Ladies of Deception 03 - Betraying the Highwayman (6 page)

“Perhaps you could turn it into a gaming room of sorts,” she offered.

“A gaming room?” he asked incredulously. “Aren't nuns supposed to be opposed to the potent vices of men that enslave the soul and lead them into sin?”

“I suggested you set it up as a gaming room, not a gambling hell. There are plenty of innocent games whose sole purpose is to entertain---chess, for example. Not only does it help pass the time, but it causes one to think and requires strategizing as well.”

Lord Bridgerton let out an ungentlemanly laugh, completely caught off guard to hear a nun utter the term gambling hell.

“What are you laughing at, my lord?” Elenore asked defensively, looking at him with a hint of disdain. She didn't know what she had said that he found so humorous and didn't like the feeling that she was being mocked.

“I'm shocked to hear a nun speak of such evils as a gambling hell. I hope we're not both struck by lightning for your indecency.”

Inside Elenore began to fume. She had run away to avoid being told how improper she was, to get away from people who always seemed to find fault with everything she did. Yet, here she was being reprimanded for being untoward, and it upset her immensely. This was exactly the type of situation she had been trying to avoid when she fled. Rising swiftly to her feet, she clutched both of her hands into tight fists at her sides. “Well, I suggest in the future, Lord Bridgerton, that you don't ask me for my opinion, if you can't handle what I might say.”

He quickly sobered in response to her anger. Taking a step closer, he placed both hands gently on her shoulders and bent his head so that he was looking directly into her brown eyes. “Truly my intent wasn't to mock you. Please accept my apologies. I actually find it quite refreshing when people speak their mind. In my opinion, there aren't enough people in the world willing to be themselves.”

Her shoulders relaxed, as some of the fight went out of her. Maybe she had overreacted to his response. The way he was looking at her made her heart slow before quickly resuming a wild and erratic beat. His eyes were so warm and friendly, the color reminding her of the coffee her father used to drink each morning. He had always preferred it with a small dash of cream, and Lord Bridgerton's eyes were the exact same muted brown color of the coffee. She felt mesmerized by his sincere gaze, feeling as if she was being looked at for the first time as a real person, not just the unwanted burden she had been made to feel like since her parents’ death.

An unknown amount of time passed as she stared into his eyes, unwilling to break the gaze, until the movement of his tongue, wetting his lips, caused her gaze to drop. She felt an odd tingle breakout over her skin, as she watched him moisten his lips, and she instantly tried to imagine what it would be like to feel him press them against her own. It was the first time in her life that she had entertained such wild fantasies, but instead of being shocked at the direction of her thoughts, she only grew more curious. She held her breath, as he lowered his head, bringing his face closer to her own. She couldn't seem to peel her eyes from his perfectly chiseled lips, lips that could have easily belonged to a statue of a Greek god. Just as she was about to melt from the heat she felt radiating between them, he abruptly took a step back, extinguishing the flames that almost ignited between them.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Lord Bridgerton brushed an invisible speck of lint from his sleeve before saying curtly, “Well I hate to cut this tour short, but I just realized that the hour is growing late, and I must get on my way. I have important matters to attend to in London. Good day.”

Devon cursed under his breath. He practically raced from the house as if he had been burned. He didn't know what had overcome him in the library as he stood facing Sister Genevieve, his face a mere inch from hers, her delicate pink lips enticing him to wrap her in his arms and press his lips firmly to hers. His desire to kiss her had come out of nowhere and left him feeling more than a little guilty. Who in their right mind allowed themselves to be tempted by a nun?

Well, perhaps his desire didn't entirely materialize out of thin air. His mind went back to the previous day, when he had held her in his arms atop his horse as they rode towards Surrey. She had fit so perfectly in the front of his saddle, her body resting against his chest. More than once he had thought of bringing Calvin to a halt so he could drop the reigns and wrap his arms around her. He had even once let himself take the dream a step further, fantasizing of removing her veil so he could nuzzle her neck and breathe in her scent. He let out a frustrated sigh. He had rationalized to himself at the time that the only reason he was having such lustful thoughts was because of the vexing position he was in of having a female body pressed tightly against his own for a lengthy amount of time. He had concluded that any warm-blooded male would have reacted similarly in such a situation. Now he wasn't so sure.

Before he knew it, he was already at the cottage where he had left Calvin. He quickly mounted the horse and willed himself to think of more important things than soft pink lips and the unexplainable desire he felt for a nun. Maybe it was the forbidden fruit concept that had him so intrigued. No matter. Whatever it was, he had to shake the thought from his head. He had more important matters to concern himself with—like finding a woman to distract him from his wayward thoughts. That, combined with his father's odd behavior, left him with plenty to preoccupy himself with.

The situation with his father was driving him mad—he had to get to the bottom of it before he could fully focus on finding a wife. He knew his father was growing impatient with his inability to settle on a lady to wed, but if he didn't have to spend so much time attempting to track down the money he lost in his extravagant gambling habit, then he'd have more time to find and properly court a lady.

