“And the little girl, too?”
Gray froze. “Which little girl?”
“In the carriage, they spoke of a child they had in London. A girl with blond hair. It made Lana upset.” She blinked and bit her lip, as if trying to recall exactly what was said. “The baron said something about her looking like her father.” Gray’s blood turned to ice as her gaze fluttered to his hair. “Oh, no. Is it you?”
He swallowed hard, his eyes going to his parents, who were both staring at him in stunned disbelief. “Yes. Sofia is my daughter.”
Lady Dinsmore let out a scream—and promptly fainted. Gray’s father caught her before she could crumple unceremoniously onto the foyer floor.
Irina stared at him, wide-eyed with determination. “Then you must save her.”
Gray stood, forcing himself not to sprint to the stables. He met his father’s eyes, which were looking at Gray with open shock. It was time he did the right thing for Sofia. The child was his, and everyone would know it.
“You have a granddaughter, my lord,” he said to his father with a soft, rueful smile. “I promise I will explain everything later. But I must go.”
Lord Dinsmore still crouched near the floor, supporting Gray’s unconscious mother, and sealed his lips. He gave a short nod, and Gray and Langlevit exited through the front door.
They did not speak on the way to London, riding at a pace Gray normally would not have subjected his horses to, but lives were on the line. Lana’s. Sofia’s. Every moment lost was one closer to losing them. They stopped once to feed and water the horses, and even so, they managed to reach London in short order. Dawn was just breaking over the inky sky, streaks of gray seeping through the darkness.
The first stop was the Earl of Thorndale’s home, where he’d sent his messenger. Sure enough, Thorn was in his stables readying mounts with the stable boys, his face grim. “Your messages barely preceded you, North. I’d hoped you were jesting, but I’ve done as you asked. The agents from Bow Street should be here any minute.” He squinted in the gloom. “Who do you have with you?”
“No jest,” Gray said, hoping to God the agents didn’t tarry.
“Morning, Thorn,” Langlevit said. It was all that was needed by way of introduction.
Thorndale nodded a greeting and handed over the rest of his task to a waiting stable boy. “So is someone going to tell me what the devil is going on?”
Gray explained in a few short sentences who Lana was and what had happened. To his credit, Thorndale didn’t blink an eye at what Gray knew sounded like a ludicrous tale. And when the two agents arrived, their burly frames setting Gray at ease, Thorndale quickly repeated the specifics to them. The two men remained stern-faced, though their expressions grew agitated at the mention of Zakorov.
“Aye. We’ve heard of this one,” one of them said.
“Then this is your chance to get to know him better,” Gray replied, accepting a fresh mount from one of the stable boys. Langlevit did the same.
“Lead the way,” Thorndale said, mounting his own horse. As they left the stables, Gray was overwhelmed with gratitude at the man’s unflinching help. “Thank you, Thorn.”
He merely nodded, and Gray knew he’d made the right choice in reaching out to him.
The ride to the Stevens Hotel was quick, largely due to the empty roads given the early time of day. Most men were still tucked abed, and the only ones on the streets were the young crossing sweepers, clearing horse manure and mud from the dusty streets. Dismounting, Gray strode into the foyer of the hotel, waking up a disgruntled and sleepy-eyed footman. “Is there a man called Baron Zakorov here?” he asked in a low tone.
“Who’s asking?” Gray’s lips pinched tight, and the man paled visibly at the sight of the pistol appearing in Gray’s palm. “He’s not here, milord. Not since yesterday.”
His heart sinking in frustration, Gray went to the entrance where the others were waiting, and scanned the street. Where else could they have gone? Had Lana been wrong in her assumption that they were going to the hotel? Hell, they could be anywhere. Gray couldn’t help the panic gathering in the pit of his stomach as he met Langlevit’s eyes. He pounded the doorjamb with a closed fist. “They’re not here. What if we misjudged them, and they are still in Essex?”
“No, they are close,” the earl said. “Princess Irina mentioned they had your daughter in London.”
