana stay with his mother, the countess in Cumbria, but they had both agreed that it would draw too much attention, especially if she and Irina were seen together. They hailed from a prominent Russian family and couldn’t take the chance that a member of the peerage would recognize them. Lana didn’t want either of them to get too comfortable. Her uncle was not the sort of man to be underestimated.

  Despite Langlevit’s generosity and the money she’d accumulated by selling most of their jewels, Lana had chosen to take the lowly position so that she could stay abreast of the movements of the ton. Being ensconced in Cumbria with Irina would have made her feel too isolated and vulnerable. She knew firsthand from her own staff in St. Petersburg that servants were veritable fountains of information.

  The post had positioned her perfectly to know if and when her uncle or any of his associates set foot on English soil, and as Lady Briannon’s lady’s maid, her duties were more than tolerable. Lana wasn’t afraid of a little work, and she was a quick study. Her days consisted of needlework, hairdressing, and fashion, while Mary, the quiet, young undermaid, took on heavier housemaid duties like cleaning and ironing. It was due to Mary’s patient teaching that Lana knew which gowns went where for laundering, which muslins needed starching, and which cleaning solvents were too harsh for certain fabrics. The rest she learned as she went.

  Her deft needlework skills allowed her to set a tight stitch and take over most of the mending of Brynn’s clothing. It wasn’t the same as embroidery, but it was something Lana enjoyed, even if it were as simple as darning a stocking or reattaching a missing button. Sewing had always been calming for her. In fact, whenever she had an altercation with Lord Northridge, she went straight for the pile of mending, which she tackled with uncommon ferocity.

  Lana sighed. Of all the family members, only Lord Northridge conspired to drive her to distraction. Lana didn’t know why she let him get under her skin, but he was the thorn in an otherwise pleasant tenure. For one, his lightning-swift shifts in temper toward her were impossible to predict. One day he’d be aloof and reserved, and the next he would eye her as if he could barely stand to be in the same space.

  Lord Northridge and his capricious moods aside, thus far, the position had served well to keep Lana out of the public eye. Releasing a pent-up breath, Lana returned the lovely lilac silk to the large armoire. She walked to the window in Brynn’s bedroom and eyed the empty bed. She guessed that her mistress had gone for one of her early-morning rides before everyone else awoke. It was mostly to avoid her mother’s consternation, but Lana knew that Brynn enjoyed the freedom and the solitude without everyone fawning over her and worrying for her health.

  Though her mistress had only had one minor episode since Lana’s arrival, she’d heard enough stories from the kitchen staff of ones that were far, far worse. Mrs. Frommer, the harpy of a housekeeper, did not encourage gossip, but a few of the servant girls were not so inclined. Within days, Lana had learned of all the comings and goings of those who lived at Ferndale, including the terrible lung affliction that had plagued Lady Briannon since birth.

  As a result, the girl had been near smothered her whole life. Lana made it a point not to outwardly coddle her, and she knew that Brynn appreciated that. However, Lana did worry. She simply could not understand how Lord Northridge could encourage his sister to risk an attack in a dusty old attic, of all places. Had Irina been born with such an affliction, Lana would have made certain she lived happily but safely.

  Then again, Brynn was a little like her sister, Lana thought—sweet and reserved on the surface, but stubborn and resilient several layers deep. She smiled. Her mistress may have ailing lungs, but she also had a will of iron. Perhaps fencing in the deserted attic had been her idea instead of her brother’s.

  “Who taught you to ride?” Lana had asked one morning when Brynn had returned from her outing, breathless but rosy cheeked.

  “Gray,” she answered, stripping away the appalling men’s breeches and shirt that she favored while riding. These items of clothing, at least, were simple to wash and mend. And if Lana accidentally over-starched or failed to remove a stain, Brynn never complained. “He’s the only one who ever teaches me anything. If it weren’t for him, I’d be confined to bed every hour of every day.”

  “That is surprising.”

  Brynn had stared at her with perceptive eyes. Perhaps something in Lana’s tone had carried through what she truly thought of her brother. “Gray takes a while to warm to new people. He may not readily show it, but he’s kind and sensitive, with a gentle heart.”

  Lana had almost rolled her eyes. Kind and sensitive were the last two words she would use to describe Lord Northridge. After eight months, he had clearly not warmed to her. Why, in the servant stairwell the day before, she’d yet again found him to be rude, overbearing, and irritatingly arrogant. As if she were some brainless twit to be scolded at every turn. And as far as him having a gentle heart, she’d have to take Brynn’s word for it. She had yet to see that he even possessed a heart.

  After straightening the bed and laying out a pale blue linen day dress for her mistress, Lana rushed to her room to collect her satchel. She welcomed Brynn’s dependable tendency to take morning rides. They allowed Lana to walk the long lane to the entrance to Ferndale, where she tucked her letters to Irina into a slim, deep knot of an oak tree. Lord Langlevit had arranged for a trusted man to collect Lana’s letters and ride them up to Cumbria. Upon the rider’s return, he would deposit the letters Irina had sent for Lana. They came like clockwork every fortnight.

  The earl had gone well out of his way to make sure she and her sister stayed in contact, though they had to be sure to keep their correspondence as vague as possible in case of discovery. Still, Lana loved seeing her si
ster’s girlish handwriting, and treasured each heartfelt, if sparse, letter. She hoped that she would one day be able to repay the earl’s extraordinary kindness. As was their custom, she’d written a short message to him disguised as a love sonnet that she’d included with the stack of letters.

  The golden morning sun was still cool, just rising over the lush, landscaped gardens of the Ferndale estate. In a way, it reminded her of the rolling hills of her own home, and for a moment she experienced a wave of nostalgia so sharp that it brought tears to her eyes. Soon, she vowed. She would find a way to prove that her uncle was a traitor. She would find a way to return home with Irina.

  Lana walked the long, curving lane briskly, blood flowing through her veins and filling her body with vigor. She longed to go for a ride, but of course, servants were not allowed such liberties. In St. Petersburg, there’d been so many things she had taken for granted—small things like her horses and her possessions, and bigger things like her family and her freedom. While she missed not being able to ride or attend a ball, she mourned the loss of the latter far more.

  As the large oak tree loomed into sight at the crest of the last hill, Lana drew the packet of letters from her bag. Irina had written that she was being tutored in all manner of subjects, and that the countess was seeing to her education as if Irina were to be presented to English society. Lana was grateful if the lessons kept her sister occupied and entertained. Nearing the tree, she pressed a kiss to the bundle and was about to crouch and place it into the hollow when the sound of approaching horses made her shove it back into her bag.

  Her heart tripped over itself as a carriage, drawn by four gorgeously plumed mounts, pulled to a sharp stop a few feet from where she stood. She recognized the coachman as Lord and Lady Dinsmore’s London driver, Rogers, and James, one of the footmen, at the back. Stifling her frown, she wondered at the carriage’s occupants and why they would have signaled a stop. As far as she knew, Lord and Lady Dinsmore were both still abed. Brynn was otherwise occupied, which left only one other person.