Chapter Twenty-One
Even as a morning person, waking alert and ready without the hazy grog so many others complained about, Irina had always enjoyed a quiet breakfast, especially one after a brisk morning ride.
She preferred chocolate to tea, and would sip it slowly while reading through whatever material was available at the table. Countess Langlevit had always kept papers and journals and pamphlets in the breakfast room, and at Bishop House, Lord Dinsmore would part with his copy of the Times as soon as he was finished with it, though there were always little tsks of disapproval from Lady Dinsmore, should the countess be seated with them. Irina would claim to only be reading the gossip columns, but would happily peruse all the pages, sometimes reading whole articles, other times scanning them quickly.
The morning following her outing to Yardley Botanical Gardens, Irina sat at the breakfast table without her usual calm. Her short ride in Hyde Park had done nothing to temper her anxious spirits. She tapped her foot, the inked headlines made little sense, and she had drained her chocolate within minutes. She couldn’t concentrate on anything it seemed, and the flutter of restless energy in her stomach and chest also made her limbs feel achy with idleness. It was as though her body knew she had to do something but her mind was at a complete loss as to what.
“My dear, are you quite well?” Lord Dinsmore asked from his chair at the head of the table. It wasn’t a long and grand table like the one in the dining room, but a smaller, square table that seated no more than a half dozen people. They were the only two breaking their fast at the moment, though Lady Dinsmore would be arriving shortly, Irina imagined. She nearly wished the countess would arrive, if only to fill the silent room with her chatter.
“Oh yes, of course,” she answered, knowing it was the only acceptable answer. The truth was certainly impossible. Admitting to the Earl of Dinsmore that she could not stop thinking about the salacious way Lord Langlevit had knelt before her in broad daylight, in a public space no less, and set his mouth to the most private part of her body would have given the man a case of apoplexy.
It had even been giving her heart stutters and random flashes of heat and longing. If only they hadn’t been interrupted…if only he could have continued stroking her, caressing her with his tongue and teeth, making her feel equal parts goddess and sinner. It was deliciously wicked, the effect the man had on her.
A rash of warmth swept over her chest, and Irina forced her mind back to her plate and the half-consumed toast and marmalade. She wasn’t hungry, though.
Braxton, the Dinsmore’s butler, entered the breakfast room with his straight-backed, hiked-chin posture and a silver salver in his hand.
“Her Highness has a letter,” he announced and bringing the salver to Irina, bowed as she reached for it. He was, Irina noted with amusement, even more starched with her than he was with his employers. She smiled at his show of propriety as she slit the envelope. The stationery was of Lady Langlevit’s pale-pink stock, and Irina was anxious to hear news of her health. Its downward turn over the last handful of weeks had been startling and concerning, and there was a small palpitation of fear as she unfolded the letter. However, as she noted Lady Langlevit’s own scrawling script upon the paper, the tightness in her chest abated.
Dearest Irina,
Let me put your mind at ease by announcing that I am feeling leagues better than I have been of late. Truly, Doctor Hargrove has commented numerous times over our last few visits that I seem to be on the mend. He has even given me the nod to take a short holiday in Brighton with Lady Umbridge, which I will be departing for on the morrow.
Irina eyed the date at the top of the letter. It was dated from two days before, and so by now Lady Langlevit was already on her way to the southern coast. If she recalled correctly, Lady Umbridge was Lady Carmichael’s mother, who lived in Breckenham. Two days ago, both the countess and Lady Umbridge would have still been in the dark about the dissolution of Henry and Rose’s engagement. Perhaps it was for the best for now…they could take their holiday in Brighton still anticipating the joining of their families. If it made Lady Langlevit happy and helped to improve her health, more the better.
Irina finished reading and folded the letter again.
“Good news, I take it?” Lord Dinsmore said as he guided another kipper onto his fork. “You’re smiling,” he added.
She felt the grin upon her cheeks then. “Yes. The countess is feeling much better and is on her way to Brighton.”
“Ah, yes! I have read that sea bathing is quite the restorative. The salt, they say, and the temperature of the water helps improve circulation.” He took an excited breath and continued, “Did you know, there are bathing machines they draw right into the water at the coast? A covered cart really, and the ladies can bathe in complete privacy. I have thought about a trip myself…”
Irina listened politely as he expounded on the benefits of sea bathing, but her mind had already turned a corner ahead and was thinking how Henry must have received a similar letter this morning. He would be glad to hear that his mother was making strides in her health.
