Lana forced a smile.
“I am Lady Cordelia Vandermere,” the woman went on. “One of your mistress’s friends.”
Lana’s eyes widened in recognition at the name. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady.”
She frowned, recalling a previous conversation between Brynn and Lord Northridge that suggested the girl was an unemotional block of ice. She certainly did not seem like one now. Intelligence and humor shone in her eyes.
“Is your mistress with you?” Lady Cordelia asked.
“No, my lady, I am running errands, and I must insist that I return your fan. You are far too generous.”
Lady Cordelia smiled. “I won’t hear of it. ’Tis only a bit of silk.” She looked around as if searching for the Dinsmore carriage. “May I offer you a ride to Ferndale? We were coming through Essex ourselves on our way to London,” she added by way of explanation. “I needed a bit of a stroll after being cooped up in the carriage for so many hours.”
Lana shook her head. “Thank you for your kind offer, but my carriage is waiting a few streets away.”
“Good day, then.”
Lana inclined her head graciously. “My lady.”
After Cordelia and her companion continued along the lane, Lana composed herself and made her way back to where Colton would be waiting. She held her breath, wondering whether Lord Northridge would pounce on her at any moment, but her walk to the carriage was uninterrupted.
As they made their way back to Ferndale, Lana knew that she’d had a narrow escape with Lady Cordelia as well. She usually tried to keep a low profile with any guests of the Findlays, knowing that there were decent odds that a visiting aristocrat could recognize Princess Svetlanka Volkonsky. But the likelihood was slim—she was, after all, just an invisible servant. And Lana knew that the ton’s view of the help would solidify her disguise.
But the more she thought about Cordelia, the better she could pinpoint exactly when they had met in St. Petersburg, and even recall the burgundy tulle gown that Lana had worn that evening. It’d been in the retiring room at the Bobrinsky ball, one of the few society events she’d attended last season. Lana loosed a shaky breath. She had to be more careful. If Lady Cordelia had come that close to recognizing her, it stood to reason that others would, too.
Worse yet, if Lord Northridge were to terminate her position because of her cursed curiosity today, she would have nowhere to go but to Langlevit’s Cumbria estate. Having Irina there was risk enough, but the two of them would surely draw more attention. Lana sank into the velvet seat, her nerves crumbling by the moment.
Perhaps her only option would be to find Northridge and explain that she had only seen him by chance. She shook her head. He’d never believe that. Not when the residence he’d visited had been on the other side of town. He had to know that she had followed him. That she’d been spying. No, she had to come up with a better excuse…something, anything that would make him open to her appeal. Lana wondered what it would take to buy his goodwill.
She could lie and say that Lady Dinsmore sent her to find him.
She could beg for his mercy.
I could seduce him.
Lana almost laughed out loud at the last thought. Though Mrs. Frommer had practically accused her of being a harlot, Lana’s powers of seduction were rusty at best. Yes, he’d kissed her, but Lord Northridge would kiss a tree if it were willing. Besides, the whole idea was a sad, terrible cliché. Instead of the master titillating the servants, it would be the servant seducing the master. However, something had provoked him enough to kiss her in the hallway, which meant he wasn’t immune to what little charms she did possess.
“Lana, you are being foolish,” she whispered to herself. “If you offered your virtue to Lord Northridge, where would that leave you?”
As the carriage pulled into the lane at the top of the estate, Lana knew that she would have to find another way to convince him. She would not—could not—barter her body for his goodwill. She wouldn’t be a maid forever, and she had to think of her future.
Thankfully, Lord Northridge had not yet returned, but Lana moved cautiously for the rest of the afternoon, expecting his looming presence at every turn. To keep herself busy, she spent several hours organizing Brynn’s trunks and boxes while creating a comprehensive inventory of every item in her mind. She would be required to unpack everything upon their arrival at Bishop House in London and was determined to keep things as orderly as possible, thus producing fewer hassles arranging Brynn’s rooms and closets in town. Concentrating on the correct placement of every hairpin and stocking, every slipper and chemise, meant Lana did not have any room in her mind for the things she had seen earlier that morning in the village.
