My Darling, My Disaster (Lords of Essex)

by Morgan, Angie

  “Of course,” Gray said as the man strode toward them. Everything he knew about Zakorov rankled Gray, but it was his cold, shallow eyes that worried him. They held no empathy. No warmth. Langlevit was right about this man: he was most certainly capable of terrible things. “Lord Zakorov.”

  “Lord Northridge,” he replied, his rasping whisper free of inflection and just as depthless as his stare. Gray had little doubt that he was in the company of a very dangerous man indeed. “It is an honor to be in your home. Thank you for the invitation.”

  “Thank my father,” Gray said. “He hosts these monthly dinners for the House of Lords. Politics, cigars, and horses tend to be the favored topics of discussion. I trust you will not be too bored.”

  “I do enjoy a good cigar on occasion.”

  Gray suppressed a frown, offering only a bland smile in response. Zakorov would not be here without an ulterior motive. He doubted it had to do with Lana, but as he glanced around at the dozen or so guests, there were many powerful English lords and other dignitaries in attendance. He’d stake his title on the fact that Zakorov was here to glean what information he could or perhaps further assistance to his cause.

  Gray excused himself and greeted some other men he knew. Though most of the guests were his father’s acquaintances, he relaxed when he saw Stephen Kensington, the Earl of Thorndale. Though a few years older than Gray, Thorndale was one of the few men he admired, and even fewer in the circle he called friend. Recently married, to the daughter of a local physician no less, Gray was surprised but glad to see him here.

  “Running from the bonds of marriage already, Thorn?” Gray asked, taking a glass of whiskey from a passing tray. “Haven’t you only been married a week?”

  “Six months,” Thorndale said drily. “And I could not refuse Dinsmore’s invitation a second time.”

  Gray nodded to a nearby footman, who replaced Thorndale’s empty glass. He lifted his own in toast. “Well, here’s to surviving all those months of being shackled.”

  Thorndale smiled. “I’ll be sure to toast you when you are as well-chained as the rest of us. I’m surprised that you aren’t off the marriage mart by now. Heard there was rumor of an offer for Lady Cordelia. She’s a lovely girl.”

  She was lovely, yes, but Gray felt cold at the idea of marrying her. No. He would not make an offer. “I intend to defend my bachelorhood for a while more, thank you.”

  “Tell that to Lady Dinsmore.”

  “Not a chance.” Gray grinned, the light humor lessening his agitation over Zakorov. “You look well, Thorn. It appears marriage agrees with you.”

  “It does,” he said with a broad smile.

  There was something more behind it than pure accord. Gray peered at him. “What is it?”

  Thorndale’s smile increased. “I am not supposed to announce anything just yet, but I hardly consider you a gossip.” He lowered his voice. “Christine is with child.”

  Gray felt a stab of something like envy lance through him at the unbridled happiness on his friend’s face. At his friend’s ability to make such an announcement.

  “Quick work, you old dog,” Gray said, clapping Thorndale on the shoulder and swallowing his envy. “Congratulations to you both.”

  “Thank you.” Thorndale paused, staring at him as if the longing on Gray’s face was visible. “You’ll find your match one day, North.”

  I already have.

  The thought was ensnaring. Absurd. He’d enumerated all the reasons why Lana could never be his, but damn it, he wanted her with a force that was unrecognizable. It tore through him like a storm’s wind, leaving him battered. Hell, he was already halfway in love with her. This woman he could not have.

  Thorndale’s laugh brought Gray back to attention. “Does she know?”

  Gray frowned. “Who?”

  “The one occupying your thoughts at this very moment.”

  He considered evading the issue but knew Thorndale would not press for details. “No.”

  “Time is short, my friend,” Thorndale said sagely. “And we must seize the days we have. Don’t wait too long.”

  Dinner was announced, saving Gray from having to reply, and they made their way into the dining room. The men took their seats. To his disappointment, Gray realized the seating arrangements had not positioned him near Zakorov. Instead, he was stuck at the far end of the table, several places away from the man.

