Langlevit poured two glasses. “I wouldn’t claim my family’s distillery produces the finest whiskey,” he said, handing Gray his generous dram. “But it certainly is drinkable.”
Gray had sipped Langlevit’s whiskey before, distilled north of the border, near Dumfries, and it was more than drinkable.
“How may I be of service?” the earl asked as he sunk back into his chair.
Gray cleared his throat and cut to the chase. “I want to know about Baron Zakorov.”
“Zakorov?”
“The man at White’s last night,” Gray clarified.
“What do you wish to know about him?”
“Everything.”
The earl hedged, taking a deliberate swallow of his drink and then swirling the remaining contents, an attentive eye on the amber liquid. “What gives you the impression that I know anything about the fellow?”
Gray sat back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee. “I’ve played cards with you for a while now, Langlevit. I know when you’re holding a winning hand. You go quiet. You protect that hand by not becoming an object of attention. When Zakorov joined our table last evening, you reacted the same way. I think you would have been content to have disappeared into the chair in which you were seated. You didn’t want him to notice you, which leads me to believe you know something of the man.”
“Or perhaps I was only holding a decent hand of cards,” Langlevit replied.
“You folded, if I remember correctly.”
The earl conceded with a laugh. “Very astute, Lord Northridge, but might I inquire as to the root of your interest? Zakorov is not exactly a man in your social circle. I find your interest in him strange after only just making his acquaintance.”
Gray had not yet tasted the whiskey in his hand. He brought it to his nose. “He claims he is looking for two princesses who have committed crimes. I may have information, and I would like to know why I should not approach him with it.”
Langlevit drew his back straight and set his glass upon the desk. His eyes drifted to Gray’s before a blank, indifferent mask dropped down over his features. Like clockwork. Gray had most definitely played enough hands of cards with the earl to detect his tells. Gray’s gut had not failed him. Langlevit did indeed know something about the Russian.
“Zakorov is a dangerous man, Northridge. He is not to be trusted.”
Gray sat forward, surprised by the hushed intensity of his reply. “How do you know him?”
“I am an officer in the army. His name is well known.”
A vague answer, and Gray presumed purposefully so.
“I suggest keeping your distance from Zakorov,” Langlevit continued, pinning Gray with a pointed stare. “Especially if you think you have information regarding the whereabouts of these two princesses.”
Gray sipped his whiskey, but he didn’t taste it. The liquid burned flavorless down his throat, his mind once again slipping back to the conversation with Lana the night before. The promise he’d made her.
He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Say I did know something. Say I wanted to help these princesses rather than turn them over to Zakorov,” he said, earning an arched brow from Langlevit.
“May I remind you we are allies with Russia? Aiding two women wanted for crimes against the tsar would be extremely poor for our international relations.”
Gray watched the earl closely and saw the ghost of a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth. Encouraged, Gray was frank with his reply. “I do not believe they are criminals.”
Langlevit took up his glass again, his finger tapping the cut crystal. “Will you tell me what you know?”
He shook his head once. “I have pledged an oath of protection.” He would not speak of Lana and risk connecting her to Zakorov or the princesses. “I came here curious to know if you have heard talk of Zakorov himself being under suspicion of treasonous activities.”
The earl stood from his chair. “Treason? It sounds as though you are after information an officer in the Diplomatic Corps might have, not I.”
No. Perhaps he would not be privy to such information after all, not even with his newest promotion to field marshal. It was, Gray understood, bequeathed to those who had shown formidable gallantry and valor on the field of duty.
The earl had seen battle on the Peninsula. Rumor had it he had suffered terrible injuries, and though he had returned to London to heal with no visible wounds, he did, Gray noted, often sit and stand with obvious discomfort. “Forgive me, it seems I was wrong in assuming you might know something more discerning of Zakorov.” He stood as well, meeting Langlevit’s challenging glare. “However, if you can think of anyone else I might be able to call upon—someone, perhaps, who agrees with me that the princesses are being wrongly hunted—I would appreciate your introduction.”
