Ladies of Deception 03 - Betraying the Highwayman (10 page)

He couldn't help himself. He stepped forward and said, “It's not wise to be in here without your shoes on.”

Sister Genevieve startled, as she turned to look at him, her brown eyes wide with alarm, one hand going up to clasp at her chest. “You startled me, Lord Bridgerton. I had no idea anyone else was here.”

“I'm sorry,” was all he said. And he was—he was sorry to have surprised her, but not sorry that he was there. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off her.

She reached up and began absently twirling the end of her thick braid around her finger. “I was just going for a ride. It helps me to clear my head and think.”

“In that? Where are your robes?”

She looked down at her dress, and the faintest blush crept along her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, causing her freckles to become more apparent against her pale skin. “They're being laundered. I was growing impatient waiting for them to dry and decided to wear this instead. I hadn't planned on seeing anyone.”

Devon took a few steps closer, close enough to reach out and grasp some of the fabric from her skirt between his fingers and asked, “Where did you get the dress?”

Sister Genevieve's face registered panic for a moment before she nervously responded, “Oh, it's just something that I had kept from before...before I became a nun.”

Devon silently nodded his head. Sister Genevieve grew uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Clearing her throat she said, “If you don't mind, I'll just get going, that way I can be back before it gets too dark.”

Ignoring her, Devon asked boldly, “Why did you choose to become a nun?”

Sister Genevieve's back stiffened, her shoulders squaring as she pondered what she should tell him. Finally she settled on, “I didn't choose it.”

“Did your parents force you?”

“I suppose you could say that. If it wasn't for the position in which they left me, I can confidently say that I would have never sought this path out.”

For a moment Devon was relieved that it wasn't some apathy towards men that had prompted her decision, but rather a decision she seemed to have made out of necessity, though it shouldn't have mattered either way. “And what sort of position did they leave you in?”

“My parents are dead,” she stated sadly, reaching up to wipe a tear from her cheek. Her throat hurt with the sudden and unexpected emotion she was trying to suppress—it was still painful to talk about her parents.

“I'm sorry. I had no idea. My mother passed away when I was just a young lad, so I can understand a little bit of your sorrow.”

Elenore bent one leg back, propping her foot behind her on the slat of the stall, reaching down to smooth her dress around her bent leg to insure modesty, in an attempt to distract herself until she could speak without emotion. “At least you still have your father.”

Though that was true, his father could never replace his mother in his heart. How does one ever compensate for the loss of a being so vital to your very existence, so essential to your very livelihood, as only a mother could be? He felt a kinship with Sister Genevieve knowing full well the sorrow she felt at the tremendous loss in her life.

There was barely a foot separating them and Devon took a final step closer, closing the gap completely. He looked down on her and noticed her lashes were laced with moisture. He hadn't meant to bring up an obviously painful subject. She looked so vulnerable standing there, her feet bare, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. His protective instincts rose to the surface, and he had a desire to take her into his arms and comfort her. But it wasn't only his desire to comfort her, no, it was something else. The way her face looked framed in the meager light of the stable, accentuating her pale complexion, her perfectly formed features stirred something else inside of him—longing and desire.

In that moment it was as if all of his senses fled. He could no longer think past her perfectly shaped pink lips that were slightly parted, as if in anticipation of his kiss. He couldn't or wouldn't allow himself to think of her as a nun, the forbidden fruit he was commanded not to partake of. No, in that moment, she was a woman and he was a man. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her into his chest. It was apparent that she wanted this kiss as much as he, when she went on tiptoe to meet his face that was already lowering in eager anticipation.

The minute her soft lips touched his, it was as if the universe had shifted, his whole axis tilting off center. The blood heated in his veins, as he held her in his arms, waiting for her to respond. There was a pause, as if she was pondering how to proceed, and for a moment, he thought about pulling back, the first inklings of guilt starting to tug at his heart. But there was some other stronger emotion in him that forced him to shove the guilt away into another place he could analyze later. For now, he was going to enjoy holding her in his arms.