  “How did your horses do in the last race, Northridge?” Monti asked as the first course of succulent morels simmered in a delicate white sauce was served.

  “Not as well as I’d hoped.”

  “Are you going to race them at Chatham?”

  Gray shrugged. “I haven’t decided.”

  And nor did he truly care. He had at one time, but the draw of the races had lost its shine. He could breed the finest thoroughbreds, but he could not control the outcome of each race. That fact used to thrill him. Not any longer. The only way he’d been able to maintain his own rigid restrictions when it came to women was through strict control. Risk introduced weakness.

  Lana is a risk.

  Gray set down his spoon and picked up his whiskey. He had to put the woman out of his mind and concentrate on Zakorov, who was engaging in quiet conversation with one of his neighbors.

  “What of this Masked Marauder tearing through London?”

  Gray turned his attention from the Russian and directed it across the table, to a doughy old man whose name he could not recall. “There are rumors that he could be connected to the Duke of Bradburne’s murder,” the man concluded.

  Lord Dinsmore, seated at the head of the table, perked up. “I certainly believe him capable of it, especially after his attack on Lord Maynard. Shot his horse, the bandit did.”

  In the seat beside the doughy man, Mr. Armstrong, a well-respected barrister and a friend of Thorndale’s, entered the conversation. “There seems to be a disconnect between killing a horse during a highway robbery and murdering a duke in his own home. I’m not inclined to believe the two crimes were done by the same man.”

  As a member of the Inns of Court, Armstrong was a level man, a scholar, and as direct as a fist to the teeth. If he questioned a connection between the crimes, Gray leaned toward believing him. With his mind so trained on Zakorov and Lana, Gray had nearly forgotten about the masked bandit and, as horrible as it sounded, the duke’s murder.

  “One man or a pair of them, they’re bloody blackguards,” the doughy man insisted, shaking his head. “My wife is terrified to leave the house for fear of attack. Dinsmore, I heard you’d been questioned by the Bow Street agent. Is it true what I’m hearing—that this inspector is treating every guest at the duke’s dinner as a suspect?”

  “Bow Street.” Gray’s father snorted. “Indeed, the offensive man seemed to be sniffing around the possibility that one of us killed Bradburne. Preposterous! As if one of the ton would ever be implicated in such scandalbroth. Nonetheless, until the bastard is found and hanged, I’ve had my groomsmen and drivers take extra precautions. I urge you to do the same.”

  The discussion grew more agitated as the subjects of self-defense and criminal punishment took over, with shouts of “hear, hear” ringing across the table. Gray tuned out, focusing his attention on the Russian. Above the hum of conversation, he studied Zakorov surreptitiously as he ate, noticing his precise, stringent movements. Everything he did was completed with calculated precision—the way he cut the meat on his plate, the way he chewed, the rigid way he held himself as if he were made of stone instead of flesh and bone.

  “Lord Zakorov,” Lord Dinsmore finally said, catching Gray’s interest. “Monti tells me you’re visiting us from St. Petersburg. Enjoying your stay in London thus far?”

  Zakorov set down his knife and fork, and cleared his throat. “Yes, but I am on official business. I am in pursuit of two fugitives.” Conversation around the table flattened as Zakorov became the center of attention.

  Gray’s father’s eyes brightened with
interest. “Fugitives, you say?”

  “Yes. Princesses Svetlanka and Irina Volkonsky are wanted for crimes against the tsar. My intelligence suggests they are here, in London.”

  “Two princesses?” One of the men, a member of the House of Lords, Lord Calpen, guffawed, only to earn the scathing heat of Zakorov’s glare. The laugh petered out, and Lord Calpen stared at his plate in uncomfortable silence.

  “Volkonsky. I am familiar with the name,” Lord Dinsmore said, tapping his chin. “Do you mean Grand Duke Grigori?”

  Zakorov nodded. “His daughters.”

  “He and his wife died in a carriage accident, if I recall.” Lord Dinsmore frowned. “I never met the man myself, but I also recall hearing that Grigori was a friend to both the tsar and to England. Perhaps you are mistaken on the identity of these women.”