Gray could feel the weight of Thorn’s stare at Langlevit’s careless statement, but explanations would have to wait. With a ragged breath, he calmed himself and considered what he knew of both men. If the count had stayed hidden in London, chances are he would have wanted to be close to Zakorov.
Walking back inside, he reached into his coat pocket and extracted a few coins. The silver riveted the footman’s greedy gaze. “Where did he go when he stayed here? Did he visit any nearby lodgings?”
“Mayhap across the street, milord,” the man said, reaching for the coins. “The Abigail. But I cannot be sure. There are many guests going back and forth.”
Back on the front steps, Gray took a look at the Abigail’s stone facade. It was a more rundown place, one distinguished foreign dignitaries staying at the Stevens Hotel would likely visit for paid—and private—pleasures. Langlevit nodded thoughtfully. “That would be a logical choice if the count wanted to stay out of sight.”
“Especially if he wanted to keep an eye on Zakorov,” Gray agreed. He met Thorn’s determined look and flicked his gaze to the Bow Street agents. “You two can cover the front and the back. We may or may not have the advantage of surprise. Thorn, you stay in the rear. Langlevit and I will go first. The safety of the princess and the child is our priority.”
Like the Stevens, the interior of the Abigail was hushed and quiet, though far less well maintained. It stank of stale ale, cigar smoke, and the musk of other unmentionables. The thought that Lana and his daughter had been brought here made Gray’s temper double in measure. He approached the dour-faced man at the rear of the room, watching their approach will ill-concealed rancor.
Wasting no time, Gray displayed the pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers. “There is a man staying here with a Russian accent. He would have arrived not long before now, with a woman and a child. Where is he?”
The man’s eyes narrowed, clearly unimpressed by the threat of a weapon. Gray chose another avenue and thrust a fat velvet pouch across the counter. “First floor up,” the man said, pocketing the pouch and disappearing behind a pair of faded curtains. “Last door.”
Gray and the two men made their way up the stairs, wincing at every creak and every groan of the wood beneath their feet. There was a chance that the man had lied, but as they drew near to the door in question, the soft muffled sounds of a child crying caught Gray’s attention. It hit him like a blow to the gut. He nodded tightly to Langlevit, who took up position on the other side of the door with a gun in each hand, and Thorn, who retreated to the top of the stairs in case any of the count’s men came running at the sound of a commotion.
With a sharp grunt, Gray kicked the door in. His eyes took in the relieving sight of Lana and Sofia huddled on a sofa in the far corner of the room before falling on two figures standing at the center, piling items into a trunk.
“Don’t move,” Langlevit ordered, leveling one of his pistols at the count and the other at the unfamiliar man at his side. “I assure you that if you do, you will not draw a single breath more.”
“Norry!” Sofia wailed at the sight of him, but Gray couldn’t let himself become derailed by her cries. Or by the sight of Lana with her arms curled protectively around his daughter.
He frowned. “Where is Zakorov?”
Neither of the men answered. “I won’t ask again,” Gray seethed, his pistol locking onto the count’s chest.
“I am here.”
Gray inhaled a sharp breath as Zakorov materialized from behind the billowing drapes of the open windows behind the sofa, a pistol pointed at the back of Lana’s head. His
fingers wound into her hair, dragging her off the sofa and to his side. A whimpering Sofia followed, clutching at Lana’s gown, unwilling to let her go.
Lana’s fierce gaze met Gray’s, and he immediately understood what those blazing eyes conveyed: she would not give in without a fight.
Gray was torn between admiring her courage and fearing for her life, but time was too short to dwell on either. He nodded imperceptibly. Feigning unsteadiness, Lana leaned heavily to one side, her body shielding Sofia’s as clumps of her silky hair were left behind in Zakorov’s ruthless grip. The baron was pulled off-kilter by her deliberate fall, giving Gray the barest sliver of opportunity. But that was all he needed. He exhaled and fired, the shot blasting through the confines of the room and catching the baron square in the chest.
Thorn appeared in the doorway, his eyes concerned as he took in the scene and Zakorov’s dead body. Langlevit still had both his pistols on the other two men, who hadn’t moved a muscle. The count’s face had gone white with shock and anger.
