The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel (28 page)

“If you count the horses, I suppose,” Mr. Bourne remarked.

“Well, of course I count the horses,” Elena muttered. “They’re far more civilized than most of their owners. Therefore, it would seem wrong to exclude them.”

Elena looked over her shoulder. Lady Mowbray’s carriage had stopped and she sat amid a group of matrons, no doubt discussing the latest
on-dits
.

She turned around and faced forward, certain that there was enough distance between them and the marchioness. “Now, gentlemen, please tell me, was the information I stole from James and Mulroy of use?”

“Yes, quite useful,” Dash replied. “We needed Smeade’s account number in order to forge the banknotes.”

Elena settled back in her saddle, relieved to know that she’d been helpful. “Anything else?”

“The moneylender’s story was accurate; he told us the truth. Smeade does receive regular large payments from a company called Burlington Shipping,” Mr. Bourne answered, patting his bay Thoroughbred on the neck. “Unfortunately, Burlington Shipping does not actually exist.”

Confused, Elena looked at him. “What do you mean it doesn’t exist?”

“There isn’t an actual, functioning entity. More than likely, whoever Smeade works for has a network of businesses—some real, some not—that provide cover, if you will, for the main body of the operation,” Dash explained, easily controlling his high-spirited mount when the horse shied at a branch on the path.

Elena nodded in understanding. “Oh, quite like the Hydra, then?”

“Precisely. It makes it nearly impossible to trace any path back to the men responsible,” Dash confirmed. “And I would be willing to bet that the similarities do not end there. I’m certain that when the authorities discover and close one dishonest business, two more grow in its place.”

Mr. Bourne let out an exasperated sigh. “All right, then. Are we quite done with the mythology lesson?”

“There’s much to learn from mythology, Mr. Bourne,” Elena countered with asperity. To her dismay, his callous remark stung.

Dash cleared his throat loudly, claiming their attention. “We’ve enough to think on without you two bickering. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Elena knew he was right, although she still felt the urge to strike Mr. Bourne. “I apologize.”

“Right,” he answered brusquely. “And I to you. Now, may we return to the plan?”

Dash nodded. “We’ve the account number. I’ll secure a likeness of his signature from the Corinthians Club, then Nicholas can move forward with forging the banknotes. The two of us will continue to feed the ton’s insatiable appetite for rumors with stories of Smeade’s financial woes.”

Elena’s horse tossed her head and danced. “And what am I to do?” she asked, before murmuring reassuringly to her mare.

“Protect your pretty little head and stay out of the way?” Mr. Bourne suggested acerbically.

Elena continued to coo softly to the mare, refusing to react to the man’s words.

“You don’t know Smeade, therefore it would appear suspicious if you began whispering about his money problems at every event you attended,” Dash pointed out reasonably, his leg brushing up against hers as his horse nudged her mare. “I know this is hard for you.
But right now, your involvement would only jeopardize all that we’ve done so far.”

“I see,” Elena replied. The heat from where he touched her only made the situation worse. “And do you anticipate needing my help at some point?”

Mr. Bourne scoffed at her words. “Not if I have anything to say about it.” He gestured toward the bend in the track farther ahead. “First one to Hyde Park Corner wins five quid.” He lifted his horse into a trot and took off.

Elena and Dash watched as his horse picked up speed and moved from a trot to a canter, the dust rising from his hooves nearly obscuring the two altogether.

“The man would take a bet for five quid?” Elena asked lightly, needing Dash to believe she’d accepted the situation.

Dash continued to watch his friend. “He’d take a bet simply to take a bet—no money need be involved.”

“Oh, that will require very little suspension of disbelief on my part,” Elena replied, urging her mare into a trot. “I do loathe losing, though.”

Dash caught up instantly, his gelding prancing, eager to follow Bourne. “As do I,” he replied, loosening the reins and giving the horse his head.

Elena watched for a moment. Reins taut, she patted the mare’s neck as the horse danced, anxious for her turn. Then, she promptly wheeled the horse toward Lady Mowbray, leaning forward to whisper to the mare, “I’ll simply tell the marchioness that those dastardly men attempted to engage me in a wager. They’ll never hear the end of it. Serves them right.”

She trotted off back down the row, waving to Lady Mowbray as she drew near. “Protect my pretty little head?” she said out loud. “We’ll see about that, Mr. Bourne.”

Elena’s fingers curved around the brass knocker on the door of the Halcyon Society’s brick townhome and rapped it soundly against the wood panel. Waiting for a response, she looked over her shoulder at the hackney she’d hired to bring her to the Bloomsbury location. The driver had jumped down from his seat and was watering his horse, the large bay draft’s greedy gulps sending the bucket swinging back and forth.

She glanced past the pair, searching the street beyond. Elena didn’t really suspect that Dash had followed her. But she did wonder whether the very thought meant that she shouldn’t be here. A full day had passed since he’d made it clear that her part in Smeade’s capture was done. Twenty-four long hours and yet the bitter taste left in her mouth by his words lingered still.

“Good day, Miss Barnes.”

Elena turned quickly around to find the door opened wide and Abigail standing in the entryway. “Hello, Abigail. Is Mrs. Mason in?”

The girl ushered Elena into the foyer and closed the door behind them. “She is, Miss. Let me see to your things, then I’ll fetch her straightaway.”

Elena removed her pelisse and bonnet and gave them to Abigail, smiling at the girl’s obvious pride in her work. “Thank you.”

