The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel (16 page)

“Beggin’ your pardon, Miss,” the maid began, curtsying before Elena. “Mr. Bell will have a word with you. ’Tis about Miss Rowena. I promise, I’d no idea she’d gone.”

Elena flattened her palm against the wall and looked at the girl. “Maggie, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

Bell stopped abruptly next to Maggie and bowed to Elena. “Maggie, quiet, if you please,” he said to the girl,
who’d started to cry again. She did as she was told, stepping back and turning her gaze to the Kidderminster carpet.

“Now, Miss Barnes, I’ve some distressing news. Would you prefer to sit down?”

Elena pressed hard against the wall with one hand, her other coming to clutch at her neck. “No, Bell. Thank you. Now, if you would please tell me what is going on. Where is Rowena? And why is Maggie crying?”

Bell looked disappointed with her decision to remain standing, but pressed on. “It seems that Rowena received a missive late last evening from a certain Mr.

Brock.”

“Am I meant to know this ‘Mr. Brock’?” Elena asked, scouring her brain for any hint of association.

“You wouldn’t, Miss. He’s a nasty one—not the type the ton would take notice of,” Maggie answered, garnering a quelling look from Bell. “It’s true enough. I’m not lying—never would to you, Mr. Bell. Nor you, Miss.”

The butler shushed the girl, then returned his gaze to Elena and continued. “I’ve been told by the staff that this Mr. Brock performs any number of
services
for a cadre of men—”

“
Dangerous
blokes, Miss,” Maggie interrupted a second time. “Or so I’ve heard. A gang run out of White-chapel. Controls all of this side of London.”

Elena released her neck and shakily placed her hand on the wall.
The man from the park
. She’d assumed his appearance in the bookshop had been an unfortunate coincidence. Oh God, what had she missed? “I’m sorry, but what, exactly, are you telling me?”

“Among other things, Mr. Brock procures young women for use as prostitutes,” Bell answered, his lips drawing into a thin line.

“What on earth is going on?”

All three looked to where Lady Mowbray appeared, her skirts swishing violently as she hurried toward them. “My Gemma will not stop crying and carrying on—something to do with Rowena, though I could hardly decipher her words.”

Elena’s heart was racing. Her head felt dangerously light, and she was suddenly so angry she could not stand still. “It seems that Rowena has been taken by this—this Brock,” she said as she pushed open the door to her chamber and stepped quickly inside.

“Brock?” Lady Mowbray parroted, following her. “I’m not acquainted with the man.”

Elena retrieved her pelisse and chip hat. “Nor should you be. Apparently he lures young women into …” She paused, haphazardly placing the hat on her head. She couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t even think it through. “I need to find her. Now.”

She made to step by Lady Mowbray only to be caught by the woman’s surprisingly strong hold.

“Bell, where can we find this Brock?” she asked, staring into Elena’s eyes reassuringly.

“I took the liberty of asking the staff. It seems Mr. Brock is associated with the Rambling Rose, my lady,” the butler answered. “A house of ill repute, located in Covent Garden. Unfortunately, Lord Carrington is not here to accompany you.”

Lady Mowbray wrapped Elena in her pelisse and turned toward Bell and Maggie. “Well, then we’ll have to make do with a manservant, won’t we?”

“You cannot possibly accompany me,” Elena insisted and attempted to loosen the marchioness’s grip on her arm. “I will not allow it.”

Lady Mowbray only tightened her hold. “You’ve no choice, Miss Barnes. Either I go with you, or you wait for the viscount to return. I am your chaperone, remember?”

“But I am responsible for Rowena,” she ground out angrily.

“No, my child. I am.”

The marchioness would not stand down, and Elena could not wait.

“Mr. Bell, have the coach readied,” Elena boldly instructed the butler. “There is no time to waste.”

“Hold for a moment,” Dash whispered to Nicholas as he picked the lock on the door of the Rambling Rose. He turned the tool this way and that until the door opened.

Nicholas scanned the alley, then consulted the hastily drawn map in his hands. “You really must visit India, Carrington,” he said. Pausing in the doorway, he turned to his friend and grinned. “Your skills would be put to good use.”

Dash gestured for his friend to turn back, but not before arching an eyebrow in response. “I’m sure they would. But my Corinthian duties keep me here,” he answered sardonically, following Nicholas into the building.

He pushed the door shut, easing it back into place, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim morning light. A worn brown runner accompanied by faded wallpaper and painted sconces slowly came into focus. A peculiar smell permeated the area, sour and sickeningly sweet at the same time.

“We only need access to this floor, thankfully,” Nicholas whispered, gesturing for Dash to follow him. “According to the map, the madam’s office should be the first door on the left, just there,” he explained, moving slowly so that his Hessians didn’t make a sound.

Dash thought to ask where the map had come from, but decided against it. The more time he spent with
Nicholas, the less he wanted to know about the man’s time in India.

“They’ll be asleep above stairs, won’t they?” he asked, listening for any sign that someone might be afoot.

Nicholas pointed to the door. “In theory, yes—the girls anyway. But there’s the madam to consider. And her henchmen—who are quite adept at cracking skulls, according to the information I received.” He tried to turn the knob, but it wouldn’t budge.

Dash reached for the tool within a concealed waistcoat pocket, knelt down, and set to work.