It would also make him happy if he knew that Irina had called all of the nonsense off with Max. The betting book at White’s was too far out of her control to stop, but at least Henry would know that she would not be encouraging Max’s suit or accepting any offer. And if he had meant what she’d thought he’d meant yesterday, about making things right, she had to make things right, too.
She had to tell him everything.
Irina stood abruptly from her seat, causing Lord Dinsmore to drop his fork and knife and push back his chair.
“If Lady Dinsmore asks, please let her know I’ve taken Jane and gone out for a drive.”
Irina didn’t want to lie and say she and her maid would be shopping or in the park, but she also couldn’t part with the truth—that she was going to Leicester Square to once more throw herself at Henry’s feet. He would be furious, she knew, but the moment the idea of telling him about her decision regarding Max had cropped up, the restless humming in her stomach and chest and limbs had silenced.
She would tell him that she wouldn’t marry anyone she didn’t love.
And she still loved him.
Henry was the man she wanted, above all others. No, he wasn’t perfect, and he wasn’t the same man he’d been when she’d first fallen in love with him so many years ago. He had changed. He had become a darker version of that white knight she’d always envisioned him to be. But she still loved him. She always would.
Lord Dinsmore wished her a pleasant outing as she left the breakfast room and signaled a footman in the hallway to fetch Jane. The maid appeared in Irina’s room a handful of minutes later, breathless.
“We’re going out,” Irina said, to which Jane’s expression fell.
“Does my lady wish to see the death flower again?” she asked, likely remembering how Lady Lyon had been on her second visit the day before.
“I’d rather eat a slice of arsenic pie than smell that wretched parasitic flower again,” Irina declared, working a gasp of laughter from her maid. “No, we’re calling on Lord Langlevit.”
The gasp from Jane this time was one of scandal. “But, Your Highness, shouldn’t Lady Dinsmore accompany you for such a call?”
“Yes, she should,” Irina replied, eyeing her figure in the vanity mirror. She had not yet changed into a day dress, wearing instead a forest-green tailored riding habit. Nothing overly lovely, but she wouldn’t have been able to sit still another moment while Jane searched for a suitable gown.
“However, I am thoroughly tired of the rules I am supposed to play to,” she said more to herself than her maid. She picked up her reticule and gloves. “I have something important to say to the earl, and it must be said between the two of us, alone.” She glanced at Jane.
“Of course, Your Highness,” she said with a reverent nod of her head.
They left Bishop House with Beckett at the reins of the carriage, who seemed to take the roads at much too slow a pace. Irina was certain it would have felt slow even had the carriage sprouted wings and flown to Leicester Square. She just wanted to see Henry and tell him everything, get it out into the open. And if he chose to walk away from her…well, then she would go. She would pack her things and return to St. Petersburg as soon as possible. It would be too much torture to be so close to him and not have him the way her heart desired.
There could be no more encounters like the one the afternoon before, unfinished and unfulfilled with no promises or real honesty attached.
Beckett pulled around Leicester Square and came to stop outside Henry’s home. Once again, Irina peered up the stately facade in wonderment and hesitation. Don’t be a coward, she told herself.
She and Jane descended onto the curb and approached the front door. Henry’s butler, Stevens, answered it only moments after Irina’s first knock.
“Your Highness,” he said, immediately dipping into a bow and stepping aside. She entered the foyer, and this time, without the crush of guests, it felt cavernous.
He’s not here. She wasn’t certain how she knew it, but she did.
And then his butler spoke. “My apologies. His lordship is not at home at present.”
Just because she had sensed as much didn’t mean she wasn’t disappointed. This had not been part of her plan.
“Do you know when he will return?” she asked, not wanting to leave her card, and not wanting to stay and wait, either.
Oh, why couldn’t he be home?
“Not for some time, Your Highness. He has been called away to Hartstone.”
Irina frowned. “Whatever for?”
“An urgent letter from Lady Langlevit’s physician, Your Highness, alerting his lordship that her health had taken a turn for the worse. He thought it wise to leave for Essex immediately.”
The words fell through her, tumbling and sliding, but not making an ounce of sense.