It wasn't the most passionate kiss he had ever experienced, but it was by and far the most poignant. For something foreign was growing inside of him—not simply a longing---but a raging need, a need for something he couldn't identify. When she reached up and laced her arms around his neck, her delicate fingers toying in the hair at his collar, he groaned and deepened the kiss. It shifted then from something innocent and curious to something wild and hungry. He couldn't get enough.

Pushing her up against the horses stall, he groaned and made to deepen the kiss. Suddenly she stiffened in his arms, attempting to pull back from his grasp, but there was nowhere for her to go. He momentarily wondered if he had hurt her when he shoved her into the rough wood. Pulling back instantly, he regretfully let her go. Her eyes were wide, and she looked almost scared. His heart dropped into his stomach, and the guilt he had buried earlier came bubbling up in excess, fully consuming him.

“I'm sorry. I don't know what overcame me.” When she didn't accept or reject his apology, he continued, “Please forgive my forwardness. I was completely out of line.”

He felt awkward standing in front of an unresponsive Sister Genevieve, but when she reached up and clasped both hands over her mouth, her brown eyes filling with tears, he went from feeling awkward to completely hating himself. He hated the fact that he had just done something so reprehensible, something that had caused her to break her vows of chastity. Why had the warning signs in his brain been so easy to push away, to completely ignore? He felt like his common sense had failed him, he felt like a cad.

He wanted to reach for her, to comfort her, but he knew that was the last thing he should do at the moment. Instead, his next greatest desire was to flee, to get as far away from Westbrooke Hall as he could, and the troublesome imp that had caused his brain to rattle. Stiffening his shoulders he said, “Please accept my sincerest apologies. It won't happen again.” Then he turned on his heel and fled from the stables into the dark of the night.

Elenore watched Lord Bridgerton disappear into the night, feeling oddly disappointed at his departure. She must have stood rooted in the spot he left her, both hands, now shaking, over her mouth, for at least a minute, before her brain seemed to start functioning once more. Lord Bridgerton had just kissed her! She knew it was wrong, but in the moment it had felt so right. She knew he must have felt guilty for kissing a nun, and though she didn't feel guilty for the same reasons, she still felt horrible. She had no right to be kissing anyone she had no chance of becoming betrothed to, none at all.

She slumped haphazardly to the ground, pulling both legs up underneath her dress, resting her back against Sally's stall. “Oh Sally, what have I done?” The horse neighed softly, as if she understood what Elenore was saying. “I need to get out of here. I wish Black Lightening would return with word of when I am to set sail. I should have just taken matters into mine own hands. I should have never come to Westbrooke Hall.”

Lowering her head into her hands she sighed, “If only my parents were still alive, I wouldn't be in this mess.” She never thought she'd miss the simple, structured life of her childhood. Then it had seemed dull, and she couldn't wait to experience a life of adventure. After her parents’ death, her brother Paul had arranged for her to become the Duke of Kerrington's ward since he had already purchased his commission in the Royal Army. She had actually been excited at the prospect of a season in London, knowing her parents would never have had the means to have supported one for her and knowing no one who would have sponsored her. It didn't take long, however, for her to realize that society was not where she belonged.

But, being a nun and acting as a caregiver to the earl was not her life's calling either. Now she was in a position where both she and Lord Bridgerton would feel uncomfortable if ever forced to be in one another's presence, though she highly doubted he would return to Westbrooke Hall anytime soon.

***

Devon made arrangements to leave Westbrooke Hall immediately. He was not about to stay and be confronted with a weary and hurt Sister Genevieve around every corner. Nor was he willing to deal with his father and his lying any longer. He was in a foul mood the entire way back to London, and it didn't help that his driver was perturbed at him for insisting they make the return trip through the night instead of waiting for the reasonable morning hour. He kept muttering to himself how unsafe it was to travel, especially with the infamous Black Lightening on the loose. Devon didn't find any humor in the irony of the situation. Though under normal circumstances, he would have regarded it as highly amusing.

After reaching his townhouse during the early hours of dawn, Devon remained in bed throughout the rest of the day, resting up for what was assuredly going to be a long night attending another party. This time he was sure to stay more focused, determined to select a girl to court so his father wouldn't follow through with his threats and determined to get the unattainable Sister Genevieve off his mind completely.

