The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  If you liked that sort of thing, Elena thought, feigning disinterest.

  “And so I shall go,” she agreed resolutely. They reached the aged farm cart and Elena allowed the groom to lift her onto the seat. She attempted to smooth her wrinkled skirt, ultimately accepting defeat and folding her hands tightly in her lap.

  Returning to London had not been in her plans—ever.

  But neither had acquiring Paolini’s Abecedary.

  She would travel as soon as possible, catalogue and pack the books, then return to Harcourt House before her father had time to miss her.

  Simple. Straightforward. Just as Elena preferred.

  “Good God,” Dash muttered under his breath as he watched the landau bearing Elizabeth Bradshaw, Marchioness of Mowbray, pull to a stop in front of Carrington House.

  Several heavy leather trunks were lashed to the conveyance, leaving Dash to wonder if there’d been room for the marchioness. He narrowed his eyes and peered through the window, fully expecting to find the interior filled with the familiar boxy shapes of yet more trunks.

  Instead, he discovered a pair of bright green eyes watching him above a mouth that curved upward in a mischievous smile.

  A footman dutifully opened the lacquered carriage door and lowered the steps, extending his hand. Lady Mowbray graciously accepted his aid and stepped from the carriage onto the pavers. She pulled her deep crimson pelisse tightly about her narrow shoulders and beamed at Dash.

  “Lady Mowbray,” Dash addressed the handsome older woman, walking to her side. “My dear lady, it’s delightful to see you. And looking as beautiful as always, I must say.”

  The marchioness turned her cheek and allowed Dash to chastely kiss her soft, scented skin. “Yes, you must say, as I’m wearing a new gown. But ‘delightful to see me’? Come now, my lord. Our shared history assures we may speak plainly, does it not?”

  “You question my sincerity?” Dash asked with amusement, offering Lady Mowbray his arm. He waited while she adjusted her gloves, and then led her toward the wide, solid steps of Carrington House.

  “Always,” she confirmed, gracefully adjusting the pale yellow scarf tied jauntily about her neck. “That is why I’m your favorite aunt.”

  The irresistible woman was not his aunt, strictly speaking. But she may as well have been. Dash could not recall a time when Lady Mowbray had not been poking about his affairs, firmly asserting that her role as his mother’s dearest friend gave her the right to do so. Not that the woman needed permission—at least not to her way of thinking. She could be incredibly opinionated and pushy, but Dash loved her all the same. Lady Mowbray knew him better than almost anyone else in his life. And so he overlooked her many annoying habits.

  Though the number of trunks did give him pause.

  “Now,” the marchioness began, patting Dash’s arm. “When does Miss Barnes arrive? I cannot wait to make her acquaintance. She is rumored to be quite intelligent—perhaps even as sharp as you, my boy.”

  The hair on Dash’s neck prickled at the woman’s words. “Do not even think on it,” he warned.

  “Think on what?” she replied innocently, gracefully lifting her skirts as they mounted the stairs.

  Dash shook his head slowly in disbelief. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Your attempts to secure a wife on my behalf are legendary.”

  “I would hardly call them legendary, my boy—”

  “Lady Emma Scott?” Dash interrupted. The very mention of the woman’s name quieted the marchioness.

  A footman opened wide the oaken front door and stepped aside.

  “That was simply a bit of bad luck,” Lady Mowbray countered, sweeping into the foyer ahead of Dash. “How was I to know she was acutely allergic to flowers?”

  Dash groaned and released her arm. “Precisely. Which is why you’ve no place dabbling in such matters—ever,” he answered. “I do adore you, but come now. You’ve behaved so well since the infamous Scott scene. I thought you’d learned your lesson.”

  “Really, my lord, you haven’t a clue as to how the female mind works, do you?” the marchioness answered blithely and patted him reassuringly on the arm.

  Lady Mowbray handed her pelisse to a waiting servant and removed her poke bonnet. “Now, I would like to retire to my room. I would prefer to be settled before Miss Barnes arrives so that she might have my full attention. After all, it is my duty as her chaperone to provide instruction and guidance to the girl, is it not?”

  Dash groaned a second time as the marchioness handed him the hat.

  “We’re in agreement, then. Splendid,” she replied, clapping her hands together. “Tell me, where is my chamber?”

  Dash stared at the bonnet in his hands. “The west wing. Bell will accompany you.”