Langlevit gave a stiff nod, his hand clenched around his glass of whiskey as he came around his desk. “I wish I could tell you more. From what I do know, you would be wise to keep your investigation as confidential as possible. Alerting Zakorov to your suspicions would only draw the man’s attentions. And if it is your desire to protect the princesses—”
“It is my vow,” Gray corrected. He had promised Lana to eliminate the threat being made to her and the princesses, as selfish as the two girls may have been for abandoning their maid.
The earl cocked his head. “Is it? Then choose to whom you speak with extreme care. Men who cross Zakorov have a propensity to disappear. Do not underestimate him, no matter your intentions, Lord Northridge.”
For a man who claimed to know nothing of Zakorov, he had certainly sounded confident in his warning. Gray held the earl’s stare for a moment. Langlevit might have been withholding information, but coming here had not been in vain. The earl had more than verified Lana’s claims that Zakorov was a dangerous and slippery character.
“Thank you for your time,” Gray said, setting his practically untouched glass of whiskey down upon the desk. “I’ll see myself out.”
Outside, Gray hesitated as he entered his waiting carriage at the curb. Langlevit knew more about Zakorov than he was letting on, but the man wasn’t going to part with anything specific unless Gray returned the favor in kind and confessed the details he knew about the princesses. About Lana. He trusted Langlevit to a degree, though not enough to risk exposing her to his scrutiny.
Without pausing for a beat once he arrived at Bishop House, Gray discarded his hat, cloak, and gloves and strode into the foyer. The house appeared to be deserted. “Where is everyone?” he asked Braxton.
“Resting, my lord,” the butler replied, draping Gray’s things over his arm to put away properly. “Lady Dinsmore has taken to her rooms and asked not to be disturbed, as has Lady Briannon. Mrs. Braxton fixed her a draught. Lord Dinsmore is…in his study.”
Braxton’s noticeable pause in explaining his father’s whereabouts hadn’t been for lack of the butler’s knowing. He knew perfectly well, as did Gray now, that the Earl of Dinsmore had settled himself in with a bottle of brandy or scotch. Perhaps both. Last evening and that morning had been taxing. It had seemed to affect Gray’s entire family. And yet he could hardly think of anything but Zakorov’s austere face and disapproving frown, and what he might do if he sniffed his way to Bishop House and requested to speak to the maid hailing from Moscow that Gray had so idiotically claimed to have.
He could have flogged himself for revealing that. Yet, at the time he hadn’t known Lana had been covering her tracks. From here on out, he’d take Langlevit’s warning to dig carefully and quietly for information about Zakorov to heart.
Gray climbed the stairs two at a time and turned toward Brynn’s room, set at the front corner of the house, with windows overlooking St. James’s Square and a side street. He wanted to be sure she was well, especially after her odd concession to rest after the visit to Madam Despain’s.
He knocked twice before cracking the door open on soundless hinges. The room was shrouded in darkness. The thic
k curtains blocked out all but a few rays of afternoon light, causing the form on the bed to appear as nothing more than an indistinct lump of blankets. Gray took in the sight of the breathing apparatus their father had ordered specially made for Brynn years ago, when her lungs were far weaker than they were now. He hadn’t seen her wear the contraption in months. The cloth face shield and the rubber tubing connected to a glass bottle that contained Cook’s draught. He would have thought she was sleeping if not for the outline of fingers beneath the sheet, drumming restlessly at her side.
“Brynn?”
The fingers stilled. He knew she couldn’t speak while breathing in the aromatic brew.
He glanced around her room but saw no other persons present in any of the adjoining chambers. “Is anyone else here? Tap once for yes, twice for no.”
Her fingers tapped twice. She must have sent Lana on an errand then, or perhaps belowstairs to wait until she rang for help removing the breathing apparatus. Disappointment bit at his chest, though it was strangely followed by relief. Being in the same room as Lana while she acted as maid to his sister would have only exacerbated his shame.