Lord Northridge with a little girl on his knee.
His lips kissing away the pain of a small injury.
The pure joy in his smile when he looked at the beautiful child.
Lana shook the images away and realized she’d wrapped one of Brynn’s cotton night rails in five layers of tissue. Four more than was needed. She sighed and fixed her mistake, her feet growing weary. Never while growing up in St. Petersburg had she thought in-depth about the tasks her maids and other servants performed with such precision and quiet fortitude. A life of service was no easy thing, and now she knew firsthand. When she returned home and was restored to her old life, she would be sure to never forget the toll such dedication took. Lana didn’t know how she would continually thank her staff, but she would think of something.
She pulled out a pair of Brynn’s newest dress slippers, purchased this winter, and swore under her breath when she saw three cut-glass beads hanging loose from the floral design on the right toe. She should have noticed them earlier. She glanced at the clock on the mantel. Nearly ten o’clock. Brynn would still be downstairs in the sitting room with her mother. Lord Northridge and Lord Dinsmore would likely be in the billiards room or library. Perhaps a study somewhere discussing Parliament or horseflesh. She would have at least an hour to herself before Brynn retired for the evening.
Earlier, Lana had attended to Brynn after her excursion to the village, listening silently as Lady Dinsmore, seated in a chair in Brynn’s bedchamber, announced her delight at Cordelia’s unexpected visit.
“She has grown more handsome since we last saw her, has she not?” Lady Dinsmore asked, her eyes alight with the pleasant thought. “She has slimmed a bit, and the color in her cheeks has improved. I daresay she will be attending most of the functions we’ve been invited to, and considering it is your coming out as well, Graham will be required to act as your escort.”
Brynn had met Lana’s gaze in the mirror and rolled her eyes. Lady Dinsmore was scheming, of course, wanting her son to marry and produce the next heir to the earldom. But as kind as Lady Cordelia had been that morning in Breckenham, Lana could not picture her at Lord Northridge’s side, as his wife. They didn’t suit, though she didn’t quite know why she thought so. Just the idea of him falling at Cordelia’s feet had left her feeling slightly ill.
Don’t think about him, she’d scolded herself.
Fiddling with Brynn’s slippers, Lana decided to go belowstairs and sew the beads back into place. She did not want to forget them—the preparation over the next few days would be hectic enough. Her legs were aching and her stomach rumbling with hunger as she took the servant stairs to the basement level. She’d dined with the rest of the staff as usual, but she’d barely been able to take more than a few bites of her meal. The impending departure for London, her discovery of Lord Northridge’s deepest secret, and the encounter with Lady Cordelia and her near recognition had soured her appetite.
On her way to the sewing room, tucked between the butler’s pantry and the stillroom, Lana snatched a slice of rosemary bread. She devoured it before entering the sewing room and lighting a lamp. The kitchen staff had cleaned up and turned in, and Lana guessed only Braxton remained in uniform and awake to tend to the needs of Lord and Lady Dinsmore.
&n
bsp; She sat at a table and rummaged through the sewing box for needle and thread, her shoulders relaxing as she carried on with the mindless work of repairing Brynn’s slipper. She filled the quiet with a song, humming a lullaby her mother had sung so many years before. With it came the memory of her long, graceful fingers running through Lana’s hair as she drifted off to sleep. The memory was comforting, and for the first time all day, Lana found herself relaxing.
She was so engrossed in the work that she didn’t hear anyone approaching until the floorboard behind her creaked. She gave a start and twisted around in her chair. Her eyes landed on a figure who stood just inside the threshold, his arms crossed over his chest as he kicked the door shut. Lord Northridge’s expression was unreadable, adding to her sudden unrest.
“What are you doing here?” Lana blurted out, before becoming aware of a prick of pain growing on her index finger. She looked down and saw blood welling up on the pad.
