The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel (30 page)

Elena wanted to run.

The warm weight of Dash’s hand at the small of her back as they walked down the hall of de Bohun House
made her yearn to lean into his side and rest there. Forever.

“They’ll be in the drawing room, taking their afternoon tea,” Lady Mowbray explained. “And gossiping too, I would hope,” she added, tapping Dash on the arm with her ivory fan. “Do unhand Miss Barnes, my boy. Such outré behavior within the walls of de Bohun House will have you married in no time at all. And we wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

Dash’s hand fell away and Elena immediately felt the loss, as though it was his hand alone that kept her standing upright. She steadied herself against the emotion, realizing again that her resolve had been sorely shaken by the late-night attack only two days past. Her reaction made perfect sense, she told herself once again. As she’d done, over and over, since that night.

“I don’t mean to be ungrateful, Lady Mowbray,” Elena began, hoping that there was still some way to avoid this social call. “But why, exactly, are we here? It is neither a ball nor a musicale.”

The marchioness looked sternly at Elena. “Oh, my dear. The Furies are far more important than anyone you’ll meet in a ballroom. Why, one word from Victoria or Charlotte, and you’ll find yourself engaged to a duke. Perhaps, even a prince,” she finished, nodding her head solemnly.

“My lady, do not lie. I understand it wrinkles the skin,” Dash teased the marchioness.

Lady Mowbray turned her attention back to the butler walking ahead of them. “Oh, all right. My sisters are in town for an important sale at Tattersalls. And while I do love them so, they can be quite vexing from time to time.
That
is why you’re here. Should I become too bothered I’ll simply slip out the door and leave you to the wolves—women,” she corrected hastily. “Leave you to the women.”

One more minute. Had her attacker been given one more minute, all of sixty seconds, he would have killed her. Elena pictured the knife in his hand, meant for piercing her heart, she supposed, or slitting her throat.

Her cheeks heated and she touched her gloved hand to her forehead, lightly dabbing at a bead of perspiration.

“Oh, come now, my dear,” Lady Mowbray said with misplaced reassurance. “My sisters are not that bad. Well, not all the time, anyway.”

The butler stopped in front of a door, opening it noiselessly, and then clearing his throat. “Lady Mowbray, Miss Barnes, and Viscount Carrington,” he said in rolling, deep tones.

“Really, Stanford, there’s no need to announce us,” the marchioness chided the man, and then entered the room.

“One hour. That is all. Then we’ll make our excuses and leave. Will you be all right?” Dash whispered in Elena’s ear, tucking her hand through the bend of his elbow to escort her inside.

Elena pasted a congenial smile on her lips and rolled her shoulders back. “Of course I will,” she replied, “but thank you for your concern.”

“Dash, do stand aside so that the poor woman might enter,” a sharp, authoritative voice rang out.

“Victoria,” Dash explained, nearly whispering to Elena. “Watch out for her.”

His warning did not put Elena at ease. Still, her only other option was to run for the carriage. She looked down the long hall behind them, judging the distance and determining it would take too long to reach freedom. She’d never personally witnessed Lady Mowbray run. But she was fairly sure the woman would be fast if the situation called for speed.

“One hour,” Elena whispered to Dash, and then walked into the drawing room, prepared for the worst.

If she’d found gargoyles or fairy-tale dragons awaiting her, Elena would not have been surprised. But before her sat two very prim, quite attractive older women—though one did appear to be a tad severe.

“Come in, then. Don’t be shy.”

Ah, you must be Victoria
, Elena thought to herself, and then did as she was told.

“Don’t tell the girl what to do,” the marchioness said crossly. “Elena, sit next to me.”

The third woman set her needlepoint down on the striped satin chaise lounge and sighed. “Lord Carrington, if you would be so kind as to make the introductions, please.”

“Of course, Her Grace, the Duchess of Highbury. Lady Charlotte Grey, may I introduce—”

“Young man, you are aware that I’m a woman of advanced years?” Victoria asked flatly.