He was no better than Hawksfield, or the Duke of Bradburne—God rest his soul—whenever he was alone with Lana. A servant. He’d known celibacy would not be easy, but hell…he had not thought he’d grow so desperate as to chase a servant’s skirts around his own home. And yet, lately, whenever he was with Lana, he found himself forgetting she was a lady’s maid. He found himself speaking to her as if she were his peer. And he didn’t feel desperate for just any woman’s body. He felt desperate for hers.
“I’m sorry, I don’t wish to bother you,” he said to Brynn, lowering himself into the armchair at the side of the bed. He rubbed his temples, the beginnings of a headache gripping him.
A sudden waft of Lana’s scent—warmed honey and wildflowers—brought his head up and his eyes focused. The room, however, remained empty except for the two of them. Hellfire. Even when she was absent, he could not escape her presence. He ran his palms over the arms of the chair. Perhaps Lana had simply been seated here earlier. He imagined her petite body filling only half the amount of space on the cushion than his larger frame did right now. He then imagined her sitting upon his lap, her legs tucked up, her arms wound around his neck.
The emotion that image wrought, of pure contentedness, threatened to choke him with the impossibility of it.
“Have you ever done something so stupid, so nonsensical, that you wish you could take it back?” Gray whispered, needing to speak, needing to rid himself of his burdens. Brynn was the only one who would not pry for more details than he was willing to give, especially right now, with that mask covering her face.
His eyes slid to his sister’s hand. After a long moment, her fingers tapped once.
“But time cannot be regained, can it? Just as actions cannot be undone,” he went on. “I have made mistakes, Brynn, and I have sacrificed much of my own happiness because of them. I let go of someone I cared for—deeply—because of the ton and their skewed sense of what is right. I obeyed by their rules once before…but I am loath to do it again.”
He lowered his voice to a violent rasp. “Why should they hold such power? Why can things not change and evolve?” He huffed a mirthless laugh. “I am certain I’m not the first to ask such questions. Many men before me have found their lot in life and their heart’s desire at odds.” Brynn’s fingers gripped the soft sheets. He swallowed hard and exhaled. He was revealing too much, and his sister was intelligent.
He stared at the glowing embers of the fireplace and rubbed his fingers along the velvet material of the armchair again, another phantom cloud of Lana’s scent assaulting his nose. He imagined her fingers lying just so below his on the soft material. He was out of his mind. An utterly lost fool.
“Has anything ever been nearly in your grasp and all you had to do was reach out and take it, but you were too afraid of what the consequences would bring?” It was a rhetorical question, but her fingers flexed and tapped once. He paused, his breathing ragged. She’d said yes, but Brynn couldn’t possibly empathize with what he was talking about. How could she? She didn’t know about Sofia, and she certainly would not know what he felt for her maid.
He sighed. “Forgive me, Brynn, I know I am speaking in riddles. I should allow you to get some rest.” He stood and grasped her slim fingers. They gripped his and squeezed tightly, telling him without words that she loved him. He took comfort from it. “I love you. Sleep well.”
Chapter Eleven
Madam Despain bustled into the second-floor morning room at Bishop House, accompanied by only one of her young assistants. The modiste had seemed to become a fixture in the Findlay household, Lana thought, as she stood behind the sofa in which Lady Briannon was seated. First an emergency gown for the duke’s dinner, next an emergency mourning dress for the duke’s funeral, and now an emergency wedding gown for Brynn’s engagement ball.
Lana could still not believe all that had happened in the last two days. One day after the duke’s murder, Lady Briannon and Lord Archer Croft, the former Marquess of Hawksfield and the new Duke of Bradburne, had announced their engagement—and all hell had broken loose. To say their betrothal had shocked London was a gross understatement. Screams had filled the halls of Bishop House—those of rapturous joy from Lady Dinsmore, and those of utter fury from Lord Northridge.
Gray.