  “And Miss Barnes? Will she be housed in the east wing—with you?” Lady Mowbray inquired innocently.

  Dash gripped the hat in a death hold and cleared his throat. “Bessie …” he said warningly.

  “Really, my boy. It’s merely that the east wing affords a superior view of the city.”

  “Go,” Dash commanded, pointing to the stairs.

  “Yes, I believe I’ll retire now,” she replied amiably. “Bell, if you please.”

  Dash watched Lady Mowbray ascend the stairs until she disappeared down the hall to the western half of the house, realizing only after she’d gone that he’d fisted the blasted bonnet into an unrecognizable ball.

  “Good God.”

  “You cannot be serious.”

  Dash stared at Stonecliffe with patent disbelief.

  “Oh, but I am,” Langdon replied. “When have you ever known me not to be?”

  The two friends paused in the anteroom of London’s Corinthians Club while a footman took their greatcoats.

  It was only two o’clock in the afternoon, but Dash felt certain a drink was in order. “What man would bother wagering on me and Harcourt’s spinster daughter? She hasn’t even arrived in town yet.”

  Langdon had provided little information on their way over in the hackney. Apparently, the ton knew of Elena Barnes’s imminent arrival. Dash assumed it was the work of Lady Mowbray, part of her grandiose plan to marry the two off.

  A matchmaking marchioness and a bluestocking under his roof within the span of a handful of hours? Brought to point non plus—and by his own doing. Perhaps his mind was not what it once was, after all.

  Bluestockings, Dash thought to himself, grimacing. A derisive term for women generally believed to be too learned, if he remembered the definition correctly. He didn’t agree, of course. But he had to admit that no one tested his patience more than the few bluestockings he’d met.

  “Carrington.” Mr. Francis Smeade nodded in greeting as they passed in the oak-paneled hall.

  Dash reciprocated with a stiff hello. A very distant relation, Smeade had clawed his way up in the social standings until he perched precariously on a respectable rung. He’d done so by any means necessary and made a number of enemies along the way. Even so, he’d convinced the Corinthian membership to allow him in, the mix of agents and civilians necessary and useful. Dash couldn’t be bothered to devote the time required for such strong emotion, so he simply disliked Smeade. Nothing more and nothing less. He pushed the annoying man from his mind and returned to the problem at hand.

  “Are you going to answer me or will I have to challenge you?” Dash asked impatiently, following Langdon to the back of the club.

  “Ha!” Langdon snorted with marked disdain. Dash couldn’t help but chuckle.

  Dash’s fighting skills were, in a word, unimpressive. He’d trained long and hard to reach the minimum level required by the Corinthians for all members. He possessed the strength to take a man down, but it would not be a pretty fight. He preferred it that way. Physical violence made Dash uncomfortable. And field agents frequently killed enemy operatives. He’d seen death firsthand. And he never wanted to again.

  His strength and value to the Corinthians was his mind. Da
sh detected patterns in the clues that no one else saw. He could crack a code with his eyes closed. Strategize ten steps ahead of the enemy. And keep his wits about him with cool detachment the whole time.

  They reached the gaming room and Langdon paused, holding a hand up. “I believe it would be better for you to see for yourself. Come this way.”

  Dash hadn’t a clue what his oldest friend was nattering on about. He brushed past the man and strode into the middle of the room, taking in the scene before him.

  Everything looked exactly as it should. True, there weren’t as many men present as there would be later in the evening, but Dash could find nothing amiss among the small crowd of lords scattered about the gaming tables playing ecarte and commerce, all fours and casino.

  And then his gaze landed on the betting chart hanging on the wall just beyond the vingt-et-un table.

  “Is that my name?” he uttered to no one in particular, grinding his teeth. “And Miss Barnes’s—in the same sentence containing the word ‘marriage’?”

  Langdon reached his side. “Quite right. Though, if I may be so bold, it’s actually ‘marriage/death.’ ”

  “Meaning?”

  “Odds are four to one that you’ll marry Miss Barnes. And five to one that you’ll expire from vexation.”

  Dash ground his teeth again, his jaw muscles protesting. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  Langdon turned to Dash, his expression clouded with confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re the one who proposed the bet involving the onerous bluestocking whom I’ve met but once, aren’t you?” Dash accused.

  “Come now, Carrington,” Langdon replied with a grin. “I was only having a spot of fun. Besides, we’ve need of a distraction.” He forcibly turned Dash about by the shoulders and gestured toward the cigar room.