“Yes, of course, Your Grace—”

“Then don’t waste my time.”

Dash nodded at the woman, his smile genuine and affectionate. “Of course. Your Grace, Lady Charlotte, I am pleased to introduce Miss Elena Barnes. Miss Barnes, the Duchess of Highbury and Lady Charlotte Grey. Otherwise known as two of the three Furies.”

Victoria pinned him with a piercing glare, then seemed to mellow a touch. “I suppose I deserved that last reference to the Furies. Now, Miss Barnes, do sit down—wherever you please,” Victoria continued. “Though I do feel compelled to advise you that the Sheraton chair, situated quite close to me here, is, by far, the most comfortable in the entire house.”

No, the sisters didn’t resemble gargoyles. But Elena would not place any bets on who would come out on top in a boxing match or any other competition among them.

“Well, who am I to refuse a comfortable chair?” Elena
replied, carefully avoiding Lady Mowbray’s gaze and her surely pinched expression as she walked to the chair and sat.

“I like her already,” Victoria announced with pleased satisfaction, gesturing at Dash to join the marchioness. “Do sit down, my lord. Next to Bessie makes the most sense, I suppose, what with her being your favorite.”

Dash strolled across the room and settled in next to the marchioness, crossing his legs and resting one arm along the back of the chaise lounge. “I was five when I made the choice, Your Grace. I can hardly be held accountable for playing favorites at such a young age.”

“Then you do not know Victoria as well as you might think,” Lady Charlotte replied softly, the merest hint of a beatific smile on her lips.

“What was that?” Victoria asked, turning her sharp gaze on her sister.

Charlotte shifted gracefully to the edge of the chaise lounge and reached for the tea service. “What was what, my dear? I fear your hearing is not what it once was.”

“What of this horse you’ve come all the way to town to look at?” Dash interjected, earning a sharp elbow in the ribs from Lady Mowbray.

“Ugh,” he grunted, looking pointedly at the marchioness. “What on earth was that for?”

Lady Mowbray raised an eyebrow and looked at Dash as though he belonged in Bedlam. “You know better than to interrupt their arguments. Cross as crabs, those two,” she paused, tipping her chin in her sisters’ direction. “If they’re not arguing with each other, then they’re bound to start a fight with me.”

“Really, Bessie, as though you don’t adore a good brangle now and then,” Victoria said crossly, accepting a cup of tea from her sister.

“Now and then?” Lady Charlotte questioned, contemplating her spoon as she stirred her tea.

Normally, Elena would have found such discord distressing. As an only child, her house had always been quiet and comforting. And as for her acquaintances, other than the one disastrous season, her life had been filled with pleasant interactions and polite conversation. It was all so simple and easy. And Elena had liked it very much.

But surprisingly, the sisters’ mild wrangling somehow had a calming effect on Elena’s jangled nerves. She’d dreaded coming to their home, sure that thoughts of Smeade would keep her on the point. And the man did plague her mind, his face and the sharp edge of his blade seemingly hovering just at the edge of her vision. But the women’s entertaining arguing and banter was slowly dissolving the worry that gripped Elena. She knew she wouldn’t be completely settled until Smeade was safely locked away. But right now, in the cheery yellow drawing room, with Dash and the Furies, Elena felt safe.

The noise and vibrant color, light and life that surrounded the three sisters seemed to be exactly what she needed.

Elena looked at Dash and smiled with relief and appreciation. She’d fought his suggestion to visit the Furies, so sure that she knew what was best. When all along, he’d known better.

“And this prime bit of blood,” Dash pressed good-naturedly.

Victoria took a swift, efficient swig of tea and returned the cup to its saucer. “Oh yes, the horse.” Her face relaxed, coming alive at the mere mention. “Gorgeous chestnut yearling. Son of Wind Dancer and a mare out of Pennington’s farm—Springtime Serenade. His conformation is perfect. And from what Lucinda’s been told, his disposition is perfectly suited to racing.”

“Lucinda?” Elena asked, unfamiliar with the name.