“Of course, Miss,” she replied, bobbing a curtsy. “Please take a seat in the front sitting room. Mrs. Mason will be but a moment.”

Elena watched the girl disappear down the hall, her shiny black boots making clicking noises on the floor as she hurried away to fetch her mistress.

Turning toward the front room, Elena crossed the threshold and took a seat on the faded settee. The room looked much the same as it had before, with the exception of the vase of flowers. There were now creamy white and pale pink tulips in place of the red and yellow.
The colors complemented the dull puce fabric of the couch, she thought idly, much more so than the others.

“Miss Barnes,” Mrs. Mason greeted her, sweeping into the room with quick efficient movements. “I do not believe that we have an appointment scheduled for today, do we?”

Elena smiled in apology. “No, we do not, Mrs. Mason. I do hope my presence is not an inconvenience.”

Mrs. Mason sat down in the chair opposite Elena. “It’s quite all right, though I am rather pressed for time today, I’m afraid.”

“Of course,” Elena replied, appreciating the woman’s candor. “Let me get to the reason for my visit, then. Nearly a fortnight past, my maid, Rowena, was taken against her will by a Mr. Brock of the Rambling Rose.”

Mrs. Mason scooted to the edge of her seat, concern clouding her face. “Miss Barnes, I am dreadfully sorry to hear this. We are familiar with Mr. Brock and the establishment. Was she …” The woman’s voice faded as if the question was simply too terrible for words.

“She was rescued from the Rose no more than a handful of hours after the kidnapping,” Elena answered reassuringly. “There were cuts and bruises, but her honor remains intact today.”

Mrs. Mason’s shoulders slumped with relief and she smoothed out the skirt of her gray dress. “Thank the Lord, Miss Barnes.”

“Yes, quite,” Elena replied, her gaze turning to the Bible on the sideboard. “I cannot begin to tell you just how thankful I am for Rowena’s safe return,” she continued, facing Mrs. Mason once again. “But I need more, you see. I need justice.”

The woman folded her hands in her lap and looked pointedly at Elena. “I do understand, Miss Barnes,” she said. “But do you recall our conversation concerning Mary Fields? Justice is hard to come by in such cases.”

“Yes, I remember. But I must do all that I can, for Rowena’s sake—and mine, to be completely honest. Can you understand that?”

Elena hadn’t done all she could, not yet anyway. She’d leave Smeade to Dash and Mr. Bourne. But retribution and justice for Mr. Brock was hers.

Mrs. Mason looked out the large front windows as she considered Elena’s explanation. “Do you have time to wait while I send for a Bow Street runner, Miss Barnes?”

“Yes,” Elena replied eagerly. “And thank you.”

“Do not thank me yet,” the woman warned, standing. “I cannot stay, I’m afraid. You’ll have to speak with the man yourself. And it will not be easy, Miss Barnes. You’ll be required to provide every last detail, no matter how painful the telling.”

Elena nodded her head resolutely. “I am prepared.”

“No, you’re not,” Mrs. Mason answered, a compassionate tone to her voice. “But you’re strong, and that should help.”

She turned to the door and prepared to leave.

“Mrs. Mason, if I may ask after Mary Fields? How does she fare?”

The woman looked back and shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but Mary died, Miss Barnes. The very night you were here. But she did not die alone. There is that.”

Elena focused her eyes on Mrs. Mason’s retreating form, a painful ache settling into her heart. “Yes, there is that, Mrs. Mason. There is that.”

Two days after Elena’s interview with the Bow Street runner, she received word from the man that Mr. Brock had been forcibly removed from the Rambling Rose and now sat in a cell awaiting further action.

She lay in bed, staring at the heavy damask fabric that
formed the canopy. Lifting both arms above her head, Elena winced with pain. Perhaps she should not have been quite so industrious in her efforts. But the interview with the Bow Street Runner had played heavily on her mind and she’d needed something to throw herself into—something that required physical as well as mental attention.

Elena couldn’t move. Her body ached from two days spent in the library, cataloging books, listing them in her ledger, then carefully packing them away in the custom wooden boxes that she’d ordered from Marsh and Tatham. She was quite happy with the progress being made. Her father would be thrilled when he saw all the volumes, a veritable treasure trove for a man who valued the written word above all else.

Lady Mowbray had commented on Elena’s fervor at dinner, suggesting that a lovely evening out might be just the thing after such an exhausting day. Elena had politely declined.

And done so again following the fish course, when the marchioness had wondered aloud whether dancing wouldn’t ease her aching muscles.

And one more time, for good measure, just as Elena was about to take a bite of strawberry tart. Lady Mowbray’s reasoning was sound—the rumor being that the Roxburghe Club possessed one of the largest libraries in all of London—but Elena refused. Again. And less politely so, though admirably, considering her fatigue.

She lowered her arms to the bedcovers, unable to hold back a moan as she did so. Lady Mowbray probably was correct—a ball would have required all of Elena’s attention, thereby making it nearly impossible for her to think about Brock.

But it also would have demanded patience and good humor, which Elena couldn’t quite muster at the moment. She’d bid good evening to the marchioness, spent
two more hours laboring in the library, then retired to her room.

Elena would sleep. Soundly. She needed the rest.

She rolled slowly onto her side, carefully tucking one hand under her pillow.

She wanted Dash. Needed to feel his body molded against hers, his arm around her waist and his breath in her ear.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, exhaling with renewed commitment to the task at hand. Elena was a firm believer in the idea that a person could accomplish anything if she set her mind to it.