Lana had barely had enough time to revel in the secret confessions he’d made to the person he’d believed was a resting Lady Briannon, her face completely covered by the breathing apparatus. But it had been Lana lying abed with the strange cloth and metal-framed shield over her face, the tube misting in Mrs. Braxton’s minty draught. Brynn had pleaded with her to agree to the farce, saying she had to see Archer, and she must go alone. No one could know she had left Bishop House, and so she’d convinced Lana to take her place, reposing under the blankets and listening for any approaching feet for nearly two hours.
Lana had started to think it had all been for naught when she heard a pair of heavy footsteps coming toward Brynn’s bedroom door. She’d barely got the contraption turned on and the cloth shield over her face before Gray had come inside. She’d only been able to make out his figure through the white linen—his hair, tossed into disarray, his muscular shoulders and narrow waist. Lana had lain still, terrified. She had covered her dark hair with a cap, but Lana was taller, with slimmer hips. She’d prayed the piled-on blankets would disguise their differences.
Then Gray had started speaking, asking only for finger taps in answer. Any other man might have asked her to remove the apparatus, but not Gray. He was patient and understanding when it came to Brynn. Protective. Lana had seen that side of him when he’d been holding his daughter as well. Kissing her injured finger, bouncing her on his knee to distract her from the pain. Lana had been subjected to that same care, she’d realized. When she’d confessed some of her secrets, Gray had promised to help her. And he’d kept his word, not touching her in any inappropriate way.
Not that her body had not wished for his touch. It had. She had. And while she’d lain in her mistress’s bed, pretending to be Brynn and listening to his private admissions of past mistakes and present longings to go against what the ton decreed proper, Lana’s body had reacted once again. If not for her own sense of self-preservation, she would have ripped the contraption from her face and climbed into Gray’s lap. She would have kissed him and massaged the worry from his tensed body in ways no decent lady should ever dream of. And yet her mind had traveled that wicked path.
Madam Despain’s voice lanced through Lana’s heated thoughts, and she reluctantly returned to the conversation at hand: the designing of Lady Briannon’s engagement ball gown.
“You have become the debutante of the season, my lady—every young woman making her bow will be looking upon your person this coming Saturday in different shades of envy and awe. You must give them exactly as they desire, and something more. So
mething…unexpected.”
Lana saw her mistress nod, though it wasn’t as enthusiastic as Lady Dinsmore’s bobbing head.
“Oh, yes, of course. Something that will leave them all desperate to follow in her footsteps—though, of course, His Grace is the only eligible duke to be had,” Lady Dinsmore said with a proud hike of her chin.
Madame Despain was staring up at the ceiling where white doves had been frescoed into the plaster and made no show of having heard the countess at all. “They call him Hawk, I am told. And he is a somber sort of man, yes?”
The modiste looked to Brynn for confirmation.
“It seems you have him made out,” Brynn replied in a lackluster tone.
Brynn’s argument with her brother after the betrothal announcement had set her back on her heels. She had slipped into a strange state of despondency, but Lana knew the argument wasn’t the only reason for it.
Brynn had confided to Lana that the engagement was all a farce. That she and Archer, the former marquess, had been about to become suspects in the late duke’s murder—each of them had gone off into Hadley Gardens on their own after the dinner, and neither of them had an alibi for when the duke was killed. Mr. Thomson from Bow Street had sussed it out and…well, Brynn had stunned both Mr. Thomson and Archer by claiming she and Archer had been getting engaged at the time.
After the row she’d had with Gray, Brynn had broken down in tears, sobbing that she’d made a mess of everything. Lana’s chest still ached for her, and these last two days, she’d shoved aside her own troubles with Zakorov and her uncle to care for her mistress. It had been, Lana admitted guiltily, rather a relief.
“Then you shall be a foil to him,” Madame Despain declared, her assistant making furious little notes on a sheet of paper. “Where he is serious, you will be merry. You will shine, my lady, and your glow will shed over your duke as well.”
“My glow?” Brynn echoed. “I am afraid I will disappoint you. His Grace is hardly one to…glow.”
Madame Despain held up a finger. “You shall see, my lady. Now, let us begin. I think a bright jade satin will do marvels with your coloring…”
My Darling, My Disaster (Lords of Essex) Page 14