It was mid-morning by the time he finally arrived back in London. He was greeted instantly by his butler as he entered the family's townhouse in Mayfair. He had already accepted an invitation to a ball to be held at Lord Edwards’ home that evening, so he knew he had ample time to take a long bath and soak off the grime and dust from the road. With his father sick in bed, he was actually somewhat looking forward to attending the night’s festivities. Maybe he could spend some time engaging in flirtations with the season's newest debutantes instead of constantly keeping one eye trained on his father.

***

Devon bowed regally before Lady Katherine after he returned her to her mother's side and thanked her for the dance. He had just successfully finished dancing with every available girl in attendance who intrigued him in the slightest. No small feat, considering the ball was considered a crush. His feet ached and he was overly warm from all the dancing he had been doing. He longed to tear his cravat from his throat and remove his jacket, but he knew it would be scandalous to do such a thing in the middle of the ballroom. He grabbed a glass of lemonade from a passing try, hoping the cool liquid would help him feel more comfortable. He silently assessed his options of women once more, hoping desperately that one of the ladies he had danced with tonight would suddenly spark more interest in him than they had earlier. No such luck.

“Well, well, well, if it isn't the elusive Lord Bridgerton.” Devon turned at the sound of his good friend Lord Campbell's voice, his lips curving into a smile. “I'm relieved to see that the fairer sex still holds your interest.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“It's been such a long time since I've seen you pay a lady much attention, so it was quite surprising to see you interested in multiple women tonight.” He leaned in close, as if disclosing a bit of secret information. “You had better be careful or people are going to start accusing you of being desperate.”

Devon laughed, “And pray tell, what I am so desperate for?”

“A wife with a large dowry, of course. And the sooner the better.”

“Well isn't that what all of us are hoping to obtain? It's not such an original pursuit.”

“Let's just say that some of us are in more desperate need of it than others.” Lord Campbell said accusingly.

Devon quickly replaced his now empty glass of lemonade on the passing tray, exchanging it for something stronger. He wasn't sure he liked where this conversation was heading. Attempting to appear casual, he asked, “What makes you think I'm in such dire need of a wife?”

“Well, if your father keeps gambling, and loosing, the way he has been tonight, you are going to need a wife with a generous dowry sooner than you might think. It's a shame you don't have another sister your father can wager instead of giving up all of his blunt.”

Devon's head jerked to attention at the mention of his father. “My father's here?”

“Of course. Didn't you arrive together?”

Devon felt like his head was spinning. Surely Lord Campbell was mistaken. He had left Westbrooke Manor just this morning. His father had been laid up in bed. It didn't seem possible. “Are you sure it was my father you saw and not somebody else?”

“How long have I known you?” Lord Campbell asked, clearly amused by Devon's confusion.

“Long enough, I suppose.”

“Exactly. Long enough to have a fairly accurate idea of what your father looks like. I'm positive it was the earl.”

Devon cursed under his breath. The last thing he felt like dealing with after the long day he'd had was the repercussions of his father's gambling addiction. Looking around for and not spotting a tray to discard his glass of champagne on, he thrust the glass at Lord Campbell's chest instead. “Take this. I've suddenly realized there's something important I need to discuss with my father.” He huffed out of the ballroom and went straight to the place he knew he'd find his father, the gaming room.

Though Devon was fraught with irritation directed at his father, he willed himself to remain calm, as he casually entered the room. He didn't want to draw any attention to himself, giving him a chance to observe his father's activities more fully. He gave a cursory glance around the room to see who all was in attendance, but it didn't take long for his eyes to fall on his father. There, in the far corner of the room sat his father, and strangely enough, he didn't resemble the sickly man he had bid goodbye to earlier that morning.

He quickly declined an invitation to join Lord Thurston and Lord Richards in a game of whist. Instead he opted to pour himself a glass of brandy from the crystal decanter sitting on the side table, before making himself comfortable in a chair in the corner of the room opposite to where his father now sat. He leaned back comfortably in the chair and crossed an ankle over one thigh. He had a feeling it might be a long night.

He shrewdly eyed his father’s opponent. Lord Grayson was a man a few years younger than his father. But while Lord Brattondale was rotund, Lord Grayson appeared almost emaciated. His gray, sunken eyes held no emotion, as he sat deathly still waiting for Lord Brattondale to make his next move. If it wasn't for the almost imperceptible twitching of the man's thin upper lip, he could have passed for a corpse. While Lord Grayson appeared as calm as a cat, Lord Brattondale was visibly anxious. His ruddy complexion was covered in a sheen of perspiration and one leg tapped nervously beneath the table, a clear sign of his discomfort.

It was with great patience that Devon sat back and watched his father and Lord Grayson play round after round of faro. It was clear that his father was losing and that with every new round, he was desperately hoping to recoup some of his losses, all to no avail.

