The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel (9 page)

Shifting in the straight-backed wooden chair, Dash stretched his legs out beneath the oaken desk. He turned his head from left to right, then again, attempting to ease the muscles aching from the strain of too many hours bent over the Afton case notes.

He’d read through the creased, worn papers so many times he’d lost count, hoping to find some clue he’d overlooked, although he had long ago memorized every single word.

Sounds from the floor above, within the Young Corinthians’ club, drifted down to the rabbit warren of hidden rooms that comprised the organization’s headquarters. Dash glanced at the candelabra set before him on the desk. The beeswax tapers had burned down to nubs, warning him the hour was late.

He closed his tired eyes and rubbed his temples. Miss Barnes was not what he’d expected—at least not entirely. Oh, she was certainly a bluestocking. But she was decidedly lacking in any of the superior airs that experience had taught him most women of her ilk normally displayed proudly.

She seemed quite willing to accept his intellectual inferiority with nervous grace and patience, which was a start.

He opened his eyes, staring impatiently at the flickering light from the candles. It was only the first day, he reminded himself.

Despite his appearance and place in society, the perception by the ton that he was one step above a dunce allowed him to be disregarded and thus, nearly invisible. This made him all the more valuable as an agent.

But Miss Barnes had
seen
him in the alcove. She’d unearthed a piece of Dash so intrinsically tied to his soul that he’d shuddered at his own vulnerability. And in turn, she’d blossomed before his eyes, only to close up once more for reasons only she understood. The encounter had left him breathless. Confused. And worse, distracted.

He held his forefinger above the candle’s flame, lowering it, then raising it higher as the heat intensified.

“Do be careful with that candle, Carrington,” a familiar voice commanded simply. “I’d hate for you to compromise your skills with a lock.”

Dash looked up. Henry Prescott, Viscount Carmichael, had entered the shadowed room. Arms crossed, the older man leaned one shoulder against the wall, clearly at ease. “Please, Carmichael, I could take the crown jewels with my teeth,” he answered with a dismissive shrug, abandoning the casual game with the flame.

“True enough, but I’d rather you not,” the Corinthian handler answered, moving toward a well-worn leather chair. He settled his tall, wiry frame into the seat, his gaze fixed on Dash with unnerving intensity.

Dash gathered the sheaf of papers in front of him and smoothly slid them to the far corner of the desktop.
“What brings you to the records room so late? How many guineas did Williams fleece you for this evening?”

“I lost one time, Carrington. And the man cheated, I’m sure of it,” Carmichael answered, his shrewd blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “And you? Not poring over the Afton papers again, are you?” he asked, though he certainly didn’t have to. Carmichael was subtle in everything, but clear. He was disappointed and Dash knew it.

Dash slumped back comfortably and rested his elbows on the chair arms. “Well, unlike you, I made a small fortune off of Williams this evening. And when that became tedious, I wandered down here out of sheer boredom. Better this than to return home to Miss Barnes and the marchioness. They’ve overtaken the place, I tell you. Next thing I know, my room will be filled with tasseled silk pillows, fashion magazines, and Sèvres vases full of sweet-smelling flowers.”

Carmichael smiled. “Lady Mowbray?”

“Precisely.”

His superior shuddered slightly. “Well, that makes sense. But this Miss Barnes? Surely she’s no match for your charm?”

“Harcourt’s daughter. Do you know her?” Dash asked, hopeful that Carmichael’s interest was piqued.

The other man frowned as he considered the name. “I haven’t seen Harcourt in years. And I don’t remember a thing about the daughter. Her mother died giving birth to her, I believe. But that’s all I can recall.”

“You’re not the only one,” Dash replied. “The chit spent very little time in town—just enough, from what I understand, for one miserable season. The poor thing didn’t take at all. Then she returned to her father’s estate in Dorset, never to be heard from again. Until now.”

Carmichael nodded. “And how did she find her way
to your home? Seems a strange destination for the woman.”

“Her presence is due to my father, I’m afraid. Willed his library to Harcourt,” Dash answered flatly. “Not that I’ve any use for the books—read them already. But just how long do you suppose it will take a lady to pack up hundreds of rare and valuable volumes? One week? Perhaps two? Please tell me less than three.”

“Having a lady in your home is quite dreadful, then?” Carmichael asked, his subtle sarcasm not lost on Dash.

“Quite,” he said with emphasis. “And she’s a bluestocking to boot.”

“Ah,” Carmichael nodded in understanding. “No wonder you’re wasting time down here—and on a case you’ve been ordered to stay away from. I could almost understand why you’d break protocol—almost, that is.”

Any Corinthian worth his salt knew that when Carmichael used such a tone, you listened. “Just a bit of reading, is all.”

“You know as well as I that the Afton case could never be ‘just’ anything to you—which is why you’re not allowed near it,” Carmichael replied, folding his arms across his chest. “You’re a smart man, Carrington. I shouldn’t have to repeat myself.”

“I could say the same for you, Carmichael,” Dash replied lightly, regretting the flippant comment immediately.

Carmichael toyed with the gold signet ring on his left hand. “You’ve seen him then?”

“Seen whom?” Dash asked, puzzled.

“Stonecliffe’s brother.”

Of course Carmichael would know of Bourne’s return. But why he had to be so damn perceptive
all
of the time, Dash couldn’t fathom. “Why do you ask?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Carrington. Remember, I’ve known you far too long for such ploys to work. The
four of you, together again? Won’t be easy, I imagine. You must find a way to move on. One that doesn’t include chasing after ghosts.”