  “I am not,” Zakorov snapped, adding a terse and clearly forced, “my lord.”

  Gray leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting between the downward slant of Zakorov’s mouth and his father’s offended expression. Dinsmore opened his mouth, likely with the intent of delivering a brutal setdown, but Gray cut him off.

  “Lord Zakorov is convinced that these two women are at the heart of a conspiracy to assassinate the tsar, which I find rather fascinating. What proof do you have of their complicity?” His deliberately insolent tone made the man’s eyes flash.

  “Letters to the French.”

  “How do you know these letters were written by the princesses?” Gray asked.

  “The letters are stamped with the family seal,” Zakorov answered with a flare of his nostrils. “And the elder princess was seen in the company of known insurgents. They will, of course, be given the chance to prove their innocence, even if fleeing St. Petersburg is as good as an admission of guilt.” His gaze circled the table. “If anyone has information, they must come forward.”

  Gray bristled at the acid command. The man antagonized him to no end. Everything Zakorov said was too smooth, too rehearsed, too oily. Gray did not believe one word coming out of his mouth. If the princesses in question were found, he knew they would not have any chance to disprove the charges against them. And, frankly, he was more inclined to believe Lana, who had told him the princesses were innocent. She had insisted they had encoded evidence to prove that Zakorov was the one consorting with the French. But every instinct told Gray that if this man found them, that proof would have no chance of coming to light.

  “Do you have these alleged letters?” Gray asked mildly.

  “What good would they be to you? They are in Russian,” Zakorov countered. Every pair of eyes at the table was riveted on their exchange.

  “You are right.” Gray smiled and sipped his drink. “I’m afraid my Russian is rather rusty.”

  Lord Dinsmore cleared his throat, surprise in his eyes at the strange turn of the conversation, and attempted to dissipate some of the tension. “Perhaps one of our maids can assist. My daughter’s lady’s maid is Russian.”

  Zakorov did not bat an eyelash, but a cold smile stretched his lips as his eyes flicked to Lord Dinsmore. “I’m afraid the letters are in not in my possession. However, I would be interested in speaking to the young lady.”

  “I believe she is out this evening,” Gray said swiftly. “With my sister.”

  “Pity.”

  The conversation shifted after that, but Gray could feel Zakorov’s attention returning to settle on him at points over the course of the dinner. It made him uneasy. Perhaps he should not have been so despotic in his questioning. He cursed the fact that his father had brought up Lana, but that could not have been avoided, and chances were a man like Zakorov would not have forgotten Gray’s comment at White’s about their Russian maid. He’d unwittingly put Lana in danger that night, and this evening’s dinner had certainly only secured Zakorov’s interest in speaking to her. Should he request an interview, Lord Dinsmore would see no reason to object, either.

  Unless he no longer held any authority over Lana.

  If she were no longer employed at Bishop House…if she could not be located…then Zakorov would not be able to touch her. Gray had given her his promise that her position was secure, but why would she wish to stay if the man she was running from was so close to finding her?

  Gray could protect Lana—if he could let her go.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lana tugged her cloak closer and flattened her body against the mews. Horses whinnied in their stalls behind her, and she drew a shaky breath. This was a reckless, foolish plan, and Lord Langlevit would be livid if he knew what she was up to. He’d received her note about Viktor having dinner at Bishop House, and a reply had been waiting for her upon her return from Essex. Mary had kept it from Mrs. Frommer’s wrathful eyes the few days Lana and Gray were away. She’d believed it to be another love note from Lana’s secret beau and hadn’t wanted the housekeeper to read or burn it as Mrs. Frommer had once threatened to do.

  The wax seal had been unbroken when Lana had read the earl’s terse reply:

  My Strength will Be with you

  Even from afar

  Ever a watchful Protector

  Until my Heart is yours again.

  Fear not, Brave one.

  We will be Together soon.

  She’d deciphered his underlying meaning immediately: Langlevit was leaving for his meeting with the cryptographer, but someone would be watching Bishop House that night. Someone he trusted. Lana knew Heart referred to Irina, and Langlevit’s coded promise that they would be together soon had settled Lana’s nerves, at least a little.

