Elenore tiptoed to the head of the bed, not wanting to make any noise in the quiet room, though she wasn’t sure why. The earl was fully aware of her presence.
They both sat silently observing each other, before the earl finally spoke. “I suppose you’ll do. What is your name?”
“Sister Genevieve, my lord.”
“I’m Lord Brattondale. Now, enough of the small talk. I’d like you to feed me my morning meal.”
“Is a tray being brought up or should I go fetch one?”
“You’ll have to go get it from the kitchen, and make it quick.”
Elenore nodded before turning and leaving the room. Walking down the long hall towards the staircase, all she could think about was how much she did not want to be servant to Lord Brattondale. She wondered if it was too late to slip out of the house unannounced and disappear. As she reached the landing at the bottom of the stairs, she found Clarence standing next to the door, as if he was anticipating another visitor. Both of his hands were clasped behind his back and at the sight of Elenore his facial expression didn’t change one iota.
Speaking in his sluggish drawl he asked, “Is everything well with the master?”
So much for leaving undetected. “Yes,” Elenore said, “but he is ready to eat and has sent me to retrieve his meal. Would you kindly direct me to the kitchen?”
“Very well. Follow me.”
Elenore followed Clarence to the kitchen where a middle-aged lady had a tray all set out and prepared. She quickly thanked the cook before balancing the tray in both hands and returning once more to the earl’s bedchamber, though the going was slow with her sore feet.
Just as she entered the room, she heard the earl say, “I’m glad you’re back. Sister Genevieve, I’d like you to meet my son.”
Chapter 4
Elenore was startled by the unexpected presence of another man. She scurried over to the bed and set the tray down on the table adjacent to it, before turning to the earl’s son. Her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of him—he was younger than she had expected him to be and much more handsome, considering he was the earl’s offspring. He was tall and lean with rich brown eyes, golden hair, and a ready smile that almost seemed to taunt her.
“Pleased to meet you, my lord.” Elenore said as she dropped into a deep curtsey.
“The pleasure is all mine.” Extending one hand towards her he said, “I’m the Viscount Bridgerton but most people just call me Lord Bridgerton or my lord, or if they’re really comfortable, they might even dare call me just plain Devon.”
“I’m just plain Sister Genevieve,” Elenore said in response, as he bowed over her hand. She felt a slight tingle, as his skin came in contact with hers causing her to quickly withdraw her hand, as if she had been shocked.
Devon watched the nun with amusement. He wasn’t sure by her reaction if she realized that he was the very man who had brought her there or not. After dropping her off in front of Westbrooke Hall, he had quickly ridden to one of the abandoned cottages on the estate where he tethered Calvin to a tree and quickly changed from his Black Lightening attire into a set of fresh clothes he kept there for that very purpose. Once he had freshened, using a small basin of water he kept at the cottage, he returned to the house to pay a visit to his father.
He decided to question her further to see if she had any inkling who he was. “I heard you arrived here shortly. I trust that you had a pleasant journey. Is your driver still here? Perhaps he could use some refreshment before his return trip.”
“Oh no, my— “she paused searching for the right word, “—escort has already gone, but thank you.”
Devon let out a silent sigh of relief. It appeared she had no idea that he and her escort were one and the same.
Lord Brattondale was growing impatient and hungry, while he waited for Sister Genevieve and his son to make polite conversation. He cleared his throat loudly and whined, “I’m famished. If somebody doesn’t feed me immediately, I think I will be sick.”
Lord Bridgerton's face held amusement at his father’s childish behavior, while Elenore scurried over to the tray of food and placed it on the bed next to him within reaching distance.
“What are you doing? You don’t expect me to feed myself do you?” he barked, clearly perturbed.
Elenore looked at Lord Bridgerton in alarm. Lord Brattondale couldn’t seriously expect her to feed him, could he? The earl's son just smiled and nodded his encouragement, as Lord Brattondale huffed impatiently.