“But that’s not possible,” she said, her mind whirling back to the letter from Lady Langlevit. “The countess is feeling much better…she’s on her way to Brighton as we speak. I’ve had a letter from her myself this morning, dated from only two days ago.”
Henry’s butler’s brows pulled together into a frown that she imagined must have matched her own.
“That does seem at odds with what his lordship reported. He was quite upset and fairly rushed to leave London. I do not believe he even changed into riding clothes before setting out.”
It made no sense. Why would Dr. Hargrove write to Henry with such news when the countess was doing well? Unless Lady Langlevit wasn’t as well as she’d claimed to be in her letter. But then…lying about anything at all was so far from her usual behavior. No. She had never lied to Irina before, and would not do so, not even to protect Irina from the truth of her ill health. She certainly would not have involved Lady Umbridge in the lie, either. So, that meant that Dr. Hargrove had been the one to send false information. But why?
“When did Lord Langlevit leave?” she asked.
“Less than a quarter hour ago,” he replied.
Something was wrong. Henry had been drawn away from London based on a lie, though he couldn’t have gotten very far just yet. She might be able to catch up to him along the road. The restless feeling returned, and Irina felt an edge of nausea.
“Thank you, I’ll see myself—”
A commotion of heavy footsteps, raised voices, and the slam of a door cut her off. A man rushed into the foyer, his livery marking him as a servant in the earl’s household. He was tall—taller even than Henry—and perhaps that was why the boy he dragged along by the elbow appeared so small.
“Needham, what is—”
The servant cut Stevens off. “It is his lordship,” he said, breathing hard. “Joseph says he is in trouble. We must call for the constable at once.”
The young boy nodded, his eyes wide with alarm. Irina hurried forward. “What has happened?”
The boy licked his lips, and she saw how out of breath he was, as well. “I was sent off after ’is lordship, told to hurry and catch ’im afore he gone too far. He rode off without ’is pistol,” the boy said, and Irina’s heart stuttered. He was unarmed. In trouble and without a weapon to protect him.
“Yes, but Joseph, what did you see?” Stevens asked, his worry showing through as impatience. Irina felt it as well.
“Highwaymen, sir. A group of ’em. A lady, too. They knocked ’im clean unconscious!”
Behind her, Jane gave a little screech. Irina’s throat felt swollen, unable to breathe.
“And then what?” she asked, needing more information almost as desperately as she needed air.
“I tried gettin’ closer, but couldn’t hear much,” the boy answered. He dropped his eyes to the marble floor. “One saw me, so I rode off to get help. I couldn’t’ve fought one of ’em, forget all four.”
“A wise decision, Joseph,” Stevens said, his eyes hardening. “Needham, send for the parish constable. Send another man to Bow Street.”
“And another to His Grace, the Duke of Bradburne,” Irina said, her heart thrashing unevenly in her chest. She turned to the stableboy, gentling her voice. “Joseph, you’ve been very brave. Can you tell me when you got closer, exactly what you heard?”
“They was whisperin’ about gettin’ his lor’ship into the hack. Sorry, mum, it was hard to make head o’ tails of it.” The boy shook his head, looking sick with guilt, and then hesitated as if deciding to tell her something. “The woman said sum’fing about a ship bein’ turned over.” He grew red with embarrassment, knowing how silly it would have sounded, and shrugged. “’Twas hard to hear.”
Her mind racing, Irina tore through the facts, considering and discarding a hundred possibilities. They hadn’t hurt Henry, which meant they’d intended to take him somewhere. If the boy had indeed heard the word ship, perhaps Henry’s captors were heading for some kind of port. One with a turned-over vessel. Was a disabled ship their lair?
“Can you show me where you saw the earl last?”
Joseph nodded. “Yes, mum.”
“We shall take my carriage, and you can hop up front with Beckett.”
Wishing she were on a horse instead of in a coach, Irina gritted her teeth and fought the rising tide of fear that pooled in the pit of her belly as Joseph directed Beckett to the scene of the crime. What the boy had heard made no sense, but she knew that it had to mean something. The words could be jumbled, she just had to think it through.
The coach pulled to a stop, and Irina hopped out before Becket could dismount to assist. There was no carriage in sight, but the obvious signs of a scuffle in the drying mud drew her attention. Walking over to it, despite the protests from Jane and Beckett, she studied the damp ground, bending to study the carriage wheel marks and other wider imprints.