She dropped Brynn’s slipper as quickly as she could, but it was too late. Her blood had already leached into the silk in the center of the beads.
“Oh no!” she cried, shoving back the chair and dropping the needle and thread as well. She popped her fingertip into her mouth, frustrated and ready to scream. She sucked on the pricked skin instead, knowing any outburst would only plunge her into deeper trouble.
“Let me see,” came Lord Northridge’s voice at her back.
She dodged him, stepping around the corner of the table and picking up a scrap of cloth, left behind from some unknown project earlier that day. She wrapped her finger tightly, her eyes watering. It wasn’t so very painful, but she was angry and upset and that always made her teary.
“I’ve ruined the slipper now,” she said, blinking back the mortifying rush of tears. It chafed that she’d damaged yet another of Brynn’s possessions with her carelessness. The slipper would have to be replaced, and Mrs. Frommer would not miss the additional accounting.
Lord Northridge picked up the tossed slipper and sighed. “It was my fault. I apologize for startling you.”
“I didn’t hear you sneaking up behind me. You could have said something or knocked,” Lana said, appalled at the whiny, fractious note in her voice.
He set the slipper back onto the table. “Let me see your finger.”
“It’s fine,” she replied. But he followed her around the edge of the table.
“Your finger.”
Lana pinched her lower lip between her teeth and swallowed the urge to snap at him. His calmness unnerved her. She removed the strip of cloth and extended her hand. Gray held her infuriated gaze another moment before taking her fingers into his. He flipped her hand so that her palm faced up, and cradled it. His skin was warm and dry and oddly calloused for a gentleman.
He inspected the pricked fingertip, and Lana suddenly felt absurd for having reacted the way she had. The blood was already clotting, and in the dim lamplight, the wound was so small she could barely see more than a red dot.
Lana attempted to pull her hand back, but Lord Northridge’s fingers tensed and held on. To her surprise, he pressed his lips together and blew a gust of cool air over her fingers and palm. It shivered up her arm, and she felt it burrow under her skin and into her core. Lana drew a breath and successfully retracted her hand this time.
“You shall see another sunrise, I suspect,” he said. His teasing humor poked as sharply as the needle had done.
“I told you I was fine.”
He settled his eyes on her again, and she found she could not hold the gaze. She glanced at his crisp white dinner shirt, his jacket gone and his cravat loose, though not undone, and found herself noticing how well the fabric sat upon his broad shoulders. Lana squeezed her eyes shut and when she opened them again, centered them upon the slipper she’d ruined. She reached for it, though she didn’t know why. She just knew she had to focus on something. Anything to avoid looking at him.
“This is the second wounded finger I have tended today,” he said quietly.
“I am sorry, I shouldn’t have followed you—”
“Then why did you?”
There was no anger in his tone, only curiosity, but Lana knew enough of Lord Northridge not to misjudge his moods. He could sway from one to the other in the blink of an eye. As such, she opted for the truth. She set the slipper down again and backed away from him, along the length of the table’s edge.
“I thought you were meeting someone.” Heavens, she sounded ridiculous. She felt petty and completely humiliated.
He followed her along the side of the table as well, his hand sliding over the tabletop. “A mistress.”
She nodded, her ankle striking the table leg.
“And that concerned you?”
“I know it shouldn’t have, but…” She struggled not to bungle her words. Her native Russian always wanted to take over when her nerves swelled. “You had accused me of meeting a lover, of having a tryst. Of immoral behavior. And I wanted to see for myself if you were…” Lana lifted her eyes to meet his, though only for a moment. There was a storm brewing in their cool blue depths, and she knew by pressing on she would only bring it closer to her. But she could not back down. “A hypocrite.”
