The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel (12 page)

She reached for one of the books and pulled. It remained unmoved. She tried again with both hands, and yet, it continued its stubborn immobility.

She pulled hard at the book a third time, infusing her attempt with every last sensation of humiliation and embarrassment she felt and succeeded in moving it a fraction toward her.

“Miss Barnes?” the viscount said a second time. “May I be of assistance?”

“This book seems to be stuck,” she explained, gritting her teeth. Elena knew she shouldn’t force the volume. It could damage the binding. Or tear the pages. Even dent the cover. She grimaced at the nightmarish list of possible outcomes.

“So it is,” he replied, watching the decidedly unimpressive progress Elena was making.

Elena blew out a frustrated breath.
Ah, that might just help
. She knew it was cruel, but the man’s brainless state might in time quiet her heart and mind.

“And would you make an attempt, my lord?” she asked, gesturing toward the bookshelf.

“With what?”

Last night’s dreams suddenly faded a touch. “The books, my lord.”

The viscount stared at the volumes, his brow creasing. “But why?”

Elena squinted at the man, watching as his soft, sun-kissed hair dulled before her. “Because they’re stuck—and in need of unsticking,” she answered.

“Oh, yes, of course,” he answered, offering her a vacuous smile.

Lord Carrington reached for the book, placing one hand upon the top of the volume and the other around the bottom. And then he pulled. And pulled again.

“Unhand that book!” Elena demanded, suddenly struck by his attempt to force the book from the shelf with no regard for potential damage.

Lord Carrington immediately released the volume and held his hands up in surrender. “But you asked for my help.”

“Yes, but there must be another way.” Elena couldn’t concentrate while he was so near. She closed her eyes and tried to focus. “Let me think …”

“Not my area of expertise, I’m afraid,” he replied. “Besides, one more attempt and I’m sure we’ll have success.”

Elena’s eyes shot open just in time to see the viscount reach out and grasp the book with both hands. He yanked hard.

She gasped in horror.

And the book moved, only not quite as Elena would have imagined. Instead of the one volume, all six of the books shifted forward in unison, until the entire row sat teetering on the edge of the wooden bookshelf. “How peculiar,” Elena muttered, her interest thoroughly piqued.

Lord Carrington lifted the collection out, revealing not books at all, but a carved box.

Elena traced her finger along the carved top, noting an intricate design that marked nearly the entire surface. “Do you recognize this, my lord?”

Lord Carrington studied the box intently, his expression
unreadable. “I’m afraid not.” He grasped the box in both hands and turned it around, clearly searching for a lid. Though he pulled and pushed, the box remained shut, revealing nothing. He set it back down on the shelf and shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose it belonged to my father.”

Elena craned her neck for a better view. “There’s no visible keyhole,” she said to herself, desperate to try her hand at opening the mysterious box, but loath to move any closer to the viscount.

“Miss Barnes, are you here?” Lady Mowbray’s clear voice broke in, the sound of her skirts swishing as she marched toward the two. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were hiding from me.”

“She is impossible to avoid,” the viscount said. “You might as well give me the box.”

“We’ve still much to discuss,” the marchioness continued, the growing power of her voice signaling that she was drawing nearer. “I would like to give my modiste some idea of what we’re hoping for in terms of dresses.”

Elena eyed the wooden box. She didn’t want to talk with Lady Mowbray at the moment. Especially about dresses. She grabbed the box and cradled it tightly, turning in the opposite direction of Lady Mowbray’s advancing voice.

“You never saw me, my lord,” she whispered to the viscount over her shoulder, and then ran silently from the room.

Dash padded silently along the west wing, Carrington House still as a grave in the night. The servants were abed and all was quiet, the faint noise of his bare feet brushing against the Axminster carpet the only sound to be heard.

Why had Miss Barnes taken dinner in her room?

More specifically,
why Miss Barnes
?

The answer to the second question would suffice for the first as well.

Dash slowed his steps, his conscience plaguing him. He’d revealed too much to her last night. And God, but she’d responded to him, her kindness and vulnerability running him through.

And then he’d betrayed her. Turned his back and resumed his role as if her words had all meant nothing.

Dash stopped and leaned his back against the wall. It was
something
. And Dash didn’t know how to make it stop.

The talk with Bell had sorted things out. What he’d revealed reminded Dash of the responsibilities he bore to his father’s memory. And to his friends. He needed to move forward with finding Lady Afton’s killer. And he couldn’t do so with Miss Barnes under his roof. She was intensely distracting. But more than that, the longer she stayed, the more danger she was in. If he had any luck at all, each day would bring Dash closer to finding the Bishop—which would only place Miss Barnes within the killer’s grasp. The Bishop attacked the wives of
Corinthians. Not that Dash had any plans to marry Miss Barnes; quite the contrary. But his growing feelings for the woman surely wouldn’t do her any favors.

Conservatively speaking, it should take no more than a fortnight for her to finish with the books and be gone. Unfortunately, he could not trust himself around the woman for such a length of time.

Last night, he’d been caught off guard by the rush of unfamiliar emotions. He could not afford to make the same mistake again.

Dash pushed off from the wall and continued toward Miss Barnes’s chamber. He needed the puzzle and what he hoped were valuable clues inside the box. He could not wait any longer.

The carved wooden container was a burr puzzle. The box was meant to safeguard those things a Corinthian could not entrust to anyone else. Only the owner knew the cipher that allowed him to solve the puzzle and open the box. Dash’s earlier searches of the late viscount’s study had unearthed nothing nearly as promising as the box.

Why had his father not told him of its existence? There could only be one reason: it contained information about the Afton case.

He reached Miss Barnes’s door and pressed his ear to it. Hearing no movement within, he looked down the hall both ways, then placed his hand on the carved brass doorknob. Turning it noiselessly, he gently pushed and the paneled door opened, revealing very little in the darkened boudoir.