“What color was the carriage, Joseph?”
He bit his lip in concentration. “Brown, my lady, with green markings.”
Something glinted in the sunlight near one of the wheel ruts, and Irina knelt to retrieve it. One of Henry’s cufflinks. She recognized the etched family crest on its sterling-silver face. Clutching it in her palm, Irina felt sick. She tried to keep her mounting nausea at bay, but doubled over, a sob choking her throat. Henry had been taken. To a shipping port somewhere. Where a ship was turned over.
Suddenly, Irina stopped breathing.
“Joseph,” she asked urgently, looking up over her shoulder. “Could the lady have meant a ship in Dover?”
“Mayhap,” he said, though his eyes remained doubtful.
It wasn’t much, Irina knew, but it was all she had. She wouldn’t wait to let Bow Street determine whether she was right or not, and Stevens would make sure that Lord Bradburne had also been alerted. There was not a moment to waste as she calculated the time and distance in her head. They would have had a head start of thirty minutes in a carriage for the six-hour ride, if they were indeed heading to the Dover coast. The pace of a horse would triple that of a coach. With a fast mount, she could catch up to them quickly. But not alone. She needed help.
Rising, she hurried back to the carriage. “To Lord Remi’s lodgings at the Clarendon Hotel,” she said to Beckett. “And hurry.”
To his credit, Beckett did not drive as sedately as he usually did, and they made it to the Clarendon in short order. Irina prayed that Max wasn’t still abed, and drummed her fingers nervously on the seat as Becket disappeared inside. Within a few minutes, Max’s blond head appeared. He did not seem to have been woken mid-sleep, but was fully dressed. Despite her surprise to see him awake before noon, Irina breathed her relief, gesturing to him from the coach window. They would lose less time.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, his brow pinching. “I couldn’t understand a word your coachman was saying. Something about an abduction? Are you hurt?”
“Get in,” she said.
“What has happened?”
“Those horses you purchased, the Arabians,” she said urgently as he climbed in and sat next to a wide-eyed Jane. “Are they here in London?”
He frowned. “At the Gower mews, yes.”
She nodded feverishly and instructed Beckett to drive there. “Good, good. I need your help. Something terrible has happened. Lord Langlevit has been taken by some highwaymen. I think they’re headed for Dover. The stableboy overheard something about a ship.”
Max reached out, his hands grasping her clammy, nervous ones. “Calm down, love. Start from the beginning and tell me what happened. I will help you, but you must try to relax.”
Drawing a breath, Irina nodded and attempted to speak clearly and slowly. “The earl received a note that his mother was ill, so he left for Hartstone, whereupon he was attacked by highwaymen. Joseph, the stableboy, saw them overcome him. However, I received a letter from Lady Langlevit only this morning that she was in better health and about to take a trip to the coast.”
“You think the two are connected?” Max asked. “The note he received and the abduction?”
“I don’t know,” Irina replied, her anxiety cresting. “But how could they not be? I fear the worst.” Her voice dropped, her glance sliding to Jane who held her head in her hands. “That he has been taken by old enemies,” she whispered. “Dover is the closest port to France, where he was held captive for so many months. He’s in danger; I can feel it.”
Max squeezed her hands, his face determined. “We’ll find him, love, do not worry.”
“Thank you,” she said, breathing deeply for the first time in the last hour.
Max rapped on the carriage roof and helped Irina down from the coach. “Take Jane and the boy back,” he said to Beckett. “I’ll see to the lady.”
Max eyed Irina as they headed toward the mews where he instructed the stable master to ready his horses at once, handing over a few discreet coins to hasten the process. As requested, the horses were ready within a few minutes.
“Are you certain this is what you want to do?” Max whispered. “It could be a foolhardy chase.”
“Yes,” she said in impatience, stepping on the footstool and pulling herself astride. “And I am well aware of that. You needn’t go with me.”
“And leave you to chase down a carriage on its way to Dover all by yourself? I think not.” He pulled himself atop his stallion. “Though you’ll likely be recognized leaving London,” he said. “With me.”
“Do I look like I give a bloody damn about my reputation?”
He grew quiet. “No.”