She saw his chest rise under his elegant dinner shirt and braced herself for an angry response. One she undoubtedly deserved. However, he seemed to be taking a moment to gather his reply. Resisting his natural desire to eviscerate with words. She had no idea how she knew what his natural desire was—usually they always ended up at sixes and sevens with each other. This time, though, Lord Northridge paused. Her eyes lifted to his once more in surprise.
“And now you have seen the outcome of my own immoral behavior,” Gray murmured, his attention riveted to the sewing notions scattered over the table.
The little girl. Lana had known, of course, but hearing it come from him made it all the more real.
“She is yours?”
He nodded once, his hand reaching for a silver thimble. He fiddled with it a moment before setting it down again.
“And no one knows?” Lana pressed gently.
“No one beyond Sir and Lady Cooper,” he answered, his eyes finally lifting to hers. “And now you.”
He’d kept his daughter a secret from his whole family. From all of those he loved. Lana blinked, unable to grasp how difficult such a task must have been.
“The girl’s mother…” she ventured, sensing that he would be amenable.
Lord Northridge tipped back his head and drew in another deep breath. He exhaled and turned on his heel, walking back toward the other end of the table. Lana relaxed a little. The closer he stood to her, the tenser she became, as if his very presence held her hostage.
“A previous liaison,” he answered, his back to Lana. Out of his range of vision, she admired the breadth of his shoulders again, and the pleated cut of his shirt, but her stomach turned at the thought of Lord Northridge being intimate with this unknown, unnamed woman.
“We are no longer connected. She chose to give up the child.”
Oh. How awful.
“But you did not?”
He faced her, his eyes sparking with offense. “Of course I didn’t.”
She took a cautious step in reverse. An irritable Lord Northridge was an unpredictable Lord Northridge, and the last time he’d become rattled, he’d claimed her mouth with his. His hands had found their way to places on her body where they should not have touched.
And she had not wanted him to stop.
If he noticed her retreat, he didn’t react. His expression went distant again, as if he’d become distracted by his own thoughts. “I am not unfeeling,” he said, less force behind his voice this time. “I would never have allowed a child of mine to land in some pestilent foundling home or overcrowded orphanage, or with a family I knew nothing about. The Coopers have taken exemplary care of her. And, until you saw us today, Sofia had been a well-kept secret.” With those words, he seemed to lose every ounce of his agitation. His hand rose to
his forehead and attempted to rub away some worry or stress. “The truth is I followed you down here to speak to you in private. I need to know I have your confidence in the matter, Lana. Please.”
Hearing her given name whispered in his cultured, aristocratic tones gave her the slightest start. Perhaps because he wasn’t talking down to her or reprimanding her as he usually did. Or perhaps it was the supplicating look in his eyes that accompanied the request. Lord Northridge had so much to lose should his secret about his illegitimate daughter come to light. And he was asking whether he could trust her. Not ordering. Asking.
“I will not breathe a word, my lord,” she said.
Lord Northridge stared at her a moment, as if trying to decipher whether or not she was telling the truth. Finally, he must have decided to believe her. He stood taller, bringing both arms straight down at his sides. The tension drained out of his shoulders as if he’d been carrying an enormous weight there.
“Thank you,” he said in a gruff, emotional voice. “You don’t know what it is like, keeping a secret you would do anything to protect—”
“I understand more than you know,” Lana whispered before she could stop herself and sealed her lips. The confession had simply slipped out, and now she wished she could rewind the clock and take the confession back.
He cocked his head and moved a few paces closer to where she stood at the head of the table. “Yes. It would seem that we both have secrets.”
Feeling panicked at her blunder, Lana glanced over her shoulder. The door to the sewing room was shut. He’d kicked it closed after she’d startled and stabbed her finger.
“Everyone keeps secrets,” she replied, trying to keep her tone light. Instead, it trembled. His sharp and serious stare narrowed in, picking up on her nervousness. He ambled closer, his manner unthreatening, but Lana felt menaced nonetheless. Despite that, she stood her ground. She would not run from him like some frightened rabbit.
My Darling, My Disaster (Lords of Essex) Page 8
