Ladies of Deception 03 - Betraying the Highwayman (7 page)

He moved along the hay strewn floor of the mews as quietly as a church mouse, slowly placing one booted foot in front of the other, careful not to make a sound. He was grateful that the mews were nearly deserted this time of night. It appeared as if the help was busy seeing to his team of horses and the carriage that had just delivered him from the ball, making it easier for him to slip in and out unnoticed.

As soon as he reached Calvin's stall, the horse began to neigh. He reached one gloved hand out and stroked the horses muzzle to hush him. Grabbing his reins, he quietly but quickly led him out the way he had just come. As soon as the pair slipped out of the stable, he wasted no time mounting the horse and galloping off into the night.

Devon made sure that he stayed off the main roads, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, as he headed towards the Edward's house. As soon as he got there, he was relieved to see Lord Grayson's shiny black carriage still sitting in its place in the long line of vehicles belonging to the guests still at the party. He made his way to a dark corner of the estate behind some trees where he could watch and wait, ready to pounce into action.

The moment Devon recognized Lord Grayson stepping out into the cool London night, he became alert. He watched as Lord Grayson stepped into his carriage, his whole body surging with the adrenaline that always accompanied these sorts of adventures. He waited as the carriage pulled out onto the road. He continued to watch the vehicle until he almost couldn't see it anymore. He followed at a distance, knowing it would have been much easier if he knew where Lord Grayson resided and could have planned to interrupt him en route to his home. Instead he would have to follow him, until they were away from the crowded streets of town, then ride full speed, until he was ahead of him and proceed to hold up the carriage.

When he was completely confident that they were at a location that would provide them with some semblance of privacy, Devon kicked Calvin in the flank causing him to speed to a swift gallop, as he attempted to overcome the carriage. It didn't take him long to pull ahead of the sluggish vehicle, bringing Calvin to a halt a few yards in front of the carriage. He pulled his pistol out and aimed it at the surprised driver, as he watched him pull back on the horses reins, causing the vehicle to come to a hasty halt.

“Stop,” was the only command he barked at the driver.

“What is the meaning of this?” the driver asked in return, his voice shaking, though he attempted to appear brave.

“My business doesn't concern you but your passenger. I suggest you remain quiet and keep this carriage in place or you will regret it.” He pointed the gun at the driver as if to prove he was indeed serious.

“Yes sir,” was the timid reply.

Devon dismounted. He then sauntered over to the carriage, swinging the door open and sticking the pistol inside to point it at the passenger, whom he knew was Lord Grayson. “Step out of the carriage and bring anything valuable you have either on you or in your possession.”

Lord Grayson took his time removing himself from his carriage, and Devon hoped it was due to the fact that he was using his time to retrieve all of his winnings from the fated game with his father.

By the time Lord Grayson stepped out of the carriage, he looked as calm and lifeless as he had appeared while gambling with Lord Brattondale. Devon briefly wondered if the man was capable of showing any emotion.

He didn't have to wonder long, however, as Lord Grayson's stone face distorted into a menacing scowl, appearing as if he might spit in Devon's face. “How dare you threaten me. What is your reasoning?”

Devon had to give the man credit. He was more bold than he expected, having the audacity to question an armed highwayman. But Devon wasn't about to tell him the reason behind the hold up. Instead he gave a mirthless laugh. “You dare question me on my motives when I hold your life in my hands?”

Lord Grayson didn't answer, but his menacing expression didn't change either. Devon took a step closer, shoving the pistol closer to the man's chest to prove how serious he was. “Give me all of your money, now!” he growled.

Lord Grayson never took his sunken eyes off Devon, as he reached into his pocket and retrieved his billfold. He opened it and pulled out a few notes, totaling no more than a few pounds and dropped them defiantly to the ground between himself and Devon.

“Pick them up,” Devon bit out acidly, not at all amused by the man's defiance.

“If you want them, you'll have to bend over and retrieve them yourself.”

In one swift movement, Devon had one arm under Lord Grayson's chin, pushing him forcefully against the carriage, the other hand pointing the gun to his head. He knew he would never truly hurt the man. In fact, the pistol wasn't even loaded, but there was no way that Lord Grayson was going to know that. “Give me all of the money you have on you. I know you must have more than a few paltry pounds. And if you refuse to hand it over civilly this time, I will shoot you. I assure you my aim is quite accurate at this distance.”