  But she couldn’t sit by and wait for Viktor to find her. Even now, he was closer than he’d ever been, having dinner at Bishop House. She’d been grateful for the excuse to accompany Brynn to the modiste.

  That afternoon, after the dress fitting and Countess Vandermere’s impromptu invitation to the musicale, Lana had pleaded illness—again—and asked to be excused. Brynn had taken one look at her fatigued, wan complexion and commanded that she return to the residence. Thank heavens, it would seem, for the few sleepless nights she had endured in Essex. She did as requested and had Colton deliver her to Bishop House, but other than borrowing a worn pair of Brynn’s black breeches and a low-brimmed hat, she did not tarry long.

  Because she had other plans.

  It had been rather simple finding out where Viktor was staying. Her friendship with James and Percy had offered more than just colorful vocabulary lessons. James had been the one to deliver the dinner invitations, and when Lana found him polishing the silver in the pantry earlier that morning, all she’d needed to do was bat her lashes and express an interest in her countryman, Baron Zakorov.

  “Who is he?” Lana had asked, feigning awe. “Is he very important?”

  “He’s a dignitary, isn’t he? A toff like the rest of ’em,” James answered.

  Lana had seen no smooth way around her next question but had attempted ignorance. “Does he live in a place like Bishop House?”

  James had rewarded her. “Nah, he’s at the Stevens Hotel in Knightsbridge, where the rest of the military gents stay.”

  She drew a strangled breath now that she had arrived, struggling for air beneath the bindings of the cloth wrapped tightly about her breasts. She had no idea how Brynn did it, and on horseback, no less. The material itched and felt constrictive, but it had been the only option. The disguise made sense. A man could come and go from the Stevens Hotel as he pleased, but a woman would draw far more attention than was necessary. And she did not have the luxury of time.

  In her pocket, Lana fingered the picklock Percy had loaned her, praying it would work. He’d taught her how to use it a few months before, but she’d never tried it anywhere but the stable door. With a determined breath, she walked purposefully down the darkened street and entered through the main entrance. The hall was loud and brightly lit, the armchairs occupied by men smoking cigars and housemaids bustling about, but no one paid her any mind. She didn’t think her face
particularly manly, but so long as no one looked closely, her disguise would work. She kept her head down and climbed the stairs without incident. At the top, Lana gulped a few relieved breaths. Third floor, last door on the right, James had confided.

  The hallway was empty. Most of the occupants would be having dinner at this hour. She hastened to the door and tried the latch. Of course it was locked. Removing the thin lock-picking rods from her pocket, she set to work on the latch, but luck, it seemed, had deserted her. After several botched attempts, she nearly screamed in frustration.

  “Aye,” a voice asked from down the hallway. “What’re ye about?”

  Footsteps approached, and Lana recognized one of the buxom housemaids from below. She was young, not much older than Irina. Lana’s mind raced even as her heart stampeded like a pack of wild game in her chest. “I am Lord Zakorov’s squire,” she improvised, lowering her voice and the brim of her hat. “He sent me to retrieve his…cloak.”

  “The Cossack, eh? How do I know ye ent a footpad off the streets?”

  Lana drew herself up to her full height. “How would I have known his rooms? Or his name? Or have a key?” She kept her hand tightly fisted though she waved it in the maid’s face. “He sent me to retrieve his cloak, and that is what I am doing.”

  The housemaid arched an eyebrow at Lana’s arrogant tone but then leered at her. “A little scrawny for a squire, ent ye?”

  “Not scrawny where it counts,” Lana tossed back, forcing back a rush of embarrassment. Where had that come from? But then, if she didn’t act the part, her disguise would be for naught. Cringing inside, she closed the distance between them. “Maybe later I can show you in person. But Lord Zakorov is not a man who likes to be kept waiting, so off with you, sweetling.”

  To Lana’s infinite surprise and disgust, the young woman winked and obeyed. She couldn’t fathom why women let themselves be treated and used in such a manner. But it wasn’t like they had much choice—in places like these, such behavior was expected.