“Information? Supplied to you?” he asked, despite his concern. He finished with the lock and stood, returning the tool to his pocket.

“Do you want to catch this man?” his friend asked.

“Of course I do. I just don’t want you killed in the process,” Dash replied, bothered that Nicholas had asked him such a thing.

Nicholas tried the knob and smiled when it turned. “Carrington, I never pegged you for being such a sensitive soul. Really, quite soft, when it comes right down to it.”

“Stow it,” Dash grumbled, and then walked into the office.

Nicholas followed, closing the door behind them. “Well, someone is tidy.”

Dash narrowed his eyes, taking in the small, organized room. He walked to a window along the opposite wall and drew one curtain aside just enough to let a measure of light through. “Yes, quite tidy, indeed.”

The beechwood desk was scratched and worn, but every last item upon it was dusted and perfectly ordered. A row of leather-bound books stood up against the back wall, supported by a matching beechwood case. Each book was the same size as the one before it, their spines facing out and perfectly aligned.

“I’ll start with the books. You see to the desk,” Dash instructed Nicholas. He turned to examine the spines of the books. Each bore a rose and a number, which Dash assumed indicated a year. He moved down the row until he found 1798.

He pulled the volume from its place on the shelf and turned back, gently placing the book on the desk.

“Do you think they’d leave such information out, where anyone could find it?” Nicholas asked, rifling through the contents of a drawer.

Dash opened the volume. “Plain sight is oftentimes the most effective hiding place of all,” Dash answered, thumbing through the entries. “Besides, we’ve no idea what information will tell us which customer we’re looking for.”

Nicholas walked around the desk and eyed the pages. “Well, it looks to be in alphabetical order.”

Dash ran his finger across the top, where six columns were identified. Name, address, date of last “service,” preferred girl, money owed the brothel, and money owed the customer.

“Money owed the customer?” Nicholas asked, looking to where Dash’s finger had stopped on the page. “What does that mean?”

Dash tapped his finger, and then ran it down the length of the column to where the first amount was noted. “It means said customer must have done something for the Rose. We’ve a way to track him, Nicholas,” Dash replied, reaching for a scrap of foolscap and a quill.

He moved to the left along the columns until landing on the customer’s name. “John Trenney.”

“Is that him?”

Dash looked at the man’s address, and then moved on. “No. Remember, the woman that my father spoke to swore that the man was of quality. We’re looking for someone with a title.”

He flipped page after page, not finding another notation until reaching the Fs. That too failed to identify a nobleman.

The sudden pounding of footfalls upstairs sent Nicholas toward the door. He opened it just a hair and the noise from above intensified.

He closed the door suddenly and turned to Dash. “Looks as though we may be interrupted.”

“I need more time,” Dash demanded, quickening his pace and happening upon a notation in the Ks. “Dammit,” he swore under his breath when the name was not one that he recognized.

Nicholas walked back to the desk and snapped up the discarded map. “I’ll do my best, but you’ll need to hurry.”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Dash asked, the last of the sentence lost when Nicholas opened the door, stepped out into the hallway, and shut Dash inside.

The pounding of men’s footfalls and vicious words followed.

“Catch me if you can, you filthy whore spawn,” Nicholas spat out, his maniacal laughter fading as he ran down the hall for the alley.

Dash dove beneath the desk with the book in his hands. The door burst open and Dash held his breath.

“Nottin’ in ’ere. Go get ’em, boys.”

He waited until the door closed again, then crawled out and stood. He’d left off at the Ks, meaning he still had over half of the book to search. Dash turned to the correct page and began again, racing through each entry with renewed vigor.

No new entries appeared until the surnames starting with S.

“Christ Almighty,” Dash growled, his finger landing on Mr. Francis Smeade. The “sums owed” column
showed a payment made to the man in July 1798—the month Lady Afton had been murdered. And there were more, the same sum, but in different months, during different years. He’d seen the exact dates before, on a document from the Afton case. There’d been murders of Corinthian family members since Lady Afton’s death, and the dates of their deaths were the precise ones he was looking at now.

Smeade was the Bishop. But someone connected to the brothel had paid the man to brutally kill Lady Afton and the others. He’d pointed the knife and committed the murder, but someone other than Smeade had made the decision.

Dash had never cared for Smeade. But now pure, unadulterated hatred flashed in his heart.

He’d put that to good use. He returned the book to its place on the shelf and finished with the remaining volumes, finding no other possible suspect. Walking to the door, he listened for any noise in the hallway. Complete silence filled the basement.

He opened the door, looked both ways before stepping out into the corridor, and then shut the door behind him. Reaching the exit to the alleyway, he crossed the street and began to walk north, turning back only once to look at the front of the brothel.

Where his matching bags and coach stood waiting.

“I demand that you bring me the girl at once.”

Elena swallowed hard. Lady Mowbray’s words had been delivered with due severity, but they’d clearly underestimated what awaited them at the Rambling Rose.

She looked to the far corner where James, the manservant sent along to protect them, lay, incapacitated by a single blow.

“And I demand that you shut your potato trap, love,” the ringleader replied casually. “Or I’ll shut it for ya.”

As the coach had dipped and dodged its way across London, Lady Mowbray had assured Elena that they would retrieve Rowena with superior breeding, morals, and intelligence.

Right would win out over might.