Devon thought he saw a moment of fear flicker over Lord Grayson's face before it was once more replaced by the ever-present mask of indifference. “I gave you everything I had,” he replied curtly.

“Don't lie to me,” Devon hissed. He was desperate to retrieve the money he witnessed first-hand his father handing over less than an hour ago. There was no doubt in his mind that the cad had the blunt.

“Search me. Search my carriage. You won't find anymore than what I've already given you.”

Devon refused to release his hold on the man, so using the hand that still held firmly to the pistol, he patted Lord Grayson down, feeling for anything that might be hidden in his pockets or waistcoat. When he was convinced that he had nothing on his person, he shoved him forcefully back into the carriage so he could keep an eye on him while he checked the inside of the vehicle. It didn't take him long to realize that there wasn't any money hidden inside the carriage either. Disappointment and confusion flooded Devon—where could the money have gone?

He turned to a smug looking Lord Grayson, “You've been a complete waste of my time.” And it was true—he had spent a large portion of his night observing his father only to once again come up empty handed when holding up one of his opponents. So much for a peaceful, relaxing night of flirtation. At this rate he was never going to find a wife, nor would he be able to save his father from himself. They would eventually face financial ruin.

He retreated from the carriage without speaking another word and mounted Calvin, galloping off into the night, a sense of failure and dissatisfaction consuming him.

Wednesday, April 27, 1814

Elenore left her room, debating whether she should go get a breakfast tray to bring to Lord Brattondale or go to his room first and see if he had any special requests. She was learning quickly that he was a particularly fussy man, so she decided to gather his opinion first. The last thing she wanted was him getting upset with her because she did something wrong.

She opened his door softly, still not comfortable entering his bedchamber, though there was nothing she could do about it. She was surprised when the room was silent. She noted, with great relief, how nice it was to not be barked at instantly upon entering his presence.

She walked to the window next to his bed and pushed the thick curtains back, causing a stream of sunshine to filter through the window. The light immediately made the room feel better, but Lord Brattondale did not agree. Grasping the edge of his covers, he pulled the sheets up and over his head and let out a loud, exaggerated groan.

“Shut those drapes immediately,” he yelled.

Elenore place both hands on her hips. “It's past time you got out of bed and had some breakfast. You'd be surprised at how much the sunshine can lift your spirits.”

“I'm not getting out of bed. I'm tired,” he said, sounding like a petulant child.

“If you get up and get moving, I promise you'll feel better.”

The earl hefted his bulky body so that he was facing her, his eyes squinting at the offensive sun. “I'm not getting out of bed and that is final. The doctor has ordered that I stay in bed indefinitely, and you are not going to convince me to go against his will.”

“What exactly is wrong with you, my lord?” She asked.

“No one is quite sure. All they know is that it seems to be serious.”

Elenore raised one brow skeptically. “So serious that you can't even get out of bed?”

“Apparently.”

“Or feed yourself?”

Lord Brattondale threw one hand dramatically over his face, the other hand clutching his rotund belly as he began moaning and groaning loudly, a performance that would make even the most seasoned actress proud. Elenore watched in amusement as he carried on with his little performance, knowing he wouldn't be pleased if she tried to interrupt him. She wanted to point out that it cost him more energy to pretend he was deathly ill then it would to care for himself, but she knew it would be useless.

Instead, she waited for his performance to end, tempted to clap and shout “Bravo,” but refraining so as not to make him upset with her. Instead she said dryly, “Would you like me to bring you a breakfast tray?”

“No,” he groaned, still clutching his abdomen. “I couldn't possibly eat, I feel so ill.”

Elenore almost thought he might be telling the truth about not feeling well, when he declined a meal. That was not like the man at all. “Let me bring you some tea then. That should soothe your stomach.”

“No tea,” he wailed. “Nothing will help. It's hopeless. Everything is hopeless.”

“Don't you think you're being just a bit dramatic?” she asked, growing more and more irritated by his escalating theatrics.

“You don't understand,” he complained.

“You're right, I do not. Maybe I should send for the doctor if you are feeling so poorly.”

“There's nothing he can do except charge me an exorbitant fee and tell me to continue to rest.”

“Then what would you like me to do for you?”

“Close the drapes and just leave so I can have some peace.”