As the hour grew late and the crowd in the room began to thin, Devon decided it was time to act. Slipping silently from the room so as to go undetected, he headed for his carriage. It was time to become Black Lightening.

***

Lord Grayson happily pocketed his evening’s winnings, careful to keep his expression somber, though inside he felt giddy with relief. He wanted to laugh at Lord Brattondale's disbelief, but somehow he kept his amusement to himself long enough to bid the dejected earl goodnight and slip quietly out of the room.

He headed down the hall to the place he had been directed to meet the man he was working for, the man he loathed more than anyone on this earth. He slipped quietly into the dark room, smelling the aroma of his cigar before he ever saw the man. Sitting in the corner of the dimly lit room, the man was resting casually in a winged back chair, one foot propped casually on his thigh.

“You took long enough,” he accused Lord Grayson, as he stepped into view.

“You're growing impatient. It takes time and skill to cheat someone out of large amounts of money without raising suspicion.”

The man leaned forward and asked eagerly, “Did you get it all?”

With a cool confidence bordering on conceit, Lord Grayson replied, “And some.”

The man graced him with a rare smile, as he extended his hand for proof. Lord Grayson proudly handed all of his winnings over. He waited while the man counted every last bill as proof that Lord Grayson had been telling the truth.

When the man was done, he stuffed the money into his pocket before saying, “I'm very pleased. You have exceeded my expectations, my lord.”

“Yes.” Lord Grayson bit out acidly. “I've kept my end of our bargain, if you can call it that. My question is, do you plan on keeping yours?”

The man managed to look at him with a shrewd combination of innocence and surprise, “Of course. Surely you do not doubt that I am a man of my word, do you?”

“All I'm saying is that, if anyone gather's wind about me and...”

“Your latest paramour?” The man asked, amused by Lord Grayson's discomfort.

“Yes, if my wife hears anything or even so much as suspects that something is going on, I won't hesitate to let this,” He waved one hand towards the pocket where the man now held the money, “become common knowledge as well.”

“You do not need to worry. As long as you continue to do your job, you have nothing to fear.”

Lord Grayson snorted. He wasn't so sure about that. The man was not to be trusted—not by his closest friends, not by his business associates, not even by his own family. He was cunning and shrewd and had a way of expertly manipulating people into getting whatever he wanted, usually by means of blackmailing them, like he was doing now.

“Will that be all then?” Lord Grayson asked, anxious to be on his way. His mistress was expecting him.

“One more thing. I want you to make sure, very sure, that you're being careful not to do anything that might give my identity away. If Lord Brattondale found out I was behind all of this, he'd be furious.”

“I can't imagine why,” Lord Grayson retorted caustically.

“And,” the man said, ignoring his comment and rising to his feet, “if my wife hears even an inkling of this, you will be a ruined man. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly.”

***

Devon waited impatiently for his driver to bring his carriage around. He was practically jumping inside before the carriage could even come to a complete halt, barking out orders for his driver to take him to his townhouse posthaste. He was grateful beyond relief that the evening's festivities had been located such a short distance to his residence. He wasn't sure he could carry out his mission otherwise.

As soon as the carriage pulled up in front of the house, Devon had opened the door and dashed straight inside. He didn't even bother greeting the butler; he was in too much of a hurry. Once inside his room, he dropped to the floor next to his bed and slithered underneath to retrieve the satchel that held his Black Lightening attire. He had two sets of clothes. One set he kept at the cottage at Westbrooke Hall, and this set he kept here in London. He went to great pains to keep it hidden so his valet or one of the maids wouldn't discover it and become curious. The last thing he needed was nosy servants prying into his business.

He quickly donned the outfit before tying the black mask around his face and placing the tricorn hat atop his head. He felt momentarily guilty for discarding his clothes so haphazardly on the floor, but there wasn't time for him to concern himself with picking them up, if he wanted to ensure he made it back to the Edward's in time to catch Lord Grayson leaving the party.

Walking over to the sole window in the room, he heaved it open. He peeked out surreptitiously, making sure nobody was around so he could slip out undetected. He was grateful that his room faced the back of the house and the mews instead of the street running along the front of the house. Hoisting his body out of the window, he held on tightly to the ledge, as his booted feet found the frame of the door beneath him. The ledge was small but just big enough to hold him, while he got his bearings, and he could then jump down the final story to the ground beneath.

He landed in a crouching position on the ground, nearly knocking the wind out of his lungs. He remembered the first time he had attempted an escape from his room in his youth and had ended up with a sprained ankle as a result. Thankfully, he had learned how to brace himself for the fall and that no longer occurred. He stood up and brushed his hands against his breeches before jogging off to the back of the mews where he planned to sneak in and retrieve Calvin. This was perhaps the riskiest part of his endeavor, for if one of the stable boys saw him dressed as Black Lightening, they would surely be frightened and cause a scene, preventing Devon from leaving the mews undetected and getting back to the business at hand.