“Fetch the Runners,” Gray told Thorn. “It’s over.”
Thorn nodded, and Gray moved toward Lana and Sofia, wanting only to hold them. Touch them. Make certain neither of them had been injured. “Are you…are you both all right?”
“We are now,” Lana said, her tears breaking free as Sofia flung her little body into his arms.
Gray dropped to his knees and kissed the child’s head, the tension draining from his body. He’d just taken a man’s life, but it was an act he felt no remorse over. He’d kill any man who threatened his daughter. As Thorn returned with the two Bow Street agents and set about securing the count and the other man, Gray got back to his feet, keeping Sofia firmly tucked against him. He drank in the sight of the woman standing beside them. The thought of losing Lana and Sofia had been a sobering one, and even if he hadn’t already made the decision to declare his fatherhood, there was nothing in the world that would stop him from doing it now. His eyes met Lana’s. Or from claiming the woman who had captured his heart.
Maid or princess, it didn’t matter. She was his. He almost smiled at the next thought that entered his head. If she would have him. In the eyes of society and the ton, Lana was more than his peer. She was royalty. And there was a very real possibility that she could refuse him. Push him away again. Though he’d determined she had only done it that once to protect him, to be able to run from Zakorov if she needed to, he still wasn’t completely certain. Gray supposed he could compromise her by taking her in his arms right then and there. Then again, Langlevit currently held two pistols, and he’d made it more than clear that the matter of Gray’s intentions had yet to be settled. Ravishing the love of his life would have to wait until they were in private. Lana blushed as if she could read his thoughts, and he wisely moved away from the bright source of his temptation.
There was still the matter of the count and his treachery.
“This is an outrage,” the count postured, his eyes darting to Gray’s as he approached. “You have murdered one of the tsar’s most trusted officers. You will rot in prison for such an unprovoked attack.”
“Unprovoked?” Langlevit cleared his throat. “You kidnapped the child of an English lord. As peers of the realm, Thorndale and I will swear that Lord Northridge’s shot was to protect his daughter.” He smiled. “And I fear that it is you who will rot in prison, Count Volkonsky, for your assassination plot against the tsar and the cold-blooded murders of Grand Duke Grigori and Grand Duchess Katerina.”
The count laughed loudly as Langlevit crouched to retrieve the papers from Zakorov’s coat pocket. “What proof do you have? Letters to my French lover?” he scoffed. “Those prove nothing.”
“On their own, you are correct,” Gray interjected, his eyes flicking to Lana’s and seeing the surprise there. He reached into his own pocket and produced the code breaker. “But with Grand Duke Grigori’s key, you will have much to answer for.”
“Where did you get that?” Lana whispered.
“Irina found it,” Gray explained. “Hidden behind your family portrait.”
Lana’s uncle paled at the sight of the stiff parchment in his hand, his mouth thinning as Gray placed it upon the letters. Langlevit scanned the documents using the code breaker and smiled grimly. “It’s no small wonder you and Zakorov wanted these letters back in your possession. Not only do they confirm yours and the baron’s involvement in a plot against the tsar, it also implicates both of you in the murder of your brother after he discovered your plans.”
The count’s furious gaze flew to his niece. “You bloody bitch.”
Gray stepped forward, his fist cracking into the man’s face like the strike of a snake. “You do not get to address her,” he bit out savagely. “You do not get to so much as look at her. You murdered her parents. Drove her from her home. She lowered herself to drudgery…to the life of a paltry servant to hide from you.” He drew his arm back again, intent on pummeling him until his face was unrecognizable, but a light touch on his arm stalled him.
“Stop, Gray,” she said. “It’s over now.” He turned, drawing her into his arms, and, uncaring of his audience, buried his face in her hair.
A small weight launched itself at their joined bodies, and Gray’s arm curved down to hold Sofia close. Lana’s lips touched his ear, her whisper for him alone. “And do not begrudge my time as a servant, my lord. For without it, I never would have met you.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Six weeks later, Lana watched Lord Langlevit’s face carefully as their carriage drew alongside the masses of others in the courtyard at Worthington Abbey. His eyes were troubled, his lips pressed thin.