Gladly, Elenore thought, as she yanked the drapes closed and scurried from the room. She wondered what he had done during the last few days that had caused him to feel so poorly today. He had felt well enough the day prior to tell her he wouldn't need her assistance. Was this his way of punishing her for not insisting she remain with him and help him regardless? She doubted it. In the short time she'd known him, she was learning that he liked to get his way, that it pleased him to have his every command obeyed, and yesterday he had most definitely wanted her to leave him be.

“Sister Genevieve!” She had barely gotten the door closed, when she heard the earl's bellowing voice calling to her.

She rolled her eyes and grunted in irritation before returning to see to his needs.

“I changed my mind, bring me my morning meal,” he barked when she had barely entered the room.

“Yes, my lord. I will make sure to have the cook prepare you something simple that shouldn't aggravate your discomfort.”

“That will not be necessary. Tell her to prepare my favorite.” Elenore did not want to argue with the man, so she agreed to do his bidding, then turned and left.

Entering the kitchen, the cook, who she had learned was called Tabitha, looked up at her kindly. “Can I help you miss?”

“Yes, the master would like his breakfast.” Tabitha nodded and turned to the stove where a steaming pot of porridge was waiting. “He said he would like you to prepare his favorite,” Elenore quickly added, not sure the thick mush she was beginning to dish up would be considered his favorite.

“He said that, aye?” Elenore nodded. “Very well. It wouldn't do to argue with the master, now would it?”

“No it wouldn't,” she agreed.

“Have a seat, why don't you? It'll take me a moment to prepare his food. And, while you're here, you might as well enjoy a bite to eat.”

Elenore was relieved when Tabitha lifted a towel from a plate sitting on the counter and retrieved a muffin, offering it to her instead of the porridge. She bit into the moist muffin and smiled. It was delicious.

“How do you like it here at Westbrooke Hall?” Tabitha asked as soon as Elenore had finished the last bite of the muffin.

Elenore folded her hands into her lap and thought before saying, “Truthfully?”

“Of course, my child. Anything you say in the kitchen stays in the kitchen.”

“I suppose it's not too bad,” she started off slowly. “The staff has been welcoming and Lord Bridgerton seems grateful that I'm here, it's just that—“

“Lord Brattondale can be quite the ogre?”

Elenore laughed, “I suppose you know him better than I, so I will not argue.”

“I know the master can be quite difficult at times, but I've come to realize that often his bark is worse than his bite. He does have some redeeming qualities.”

“Charlotte seems to agree with you,” Elenore pointed out, not sure she was convinced herself.

Tabitha chuckled. “Ah, sweet Charlotte. Of course she would see the good in the earl.”

“She does seem like a dear girl,” Elenore agreed.

“That she is. One of the finest. But that's not the only reason she gets along with the master so well. He's always had a soft spot in his old, crusty heart for her.”

“Why is that?” Elenore asked, curious to know more about their odd relationship.

“Honestly. I'm not quite sure; it's just always been that way. It could have something to do with the fact that she has been raised here since she was a wee babe. No one really knows. The events leading to her coming to be raised here were kind of strange.”

“Yes, she told me about her parents dying.”

Tabitha paused, as if she was thinking, before she responded, “Yes, I suppose she did. Now,” she said, placing a tray of sliced ham, muffins, and clotted cream before Elenore. “Take this to the master and see if it doesn't help his mood some.”

Elenore looked down at the tray skeptically before returning to look at Tabitha, “Are you sure it is wise that he eats this? He's being exceptionally vocal about his discomfort today.”

Tabitha shrugged her wide shoulders. “Your guess is as good as mine, but I've learned it's better to just give him what he wants. And between you and me, I'm not convinced he's as terribly ill as he claims to be.”

“I'm starting to wonder myself.”

“But remember,” Tabitha started, “What is said in the kitchen, stays in the kitchen.”

“Oh, I won’t' forget.”

Elenore smiled as she stood and grasped the tray and returned to the Lord Brat's room. She could have sworn he almost started salivating at the sight of the delicious food she had brought from the kitchen, a sure sign he wasn't unwell. She set the tray down and poured his tea.

“Here you are, my lord. Will that be all?”

“Of course not,” he said stubbornly. “You must feed it to me now. How else did you expect me to be able to eat?”

Elenore literally had to bite her tongue to keep from responding. She wanted to tell him to use his hands like every other civilized human being but knew that that comment would not go over well. Instead she added sugar and lemon to his tea and began stirring it methodically, all the while dreaming of her upcoming escape to America, when she would finally be free of this dreadful man. One month, she told herself, she could handle anything for one month.