Dash stared down at the papers, the memory of Lady Afton’s lifeless body flashing before him. “And you? Did you find your way?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Carmichael confirmed, standing from the chair. “Now, join me upstairs for a drink?”

Carmichael didn’t understand. And Dash could accept this fact. But he wouldn’t turn back now.

He placed both hands on the desk and pushed himself up. “Yes, I believe I will.”

Elena rushed down the hallway to the accompaniment of the hall clock chiming the dinner hour. She stopped just short of the dining room and smoothed out the skirt of her hunter-green gown. The feel of the silk as she slid her fingers along it soothed her. She rolled her shoulders back, forced a pleasant smile, and proceeded into the room.

Only to discover Viscount Carrington was absent.

“Miss Barnes,” Lady Mowbray exclaimed, waving her hand elegantly in the air. “Do come and sit next to me. Lord Carrington is at his club, so it is only us women this evening.”

Elena walked the length of the Elizabethan table, attempting to make sense of her disappointment. She should have been relieved by the viscount’s absence, considering that she’d yet to puzzle out just what, exactly, had taken place in the alcove that morning.

She waited patiently while a footman pulled out her chair, and then sat down, absently picking up the embroidered serviette and placing it on her lap.

Was it truly disappointment she felt? And if it was, why?

A delectable treacle sponge pudding was placed in front of Elena. She stared at it, utterly confused.

“It won’t bite, my dear,” the marchioness assured her.

Elena looked to Lady Mowbray for an explanation.

“Life is short, Miss Barnes,” the marchioness said, taking up her silver spoon. “Whenever I am able, I begin each meal at the very end. Then I work my way back to the necessary bits. I suppose some would find this odd.”

“I think it’s terribly brilliant,” Elena replied honestly, reaching for her own spoon and dipping it into the decadent dessert.

“Good,” Lady Mowbray confirmed happily.

Elena brought the spoon to her lips and took a bite: the sweet treacle-soaked sponge seemed to melt on her tongue, delighting her senses.

“Now, tell me about your first season, my dear. I want to know precisely what happened.”

Elena swallowed hard, the sponge pudding suddenly dry and tasteless. “With all due respect, Lady Mowbray, I don’t see how that information could be of use. To anyone.”

Her shoulders tensed of their own accord and her stomach rolled uneasily. Did the marchioness expect Elena would regale her with the humiliating tale simply to amuse her?

“Miss Barnes,” the marchioness countered, setting her spoon down and looking at Elena with concern. “It is of great use to me, I assure you. How else am I to avoid repeating whatever disasters occurred that sent you running back to Dorset? You’ll not fail a second time, my dear. Not with me as your chaperone.” Her firm nod and determined expression clearly conveyed her conviction.

“Oh,” Elena murmured, suddenly ashamed that she’d assumed the worst of the woman. “Well, I don’t know that there was one instance in particular, my lady. But
this,” she paused and gestured to her hair, then her face, and finally her body, “did not help matters.”

The woman was a marchioness, and apparently a kind one at that. Surely she’d politely avoid Elena’s revelation and that would be the end of it.

“Am I to assume you believe yourself to be at fault?”

Or nearly the end of it.

“Obviously,” Elena answered, lifting a second bite of pudding to her mouth and forcing herself to chew.

Lady Mowbray continued to stare at her. “I’ll not lie, as it would only be a waste of my time and yours. Your gowns number among some of the most unfortunate I’ve ever set eyes on. And your hair? Well, it’s glorious, but the coiffure is not. Tell me, who sponsored your season?”

“Lady Hastings,” Elena managed to get out around the bite of sponge.

Lady Mowbray rolled her eyes in response. “Well, that explains quite a lot. Lady Hastings is atrocious. You’re a beautiful woman with an impressive mind and a quick wit. It’s all there, underneath the lamentable packaging. And now you have me. So there is nothing to fear, my dear. Nothing at all.”

Elena wanted desperately to believe the woman. But she’d have to believe in herself first—in a way she’d never managed before.

“You look skeptical, Miss Barnes,” the marchioness noted, taking a bite of her pudding and pausing to savor it. “What if we made a wager?”

Wagers always ended badly in books. In fact, Elena had never read a single volume involving a wager where tragedy had not struck the poor, unsuspecting mortal a mighty blow.

Still, she was curious. “What might you have in mind, Lady Mowbray?”

“My lord.”

Dash swung about at the unexpected sound of Bell’s voice. “Bell, I’ve just arrived home from the club, which explains my being awake at such a late hour. But surely you should be abed by now?”

The butler’s hair was slightly mussed and his eyes bleary, as though he’d just been roused from sleep. “My lord, Cook sent for me. If there’s anything that you require?”

Dash looked over the butler’s shoulder, but the round, gray-haired cook was nowhere to be found. “Cook?”

“The woman has the uncanny ability to sense when someone is in her kitchen. I don’t know how she does it. But she does—with regularity,” Bell explained.

Dash turned back to the milk he’d poured into a tankard and added the almonds, egg white, brandy, and rum. “Just making myself a posset, Bell. Care for some?”

He walked to the fireplace and reached for the poker whose end rested in the low, glowing embers. Holding the tankard waist-high, he slowly lowered the tip of the poker into it, a satisfying hissing emitting from the fragrant brew.

Bell retrieved a wooden spoon and gestured for the tankard. “No thank you, my lord.”