Elenore closed her eyes and took a deep breath before speaking. “Are you too weak, my lord, to feed yourself?”
“Yes,” he barked.
“Very well,” Elenore said in resignation, “Then I suppose I’ll have to help.”
She picked up a silver spoon from the tray with one hand and grasped the bowl of runny porridge with her other, dunking the spoon into the sludge before extending it towards Lord Brattondale’s lips. She held the spoon barely an inch from his mouth, but apparently the effort he would need to exert to take a bite was too much for him. He sat there silently staring at the spoon, clearly waiting for her to bring it closer. Elenore was baffled. She’d never had occasion to see a grown gentleman behave so childishly. Her first reaction was to throw the spoon back into the bowl, then slam the bowl down on the tray, before turning to leave, but she somehow managed to draw on a supply of patience she didn’t know she possessed and instead inched the spoon closer so he could slurp the porridge without having to move a muscle.
Elenore fed Lord Brattondale spoonful after painful spoonful of the unappetizing concoction, her irritation growing with every spoonful he slurped. It was with great relief that she fed him the last bite of porridge in the bowl before setting it back down on the tray forcefully.
“Now help me with my tea,” Lord Brattondale insisted.
Elenore was fully aware of Lord Bridgerton’s eyes watching her every move, his rapt attention only causing her more unease. She lifted the porcelain teacup from the saucer and carefully assisted Lord Brattondale in drinking the now cold tea. When he had finished, she pulled the cup back from his mouth and watched in disgust as a rivulet of tea mixed with saliva dripped down his chin.
“Wipe my face at once.” The command came instantly, and Elenore wondered how it was that Lord Brattondale could have enough strength to bark commands at her effortlessly when he apparently had no strength to do something as menial as feeding himself.
Clutching the linen napkin tightly in her hand, Elenore attempted to take out some of her frustration on the innocent piece of fabric before she was tempted to take it out on the earl. Leaning forward she wiped his face as quickly as possible, then turned and threw the offending napkin down on the tray with the dishes.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, my lord?” Elenore asked between gritted teeth.
“If you wouldn’t mind adjusting my pillows, I think I will rest for a bit.”
Elenore went and fluffed the two down pillows vigorously, before placing them under Lord Brattondale’s head.
“Very well. That is all.”
Relieved, Elenore scooped the tray up and nodded towards Lord Bridgerton, as she began making her exit. She wasn't sure where she was going. All she knew was that she had to get out of the aggravating man's presence.
“Devon, show Sister Genevieve to the lavender room would you?” Lord Brattondale spoke from behind her.
“Of course, Father,” he replied as he rose and followed behind Elenore, who had just walked into the hall.
As soon as the earl’s door was closed, Lord Bridgerton reached over and took the tray out of Elenore’s hands and set it on the floor up against the wall, out of the way of anyone who might chance down the hall. “I’m heading to the kitchen after I show you to your room. I’ll save you the trip and take it with me.”
“Thank you,” Elenore said sincerely, anticipating some time alone so she could rest and rethink her current dilemma. The last thing she wanted to do was to be
stuck there nursing an oversized baby back to health. A month may very well prove to be more than her patience could handle.
Lord Bridgerton turned and began walking down the hall, leaving Elenore following behind him. His legs were longer than hers, so she practically had to run to keep up with him. She was relieved when he stopped in front of a large wooden door, extending one hand to push it open.
Elenore walked into the room and looked around. It was decorated in every shade of purple imaginable. The paper on the walls was white with hand painted lilacs in shades of lavender and plum dotting the walls. The Sheraton field bed in the center of the room featured a curved canopy draped in lavender silk. The bed looked too inviting for Elenore to ignore. She marched right over and threw herself onto the soft mattress, exhaling as she sunk into its welcoming embrace.