Managing their pace while they rode through London made her worry spike, but once they rode past the narrower streets and got onto the Dover Road heading southeast, Irina shifted her weight and settled into the saddle, her thighs gripping the powerful beast’s sides. For once she was grateful for Max’s impulsive purchases. Arabians were built for speed and distance, though she didn’t intend to run the horse into the ground. Her half-cocked plan was to intercept the carriage.
Kicking her heels, she did not have to signal to Max to follow when she sped forward. His pace matched hers as huge clumps of dirt spewed upward in their wake. Irina did not want to talk, even though their brutal pace would not have allowed it anyhow. She was driven by one need: to catch up to the brown carriage with the green markings as soon as possible. They rode hard for the first thirty minutes, stopping only briefly to water their horses before resuming their course.
“Irina,” Max began, handing her a cup of water he’d gotten from the nearby inn as their horses grazed in an empty pasture. “You know I will do whatever makes you happy, but the chances of us finding Langlevit are—”
“Don’t say it,” she said through clenched teeth, sipping the water and returning it to him. “He came this way, I can feel it.”
“You can feel it,” he said again, staring at her.
“Don’t ask me how I know,” she said, tears stinging the backs of her eyes. Turning away, she leaned against her horse, resting her head against its neck and feeling her tears dampening its velvet hide. “I just do. Please, Max. I have to do something, otherwise I’ll break apart.”
He sighed. “You love him.”
Her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs. “You know I do.”
“And there’s nothing I can say that will deter you from riding blindly toward Dover with only your heart guiding you, as misplaced as that feeling may be?” he asked.
“No.” She raised her head to eye him over her shoulder, her eyes damp.
Max approached to gather her into his arms. “Then we’ll find him, I promise.”
“I’m so afraid.”
“My daring little princess, afraid?” he teased, pushing her a few inches away to smile at her, his hands remaining on the upper part of her shoulders and lightly kneading her stiff arms. She sighed at the soothing ministrations.
“They’re highwayman, Max. And armed. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to Henry, or to you.”
“Then we shall have to take them by surprise.” Max winked at her, his thumb rising to stroke a tear from her cheek before falling back to rub the length of her upper arms. “Where’s my fearless little partner in crime? Together, I think we can foil four clumsy highwaymen. And one a woman. That alone increases our odds a thousandfold.”
In sticky slow motion, Irina stiffened, her body going still under his hands. Perhaps she had heard wrong, but those four words thrummed to her pulse in a violent staccato: and one a woman.
She exhaled. “Max, I never told you that there was a woman.”
At that moment, there was a shout and muffled laughter in the far corner of the inn’s yard. Irina flicked her eyes in that direction and saw a carriage in the process of changing horses. Four lathered steeds were being led away while four fresh ones were being harnessed. The carriage, however, was what seized her attention. Brown. With green markings.
“Didn’t you?” Max said casually. “Perhaps the boy mentioned it, then.”
Irina’s breath ground to a stop as she looked back to Max, meeting his eyes.
“Joseph wasn’t in the carriage when we spoke,” she said slowly. Something swam in the blue depths of his eyes…something that chilled her to the bone, even as panic made every muscle in her body bunch.
“For Christ’s sake, Max, tell me it wasn’t you,” she whispered, denial surging through her in vivid bursts.
Without answering, Max’s grip on her arms tightened like a noose, one palm sliding upward to cover her mouth. He moved like lightning to twist her back up against him and then pushed her against the body of the horse, limiting her movement while his other arm slid up to crook around the front of her neck. Slowly, he depressed the air from her throat even as her frantically churning brain strained to catch up.
“Max, what are you doing?” she gasped against his gloved hand, wriggling madly.
Deep-seated terrors rose up to torture her…memories of another man holding her down and forcing her into a carriage. Her demons cackled and crowed with glee as they rose from their cages. Oh God, oh God, oh God… Irina felt a dragging numbness take hold, and she fought against it with everything she could muster. She was no longer a terrified fourteen-year-old, and this wasn’t a stranger. No, this was Max. Her friend.
“Max, please, I can’t breathe.”
“Don’t struggle, love,” he said against her ear. “It’ll only make it worse.”
It was all she wanted to do—rail and scream and fight—but as the air departed her wheezing body, she could only succumb…succumb to the man she had trusted for what seemed like forever.