Dash slipped silently inside and eased the door closed behind him, taking a moment to get his bearings. It had been some time since he’d been in this particular room, but the faint light from the fireplace embers lit the shadowed space. The wall directly across from him bore a row of high mullioned windows that were heavily draped. A pair of chairs sat near the fireplace, separated
by a low table. And to his left was a canopied four-posted bed, where Miss Barnes slept.

The bed curtains were only partially closed. He moved stealthily to the edge of the bed and gently tugged the fringed curtain.

Something swung toward him just to his left and Dash ducked, reaching out and capturing the small fist that had nearly connected with his face.

A shrill scream, followed by an “Ow,” sounded in the dark.

Miss Barnes tumbled from the bed, landing in a tangle of nightgown and coverlet at his feet.

“Ow!”

“You repeat yourself, Miss Barnes,” Dash commented, pulling her to stand.

She yanked her hand from his as if she’d been burned. “I’m afraid eloquence escapes me at the moment. It often does when I’m set upon in my bed.”

Dash didn’t respond. He could only stare. Her chin was lifted haughtily, her full, soft lips trembling slightly. Her labored breathing forced her chest to rise and fall unnaturally fast.

“Well, my lord. I assume there’s a rational reason for your presence,” she ground out, turning away. A moment later, the sudden dim glow of a lone candle illuminated her and little else. A plain white night rail clung to her body, accentuating her lush curves. Dash knew he should look away, but he found it impossible to resist the breathtaking view.

“Oh!” she squeaked, looking down at her night rail and crossing her arms over her breasts. “Turn around!” she commanded, then added “and please, fetch me my wrapper.”

Dash did as she asked, crossing the room to where a soft linen wrapper lay folded neatly on the edge of one
of the chairs. He picked it up and turned back to Miss Barnes.

“No,” she urged, gesturing for him to turn around. “Your presence in my room is highly inappropriate. Do not make the situation any worse than it already is.”

“Of course,” Dash agreed, immediately turning around and walking backward until he felt her palm flatten between his shoulder blades. He laid the wrapper over his shoulder and waited.

She whisked the garment away and a moment later, tapped efficiently on his arm. “You may turn around, my lord.”

Dash slowly shifted to face her. “There is a rational reason.”

“I’m sorry?” she questioned, folding her arms tightly across her chest.

He adopted what he hoped was a look of confusion. “For what, Miss Barnes?”

She looked down and fiddled with the tassel at the end of her wrapper’s sash, blowing out a frustrated breath as she did so. “Shall we start again, my lord? Why, exactly, are you here?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Dash replied obtusely. “For the puzzle.”

“The puzzle?” Miss Barnes parroted, squeezing her upper arms as if for support, then unfolding them and gesturing toward the two chairs. “Now,” she began again, walking across the room and sitting down. “You needed the puzzle now?”

“No, I wanted the box earlier,” Dash replied, following her and taking the chair opposite. “But you failed to appear for dinner.”

“I see,” she replied hesitantly, nodding her head at the simple logic. “Well, then. You shall have your puzzle.”

Dash sat on the edge of his seat, like the simpleton Miss Barnes believed him to be, and began. “I’m very
curious about the box. Can’t imagine what my father would have kept inside of it.”

“Well, you won’t have to wait long, my lord. I’ve nearly figured it out.”

“That’s impossible,” Dash growled, forgetting his role and drumming his fingers on his knees.

“Really?” Miss Barnes answered, her countenance changing abruptly.

Dash realized his instantaneous rejection of her claim had been too quick. Too sure. He was becoming too comfortable with the woman. She made him forget himself far too easily.

He ceased drumming his fingers and brought his palms together, then spread his hands wide in a pleading gesture. “Well, isn’t it? From what I could see, there wasn’t even a keyhole.”

Of course there hadn’t been a keyhole. The Corinthians—and their enemies across the Continent and beyond—made use of numerous tricks to protect their secrets. In the few minutes Dash had been given to examine the box, he’d narrowed the possible opening mechanisms down to three.

“Viscount Carrington, have you ever heard of a burr puzzle?” she asked slowly.

“I’m afraid not,” he lied convincingly.

Miss Barnes nodded, and then rose from her chair. “A man of your …”

Dash thought to offer aid and suggest that “limited mental capabilities,” or, and perhaps more to the point, “stupidity” could be exactly the word or words she was looking for. But decided against it.

“Your station in life,” she continued, walking back to her bed, “would hardly have use for such things. It’s nothing more than a game, of sorts, really.”

She dropped to her knees and nearly disappeared beneath the massive bed. “Smchdoe dlap dop doapleln.”

All right, that Dash had truly not understood. “What’s that?”

Her head popped out from beneath the bottom of the bed curtains. “The burr puzzle was fairly simple to solve.”

Her head disappeared again, and then the box scooted out, followed by Miss Barnes. She rose to her feet and picked up the box.

“But the numerical lock beneath is not,” she continued while retracing her steps, her voice rising with excitement. She set the box and six beveled sticks on the table between them and reclaimed her chair.

The top panel hadn’t been a solid piece at all, but was instead the burr puzzle; the oak sticks notched and set in so as to appear flat on one side. Beneath was a highly ornate padlock bearing the Carrington crest. A ring encircled the lock, the numbers zero to nine appearing with an ornate slash forged between each.

He examined the puzzle more closely, fingering the sticks. Such puzzles had been a favorite of his father’s. One of Dash’s earliest memories was completing a similar puzzle while his father had looked on with pride.

“I’ve only ever read about burr puzzles,” Miss Barnes offered, bending down closer and smiling. “And one with a flat side to it? Brilliant.”