Devon watched Sister Genevieve with curiosity—he wondered if anyone had ever told her that her emotions were so easily displayed on her face. He could tell just by watching her exactly what she was thinking. He had found it humorous to watch, as she spoon fed his father, the look of disgust and irritation marring her features. Her little upturned nose seemed to turn up even further, as she struggled internally to feed him every last drop of the porridge followed by the tea. The look of sheer repulsion that crossed her expressive eyes when his father had ordered her to wipe his face had been priceless. If it wouldn’t have been so unseemly, he would have laughed.
Now, watching her throw herself so gracelessly onto the center of the bed, Devon couldn’t help but chuckle.
“What’s so funny, milord?” she asked, not even bothering to look at him.
Devon folded his arms across his chest and leaned up against the door frame casually, “You. Has anyone ever told you how animated your face is?”
Elenore rolled over onto her side, propping her head up on her hand. “In all honesty, not for a long time. Usually I’m too busy being reprimanded for being improper or being told how plain of features I am.”
He took a moment to observe her, noting that he didn’t consider her plain in the least—her brown eyes sparkled with barely contained mischief, the smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose gave her a perpetual youthful look, and she had nice, pink lips that she gnawed on frequently. He wished for a moment that he could see her without her veil, to see what her hair looked like. What color it was? His curiosity suddenly piqued.
Realizing that she was looking at him skeptically, one eyebrow raised, he suddenly felt foolish for staring so long without a response. Clearing his throat and looking around the room nervously he straightened and said, “I hope that you find this room to your liking. Have you any bags that need to be sent up?”
Elenore straightened on the bed. She’d forgotten completely about her one and only bag, “I just have my valise which I must have left downstairs.”
He was already partway out of the room, when she heard him say, “I’ll have it sent up. Good day.”
Devon quickly retreated down the hall and towards the stairs, suddenly irritated for no explained reason at the young nun who had managed to waste too much of his time.
Chapter 5
“Is something bothering you, my lord?”
Devon looked up to see the familiar face of Tabitha, their cook. She had been with his family as long as he could remember and had often made sure she had his favorite dessert, a warm gooseberry pie, waiting each time he came home for a visit. Wiping the scowl off his face he replied, “No, nothing’s wrong, I just need to be on my way. Thank goodness Sister Genevieve is here to care for father.”
“And what a godsend that was. I know that you’ve grown impatient with caring for him as of late and rightfully so. A young buck as handsome as you shouldn’t be wasting his time caring for his father’s imaginary illnesses when there is so much more for you in London. Did you arrange for the nun to come care for your father?”
Devon paused, not sure how to answer her. He didn’t want to tell her that it was his doing on the off chance that Sister Genevieve might contradict it someday by telling her that a strange highwayman had delivered her to the manor. Finally he settled on saying, “Regretfully no, but I’m sure glad somebody did.”
“Maybe it was the duke who sent her,” she said, referring to Devon's brother-in-law, the Duke of Kerrington.
“Possibly.”
After a brief pause, Tabitha began rattling on nervously. “I’ve always been able to be frank with you, and I hope this time is no exception.”
Devon looked at her skeptically, “Yes, what is it?”
“I don’t think your father is truly ill.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think something else must be bothering him that’s causing his unease. As far as I can tell, he’s as fit as a horse, if not as stubborn as one. When you aren’t here, he has me send up tray after tray of rich food, and he seems to have no problem consuming any of it, let alone keeping it down. Some days he even leaves the house for hours at a time, but those are the times he comes back feeling the worst. He’ll take to his bed for days after each outing, moaning and groaning and complaining of the stomach ache, refusing to leave his room at all. Is there something else that could be bothering him?”
Devon was pensive, as he once more contemplated how to answer her inquiry. He couldn’t very well tell her that he too suspected there was more going on in his father's life than either of them knew. Besides, he had no solid proof, and it wasn't proper for him to discuss such issues with the servants, no matter how loyal they were to him and his family.
He had once dared brooch the subject with his father after having spent an afternoon going over the estate books and noticing large sums of money missing with no accounting for the disparity in balances. He decided to bring up the missing money to his father, curiously trying to figure out the reasons behind his suddenly elusive and peculiar behavior, only to be told to mind his own business.