Arriving at Lord and Lady Compton's home, Devon knew he was pushing the boundaries for merely qualifying as fashionably late. He had to practically force himself to attend, not enlivened at the prospect of another night spent dancing. Part of him was also dreading the fact that his father could show up. He was in no mood to play the highwayman tonight.

Entering the crowded ballroom, Devon's eyes roamed over the masses of people, hoping to spot his brother-in-law, the Duke of Kerrington. He'd heard that he had recently acquired a ward, and between all of his trips back and forth between Surrey, he hadn't yet had the pleasure of making her acquaintance. He had to admit that a small part of him wondered what she looked like and if he would have any interest in her, since so far, his attempts at finding a lady with whom he was interested had come up short.

The duke, with his commanding stature, was normally easy to pick out in a crowd, but it appeared that he wasn't in attendance tonight. He shouldn't be surprised that he would opt to stay home with his wife during her confinement. The pair were notoriously besotted with each other to the point of being almost sickening.

His eyes turned to scan the crowd once more, this time searching out a potential dance partner. It was no secret. There were plenty of beautiful women in attendance tonight, but the more he looked, the more they all started looking the same, as if they had all been cut from the same mold. All of them were dressed in the most fashionable clothing London had to offer, though the gowns were of different colors and styles. Their hair was expertly coiffed, not a strand out of place, and the necklaces and earbobs dangling from their necks and ears were valuable and flashy, family heirlooms, the perfect compliment to their ensembles. It all seemed so common, so unoriginal.

Looking down at his own clothing, from his black tailcoat down to the shiny black tips of his buckled shoes, he couldn't help but realize he faded into the countless number of gentlemen in attendance as well. It was as if there wasn't an original thought among the ton. Instead there was an unspoken desperation to fit in, to conform. His mind instantly went to Sister Genevieve and how she had looked last night standing in the stables, her feet bare. He wondered how she'd fit into society, then laughed softly at the thought. Somehow he couldn't put her in the same league with all the women of the ton. No, she was an original. And he reminded himself she was also a nun, completely off limits, and he'd do well to remember that.

He stalked off in the direction of the first woman he saw, eager to begin dancing and put all thoughts of Sister Genevieve out of his head. He was halfway to the lady in question, when he heard his father's name whispered amidst a group of gentlemen standing next to a long table of refreshments. Devon stopped in his tracks and craned his head to see who had been speaking. His eyes rested on three gentlemen huddled together with serious expressions on their faces. He wasn't surprised at all to see that Lord Grayson was one of them. He casually turned around and walked slowly past the men hoping to hear more of their conversation. When it became apparent that they weren't going to say more, he slid up to the table to fetch a glass of lemonade, hoping not to appear obvious in his attempts to eavesdrop.

He gulped the entire glass of lemonade down, not tasting the liquid at all—his mind was too preoccupied with what they could have possibly been saying. He returned the now-empty glass, just as a sick feeling formed in his belly. Was his father perchance here at the party? He ran a hand furiously through his hair, before turning and forcing himself to walk calmly out of the ballroom, though he desperately wanted to run.

He was becoming an all-too-frequent visitor to the gaming rooms at the parties he'd been attending, as of late. Entering the dark, smoky room he frantically scanned the many tables that were occupied with various gentlemen of the ton in search of his father. He couldn't breathe a sigh of relief until he was sure that he had looked at each individual and was convinced that his father was not in attendance. Slumping into a chair, he felt his heartbeat return to a normal pace. His father was going to put him into an early grave.

Reaching up, he loosened his cravat slightly in an attempt to cool his neck somewhat; the room was stifling. He was trying to decide if it was worth it to go back to the ballroom and attempt to woo the ladies of the ton or if his time would be better spent going home and retiring for the night, when the three men he had overheard speaking of his father entered the room. They walked by, completely oblivious to his presence, and sat down at a table not far from where he was sitting. He suddenly got the urge to know the men better, boldly walking over and sitting down at the table with them. Their conversation went still as he sat down, all three faces turning to him with questioning looks.