“You did not have to come,” Lana said.
Irina twisted from her rapt gaze out the window to stare up at her older sister. “Of course he did. It is a wedding ball!”
Leave it to Irina to correct her, Lana thought with an uncontainable grin. It wasn’t just any wedding ball either. It was Lady Briannon’s and Lord Bradburne’s. They had decided they couldn’t live without each other after all. Lana was glad for the two of them, and she had never seen Brynn look so happy in the days that followed their second, and final, engagement.
“And the Duke of Bradburne insisted upon Henry’s attendance,” Irina added.
Lana glanced fondly at her sister. “You’re right, of course.”
Having her sister back at her side and under the same roof for the last month had only underscored just how nervous Lana had felt with her being so far away, in some estate she had never set eyes upon. She had not even been able to properly picture her sister at the earl’s estate, she realized, and that had made Irina seem ever more distant.
But now Irina was safe, as Lana had promised so many months before on the night they had fled Volkonsky Palace. She’d made a vow to win back everything they had lost, and finally, it had come to be. Lana still couldn’t quite believe it.
Lord Langlevit adjusted his cravat, even though it was already perfectly knotted. “Princess Irina is correct—somewhat,” he said with a jut of one brow. “I am not attending because His Grace insisted, but because, as your guardian, I could not have allowed the pair of you to attend alone.”
Lana had not objected to his proposal that he be their public guardian after the fiasco at the Abigail lodgings, though she knew it was mostly for show—and for Irina. They could not have remained at Ferndale, Lana’s position as lady’s maid now entirely unnecessary. Staying as honored guests, as Lady Dinsmore had so warmly suggested, her cheeks still a brazen red from learning she had employed a princess, was also out of the question. Langlevit had eyed Gray across the front sitting room and jumped in to say guest rooms for the princesses were already being prepared at Hartstone. With the countess en route to Essex, the princesses would be more than properly chaperoned.
Before leaving Ferndale, Lana had gone to her room to gather the rest of her belongings, left behind when she and Irina had been taken. She’d stood in the small room and bade a silent
farewell to the space that had kept her hidden safely for so long. She did not begrudge her time spent here. The last months had changed her. They had most certainly widened her view of the world—and the people living within it. Good, decent people, like Mrs. Braxton and Mary, Percy and James.
Taking her valises, Lana had gone next to the kitchens, where she’d been greeted by alarmed expressions, hasty curtsies, and stiff bows. She had acknowledged their awkwardness with a warm smile as she’d directed herself toward the housekeeper’s room. None of them had ever been rude or truly unkind to her. The only person undeserving of her forgiveness was Mrs. Frommer.
She knocked upon the door and then opened it before the woman could issue an invitation to do so. Mrs. Frommer did not appear as surprised as the other employees had and stood slowly from where she’d been seated at her desk. It was almost as if she’d expected Lana to come.
She closed the door behind her and set down her valise.
“Mrs. Frommer, I think you understand why I am here,” Lana said, her hands clasped before her, her chin held high.
The housekeeper did not move. Nor did she speak, though a sickly shade of yellow tinted her cheeks. The domineering woman was nervous, and for good reason. However, Lana took no pleasure in torturing her. She simply wanted to retrieve her property.
“I suppose you now understand what a lowly servant was doing with such a fine piece of jewelry.” Lana’s voice was soft. “I should not have been made to come here and ask for its return.”
Mrs. Frommer took a breath, her lips pressing thin, and went to a cabinet beside her desk. She inserted one of the many keys upon her key ring into a lock, twisted, and opened the door.
When she turned back around, the diamond bracelet was in her palm. She came forward and dropped it into Lana’s waiting hand as if the jewels had been blazing hot. There was no hint of regret on her face, and her complete lack of remorse made Lana pause.
“No apology, Mrs. Frommer? For accusing me of being a thief? For ransacking my room?”
My Darling, My Disaster (Lords of Essex) Page 33