The problem was, it was his business. As his father’s heir, he was in line to inherit not only his title but his estates as well and the unaccounted spending left him with grave concerns. At the rate the money was disappearing, there wouldn’t be anything but a pile of debt left to inherit, the thought bothering him immensely. Devon had dreamed of running the estate since he was a little boy. He loved everything about the country—the vast fields of farmland, the tenants that were in his father’s care, the freedom he felt being away from society’s watchful eye, and one day he had hoped to be able to raise his own family at Westbrooke Hall, the home he loved so well.
In fact, it was his father’s suspicious behavior and unwillingness to discuss the estate’s finances with him that had led him to take on the guise of Black Lightening, the infamous highwayman. He had spent an enormously insane amount of time over the last year tracking his father’s whereabouts closely, monitoring his habits and learning when and to whom he associated, desperately trying to figure out where the money was going, before he and his family found themselves facing financial ruin as a result.
The only thing he had been able to deduct was that his father, unsurprisingly, had a penchant for gambling. He had spent tireless hours silently watching his father lose money to arrogant aristocrats, all so he could spend even more time attempting to retrieve the money from the unsuspecting recipients. It was a dangerous and risky endeavor and one that he didn’t altogether enjoy, but he knew he had to do it. The only problem was that, so far, his escapades in adventure and danger only left him more confused. Each man that he had held up, disguised as Black Lightening, hadn't so much as a shilling on them, and thorough searches of both their person and carriage confirmed that they had nothing. Devon left each encounter feeling increasingly perplexed. Where was his father's money going, if not to the people he lost to?
Pasting an obligatory smile on his face and bringing himself back to the present, he said, “I suppose there could be, but what’s the harm in humoring him? It’s likely that he just wants the attention. He seems lonely s
ince Noelle married Soren and left to live in America. He always did have his hands tied up trying to keep up with her.”
“I suppose you could be right. I just didn’t think it was fair that you were spending so much time caring for him when you have more important things to do, like finding a wife.”
Devon sighed. “You worry too much. I'm a grown man more than capable of taking care of myself. You worry about that gooseberry pie that I smell cooking so it doesn't burn, and I'll worry about my future marital status.”
Tabitha's face flushed at the gentle reprimand, as she turned to check on the pie. “You will stay and have a piece before leaving, won't you?”
Devon pulled a wooden stool up to the counter and sat, propping both elbows on the table expectantly. “Of course, I wouldn't pass up a piece of your pie for the world.”
***
Devon was exhausted by the time he made his way towards his bedchamber, his belly so full of Tabitha's delicious cooking that he thought it might burst. He had every intent of returning to London before nightfall, but the combination of a full stomach and the overly-warm kitchen, mixed with the lack of sleep the previous night, had made him drowsy. He decided he'd stay the night at Westbrooke Hall and leave for London at dawn, before his father had a chance to convince him to stay any longer to keep him company.
He truly hoped that Sister Genevieve's presence would decrease his father's loneliness and dependence on him. Then he could spend his time alternating between the two exhausting chores of solving the mystery of his father's disappearing finances and attempting to find a wife. He very nearly groaned out loud at the thought, almost as frustrated with his attempts at finding love as he was with his father.
He knew he was in the minority amongst his peers, but he had long held a secret desire to wed for love and not merely for obligation or gain. His problem didn't seem to lie in finding suitable women. No there were plenty that would make an acceptable future countess, with their perfectly bred and polished manners and impeccable family connections, but ever since taking on the role of Black Lightening, he yearned for so much more than the socially acceptable proper things of his upbringing. He wasn't unrealistic enough to think that he would spend the rest of his life playing a lord by day and a highwayman by night, but he couldn't help but hunger for a touch of excitement throughout his life, and somehow he knew that marrying a straight-laced woman of the ton would leave him feeling bored and apathetic the rest of his life, a thought that made him shudder.
Ladies of Deception 03 - Betraying the Highwayman Page 4