“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.
Chapter 12
Wednesday, May 11, 1814
The sound of silence had never been so unwelcoming. Devon had been anxiously waiting for somebody, anybody to wander across his path for what felt like an eternity, and so far the only thing he had witnessed were a few birds and a rat that scurried across the road in front of him. Tonight was the night that he had planned to hold somebody up, someone who had not won any of his father's money. After the conversation where Lord Stapleton had shared his suspicions about the connection between Black Lightening and Lord Brattondale, Devon knew what had to be done to throw off their suspicions.
Guilt consumed him as he waited with nothing else to do but entertain the pesky emotion that had been making an appearance in his life all too often as of late. He normally didn't mind his foray as a highwayman, because he felt his motives were justified, but this time it was different. He had purposely gone into this mission with no specific victim in mind—the less he knew about the unfortunate soul he would be robbing, the better. He reasoned that he'd feel less guilty that way, but so far, there had been no robbery. Therefore, there was no victim, and yet he still felt abominable about his intentions.
Calvin pranced in restless circles, attempting to alleviate his boredom. They were both growing weary of the wait. Hefting an irritated sigh, Devon pulled his pocket watch out and glanced at the time. It was late enough by now that most people had either left their various social functions or soon would be retiring for the night. Stuffing the watch back in his pocket, he promised himself he'd only stay a quarter of an hour longer before calling it quits and returning home.
Calvin's ears perked up at the sound of carriage wheels crunching on the dirt. Both he and Devon turned their heads towards the welcomed noise. Devon felt for his pistol, pointing it straight out in front of him, as he watched a carriage roll into sight. He was relieved that his task would soon be over so he could get home.
As the carriage drew closer he called out, “Halt,” and watched as the driver looked around to place where the voice had come from. The minute the man locked eyes on Devon, he obeyed the command, a frightful look showing on his face.
Devon kept his pistol trained on the carriage, as he slowly led Calvin closer to the conveyance. He spoke in a loud voice so as to ensure that the passengers inside could hear his commands. “Step out of your carriage at once. Bring all of your valuables and any money you have with you, and prepare to hand it over to me. If you do not do as I wish, I will be forced to retrieve the items myself, and I can't promise that you will go unharmed.”
The driver's hands shook, as he grasped the reins, his eyes darting back and forth between Devon and the carriage door as if he was anticipating who would make the first move. It soon became apparent that the passengers were in no hurry to obey his commands. Why couldn't they just cooperate and make his job easy?
Devon slid from his saddle and began walking towards the carriage as he spoke. “I'll give you one last chance to do as I say before I'm coming inside to get what I'm after.” He took calculated steps towards the carriage, hoping they would take him seriously and do as he said. Before he knew i
t, he had reached the carriage door. He flung it open and stuck the hand holding the pistol inside, followed shortly by his head. A lady gasped, both hands reaching up to clasp her chest, as he pointed the pistol directly at her and smiled, though she wasn't able to see it behind his mask. The theatrics of the whole situation proved humorous to him, but he couldn't let her know that. He found it highly amusing that an unloaded pistol and a black mask were enough to frighten just about anyone into doing as he said.
He had no intention of harming the lady and instead turned his head to the opposite side of the carriage where a gentleman sat, a scowl darkening his features. “What is the meaning of this?” the man barked.
“I believe I asked you to step out of your carriage bringing all of your valuables with you. It appears you choose not to heed my commands so I decided to come over and see what the holdup was.”
“I refuse to be ordered about by some common criminal. Kindly remove your pistol from my wife's face and find somewhere else to conduct your business, before I do something that either of us might regret.”
Devon lowered his voice and growled, “I didn't give you the option of dismissing me. Need I repeat your options once more?”
In a flash, the man pulled a pistol out from inside his jacket, pointing it straight at Devon's chest. He managed to suppress his surprise at the man's assertiveness, not wanting to let his guard down in the least.
Pressing the pistol forcefully into his chest, the man said coolly, “I regret that I haven't made myself clear. Here are your two options: leave immediately or get killed.”
“I'll gladly leave, after I get what I came for.” He wasn't about to back down so easily and appear the fat wit. He did, after all, have a reputation to uphold.
“I didn't give you that option,” the man ground out as he cocked the pistol.
Devon did the only thing he could think of, he aimed his own pistol once more at the man's wife, hoping it would cause him enough concern to lower his own weapon and not take aim, but of course, it had the opposite effect. Without further warning, the man pulled the trigger, and Devon heard a deafening roar. At the same time, a searing pain scorched his upper arm, as the ball grazed his flesh, before going through the floor of the carriage. The woman screamed as Devon reached up to clutch his arm, warm blood oozing through his fingers. His vision blurred at the sight of scarlet seeping through his white shirt. He had been foolish to attempt such a risky endeavor with an unloaded weapon. He never dreamed that he'd find himself in this situation, but here he was, and now he wasn't sure what do to.
The man saved him from having to think, as he cocked his leg and kicked Devon square in the chest, causing him to stumble backwards out of the carriage. He then proceeded to yell at his driver to make haste and get them out of there as quickly as possible.
Devon lay on the ground groaning in pain. That went well, he thought sarcastically, as he attempted to rise. He felt lightheaded and stopped to brace himself, as he looked at his arm and realized, if he didn't stop the bleeding, he would be in a world of trouble. He reached up and ripped the mask from his face, using his good arm to wind it around the wound. He fumbled several times, as he attempted to tie it off with only one hand, but eventually, after resourcefully using his teeth to aide him, he was able to get the make-shift bandage to stay in place. His arm hurt like hell, and he knew he needed to get it taken care of and cleaned before infection could set in. The only problem was, he was still in his disguise and couldn't very well go traipsing back into London, especially without his mask to hide his face. He cursed his bad luck, as he made his way to Calvin, hoping a solution would present itself quickly.