Victoria took a second sip of tea before responding.
“Yes, our niece. One of the most accomplished horsewomen in all of England, I dare say.”

“And loving mother,” Charlotte added. “And of course, wife to the Duke of Clairemont.”

Elena remembered the story Lady Mowbray had shared at the musicale. “Lady Mowbray, is this the niece you told me about at Lady Haven’s musicale?”

“Yes, my dear,” the marchioness answered, picking up her spoon and stirring sugar into her tea. “The very one. I’m so very glad that all turned out well. Of course, I knew it would. But still. There were those who doubted.”

Victoria emitted a rather loud “pfftt,” setting her Sèvres cup on the silver tray with a decided snap. “No
one
knew if all would be well. A scandalous duke. A kidnapping. The world was pear-shaped for quite some time, I can tell you that much.”

“Kidnapping?” Elena repeated, sure that she’d misheard. “I’m sorry, but did you say kidnapping?”

Victoria turned her hawk-like gaze on Elena. “My dear, of course I said kidnapping. Poor Lucinda was taken by a hooligan connected to a rather fierce group of men—”

“A gang, Victoria,” the marchioness corrected, then continued. “Les Moines, infamous on the continent, apparently.”

“Savages,” Victoria added, folding her hands in her lap, her eyes brimming with ire. “But the duke did his duty and brought her safely home—thank heavens.”

All three of the women held still, as if giving thanks, the only sound to be heard in the room being an ormolu pedestal clock on the mantel.

“And she’s well, your niece?” Elena asked, needing to hear so again.

“Oh yes, quite well,” Victoria answered simply. “Well, the entire dreadful occurrence was quite a shock, as you can imagine. But eventually, in time, she recovered.”

“With her husband’s help,” the marchioness added warmly.

“Really, Bessie. Still mooning over the man?”

Lady Mowbray raised one eyebrow and smiled dreamily. “Of course. It is perfectly within my purview to do so. Why on earth would I forgo such an opportunity?”

“You are nothing if not predictable, Sister,” Victoria pronounced, and then tapped the length of chaise lounge between herself and Elena. “Now, do tell us about yourself, Miss Barnes,” she said briskly. “From Dorset, if I remember correctly? Your father was a friend of the late Lord Carrington, I believe?”

Elena felt exhausted, but in the best way possible. If a woman could survive a kidnapping—even resume a normal, happy life after such as their niece Lucinda had done—then there was a chance that Rowena would recover—and perhaps even the memory of Smeade’s attack would relinquish its hold on her. Eventually.

There was hope. Blessed, reassuring hope.

“Miss Barnes, are you hard of hearing?” Victoria asked, tapping the settee cushion once again. “I asked after your people in Dorset. I imagine you miss your home and your father most dreadfully. London is nothing compared to the glory of England’s countryside, wouldn’t you agree? I myself would not set foot in town—if not for the occasional beautiful stepper, of course.”

Elena smiled wearily at Her Grace and sipped her tea, savoring the tang of citrus on her tongue. “Well, yes, Dorset has no comparison, truly. But London has a certain charm,” she answered, looking through lowered eyelashes at Dash.

“My dear, I feel sure you’ve not visited Derbyshire, or you would not make such a statement …”

Elena knew that the duchess continued to speak, but she couldn’t concentrate on anything but the warm tea
in her belly and the peace that she’d found amidst the noisy discord of the Furies.

It was wholly unexpected. And exactly what she’d needed.

Dash leaned back casually in his leather chair and puffed on a cigar. He scanned the Young Corinthians Club’s main rooms and exhaled, the smoke drifting in front of his face for a moment, then floating away.

It was half past three in the morning. He’d stepped across the club’s threshold some six hours before with the express purpose of ruining Smeade’s reputation once and for all.

Dash sat up, leaned toward the low oak table in front of him, and rested his elbows on his knees. God, but he’d done more talking that evening than he’d ever care to do again. And drinking. And gambling. He’d even partaken of not one, but three dinners over the course of the night. Roast beef would not be served at Carrington House for some time to come.