“I don't think I've had the pleasure of meeting you gentlemen, as of yet,” he said, extending his hand in greeting.

Instead of taking his offered hand, the oldest man of the group eyed him skeptically and said, “Do you play?”

Devon let his hand fall to the table. “That depends, what are you playing?”

“Loo,” the man said blandly.

“I must confess that I'm not much of a gambler.”

“You're in the wrong place then,” Lord Grayson pointed out.

“That I am. But I must confess that sometimes I grow weary of all the dancing and flirting and just need to escape for a spell.”

The other unidentified man spoke, “Understandable, but it's a pity you don't indulge in gaming once in awhile. It can prove rather addicting.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” Devon replied honestly.

Lord Grayson laughed. “I see you're not at all like your father in that regards.”

Devon decided to play dumb. “My father? Whatever do you mean?”

“Surely you know that your father is renowned for his gambling addiction. I thought that would have become apparent when he famously wagered your sister’s hand in marriage to the Duke of Kerrington.”

“I think that taught him a lesson.” All three men looked at each other with amusement but didn't say a word.

Finally the oldest gentleman extended his hand towards Devon, “I'm Lord Stapleton, this is Lord Grayson, and this here,” he said pointing to the third man that Devon didn't know, “is Lord Banning. I like you, even if I don't care much for your father.”

Devon shook each man's hand as he introduced himself, though it was apparent by their knowledge of his father that they already knew who he was. He wanted to be forward and ask them directly if they had won money from his father, hoping to pry some sort of helpful information from them as to where the funds had gone. He already knew that Lord Grayson had, though he had been unsuccessful in his attempts to retrieve any of the blunt. In the entire time he had been masquerading as Black Lightening, he had never seen Lord Stapleton or Lord Banning playing cards with his father, but it was possible that he had missed a game or two. It was near to impossible to keep up with his father's every move.

A servant walked by and offered them port and cigars, to which they all obliged.

Thick smoke swirled and filled the space between the men. The conversation lulled for a time, before they started talking about trivial things such as managing their estates and the latest gossip of the ton. Devon took a final draw on his cigar before discarding it on a tray on the table. He lazily swirled the port in his glass, trying to decide if he should excuse himself from the table and leave. The conversation was boring him, and though he had spent nearly all day in bed, he found he was still utterly exhausted.

“I think I've begun to detect a pattern to Black Lightning’s attacks. I'm not convinced they are as random as some seem to believe.” Lord Stapelton seemed to say out of nowhere. The conversation had just been on Lord Banning's costly renovation of his townhouse in Grosvenor Square and had seemed to suddenly switch gear.

Devon's ears perked up at the turn in conversation. He tried to appear uninterested, though that was the farthest thing from the truth. Lord Grayson's hand gripped his liquor glass so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “Pray tell what your hypothesis is.”

“I think it's highly suspect that every man that has had an encounter with Black Lightening has also won a significant sum of money from Lord Brattondale.”

Devon inhaled sharply, “What does it mean?”

“I'm not entirely sure,” Lord Stapelton replied. “I just think the connection is odd is all.”

Lord Banning leaned in closely, his voice low as if he was trying not to be overheard, “Do you suppose Lord Brattondale could have arranged for this highwayman to hold up the people he has lost money too?”

Devon's palms began to sweat. They were a lot closer to the truth than he was comfortable with. He had hoped that nobody would make the connection between the hold ups and his father. “No,” he said a little more forcefully than he should have. “I'm certain that my father wouldn't do such a thing. Maybe it's just a coincidence that these men being held up have had the great fortune to win some of my father's money.”

Devon wasn't sure that what he had said in his father's defense had done anything to discredit Lord Stapleton's theory. All he knew was, that now he would have to throw them off track. He would have to hold up somebody completely unrelated to his father in any way, and the thought filled him with terrible apprehension. His innocent attempts at retrieving his father's lost money were growing into something bigger, something a lot more complex, and he didn't revel in the thought of having to steal money from somebody who hadn't originally taken it directly from his father's pockets in the first place.