***
Elenore bolted upright in bed, clutching her blankets to her chest, as she looked around in the dark trying to assess what the tapping noise was she had just heard. She wasn't normally such a light sleeper, but the sound of thunder and the incessant pounding of rain on her window and the roof overhead had kept her from falling into a deep slumber. Ever since she was a child, the sound of thunder had made her feel uneasy, frightened even. When it rumbled and cracked with a monstrous volume, she jumped, tempted to pull the covers over her head and hide as she did as a little girl.
She heard the noise again and surmised that something was hitting her window. She knew that it wasn't the rain making the sound but didn't know what else it could be. She sat in the dark, debating if she should get up and investigate or just go back to bed. Eventually her curiosity won out when it became apparent that the noise wouldn't cease, and she knew it wasn't likely that she'd get any sleep while it persisted.
Reaching the window, she looked out but the thick sheets of rain prevented her from seeing much. She was just about to turn around and crawl back into the warm comfort of her bed, when a small object hit the glass in front of her, causing her to flinch. Had somebody just thrown a rock at her window? Carelessly she opened the window and almost instantly regretted it, as cold rain poured in the crack, soaking her hands and the sleeves of her nightdress.
“Who's there?” she whispered, hoping that she wouldn't get a response. She couldn't imagine why anybody would have the need to alert her secretly in the middle of the night.
“I need your help,” came the unexpected reply.
She lifted the window open further, trying to make out who it was that was speaking to her. The rain quickly soaked her hair, causing thick strands to plaster to her face, as rivulets of water streamed down her face and into her eyes. She reached up and impatiently brushed back both the hair and water from her face as she looked down at the ground below. Standing directly beneath her she could make out a figure, a male figure she indicated by the breeches he wore. She squinted trying to get a better look at his face, but the black, moonless sky, combined with the pouring rain, prevented her from seeing it clearly.
“Who are you?” she asked.
Ignoring her question he continued. “I need you to meet me at the servants’ entrance, and make sure that nobody is around so I can come in without causing a scene.”
There was something familiar about his voice. “Lord Bridgerton, is that you?”
“Yes,” he sighed impatiently. “Now hurry.”
But Elenore didn't move. “Why don't you just enter the house as normal instead of standing out in the rain? You'll catch your death if you're not careful.”
“Please,” he moaned, “I'll explain later, just do as I say.”
“Yes, my lord,” she muttered obediently. Before she could fully close the window, Lord Bridgerton had disappeared around the back of the house. Grabbing a silk wrapper from the bench at the foot of her bed, she wrapped it protectively around her and left the room.
The going was slow as she maneuvered through the house in the dark. She hadn't taken the time to light a candle and was regretting her hasty decision, as she stubbed her toe painfully into the wall. She let out a yelp and quickly covered her mouth, hoping that the noise wouldn't wake anybody.
When she finally reached the servants entrance, she reached down and turned the key in the lock, pulling the door back to reveal a soaking wet Lord Bridgerton. She gasped—on top of his head was a black tricorn hat.
He stumbled into the house and warned, “Don't say anything until we're in the library.”
She nodded silently and obediently followed him. Her mind was racing with a million different questions when they finally reached the library. He pulled the door shut behind them and commanded her to light a candle, which she also did silently and obediently.
As soon as the flame was lit, she walked over to where he was now sitting on the leather couch and gasped once more. The left arm of his once white shirt was stained red. His upper arm was tied with a black cloth, a dark red stain directly beneath. The rain had caused the blood to run down his sleeve leaving it a watery pink color.
Elenore rushed to his side. “What happened?”
His face was pale, and he no longer had the strength to remain upright after the painfully long an
d arduous ride back to Surrey. He lay down on the couch, careful to put his weight on his uninjured side. “I had an accident. I need your help.”
“I'm not really sure what to do. I think we should call for a doctor.”
“No,” he said forcefully, then added a little more softly, “It just needs to be cleaned and bandaged properly. I'm sure you can manage. Please.”
Elenore wasn't convinced. The sight of his blood was making her squeamish. “Maybe I can go get one of the other servants to do it. I'm not sure I can handle the blood. And why are you wearing that hat and those clothes?” His clothing was identical to Black Lightning’s clothing, albeit the missing black mask.
“I'll answer your questions later. Right now I need a stiff drink and some nursing.” She wasn't ready to give up her questions, but the pleading in his voice prompted her to action. She walked over to the liquor cupboard and poured a snifter of brandy, returning to offer it to him. He took the drink with his good arm and downed the contents in one gulp.
Elenore knelt on the ground before him. “I'll need to get some water and rags, but let me take a look at the extent of the damage first. Can you tell me what happened?” She was surprised that her voice sounded calm when she felt anything but.
She had begun to undo the fabric that was knotted around his upper arm when he answered. “I was shot.”
“By whom?” she asked in surprise. “Who would do such a thing?”
“I don't know who it was,” he answered honestly.
He groaned as the pressure of the cloth was released. Elenore realized that the black fabric was in all actuality the missing black mask. Was it possible that Lord Bridgerton was Black Lightening? She had so many questions she wanted to ask him, but now was not the time. His eyes were closed tightly in an attempt to shut out the pain, and she knew he wouldn't welcome her prying at this time. Instead she refocused on the task at hand.
“You're going to need to remove your shirt so I can get a better look at it and clean it properly.”
Ladies of Deception 03 - Betraying the Highwayman Page 10