  Dash was almost afraid to ask what, exactly, his friend was referring to. “And why is that, Stonecliffe?”

  He followed Langdon’s lead and left the gaming room, his friend remaining silent until they were comfortably settled in deep, leather armchairs and each had chosen a cigar.

  “Will there be anything else, my lords?” a liveried servant asked, lighting the fragrant cheroots with a nearby candle.

  “That will be all, Jensen—for now, that is,” Langdon replied politely. “Do keep a bottle of my special cognac on hand, please.”

  “Already taken care of, my lord.”

  “Good man,” Langdon said, turning his attention to the cigar.

  Jensen bowed and turned away, moving to assist Lord Reese, who’d just arrived.

  “Your best cognac? And in the afternoon, Stonecliffe? This must be a piece of news,” Dash pressed.

  Langdon tilted his head back and blew a large ring of smoke into the air. “Sophia, Carrington. She’s determined to pursue the matter.”

  “By ‘matter,’ you mean her mother’s killer?” Dash asked in a low tone, inhaling the fragrant smoke.

  “Precisely,” Langdon murmured, looking thoughtfully at his cigar. “Such an exercise is …”

  Dash could conjure a million words to end Langdon’s sentence. Dangerous. Terrifying. Downright heartbreaking. But he kept them to himself, aware his friend would not publicly discuss the more intimate details of the situation. He exhaled, punctuating the air with his own ring. “And what do you propose we do?”

  Langdon looked at him for a long while, his eyes bleak. A haze of smoke settled between them before he spoke again. “I haven’t a bloody clue.”

  “Jensen,” Dash called out.

  The servant hastily made his way to where the two men sat. “Yes, Lord Carrington?”

  Dash inhaled deeply, letting the tangy smoke fill his lungs, and then exhaled in one long breath. “We’ll take the cognac now.”

  Jensen nodded and turned to collect the liquor.

  “The bottle, if you please, Jensen.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  CARRINGTON HOUSE

  LONDON

  Dash missed his father.

  He sat in the late Lord Carrington’s study, toying with a puzzle he’d found on the mahogany desk. The two interlocking keys refused to untangle, no matter how hard he tried. He pulled and prodded at the medieval style pieces, but the puzzle refused to reveal its secret.

  He had loved his father deeply. The sole reason Dash had survived the shock and anguish of Lady Afton’s death was the late viscount’s refusal to give up on his son. And Dash had furnished countless opportunities over the years to relent. Yes, he’d loved his father, and let him in as much as he could. But it had never been enough for the late viscount.

  Dash stared hard at the iron keys, but it was his father’s face that swam before his eyes.

  If he were still alive, the late viscount would have assured Dash the promise he’d made to Carmichael all those years ago was worth keeping.

  None of the four had ever discussed the specifics of Lady Afton’s case. But the specter had haunted Dash ceaselessly. It had inhabited his nightmares and colored his days until the only peace to be found was in his work.

  There, he could become someone else entirely, allowing for little if any substantive, connecting seam between himself and almost everyone in his life. From the beginning, Dash’s distinctive features had gotten in the way of his work. It was difficult to blend in, to not be seen or detected, when one drew the attention of every female between London and Scarborough. He wasn’t particularly vain about the issue, but there was no point in ignoring the plain and simple facts.

  The solution, as it turned out, was obvious enough: play the part. Everyone assumed that men with classic looks were dimwits. So he kept his mouth shut and allowed those who didn’t know him to judge him unfairly. Those who really mattered knew the truth, such as Lord Carmichael and Bessie; well, that wasn’t exactly true. Lord Carmichael knew the truth. And Bessie? When she’d pressed the point many years back, Dash had convinced her that it was nothing more than a game to him. She’d thought it rather tiresome, but had accepted his reasoning and hadn’t questioned his behavior since.

  Frustrated, Dash savagely pulled at each cast key, attempting to force them apart.

  He’d kept his promise to his superior, all right. But he knew the Afton case by heart now. In between assignments, he’d pored over every last piece of information he could find in the Corinthian files. It hadn’t been difficult; the leads and any real facts were few.

  Early in his career, Lord Afton had encountered an individual known only as the Bishop. Any information pertaining to the man had long ago vanished from the files, but this much was known: Afton had come close to capturing the man. The Bishop had escaped—with his need for revenge fully intact. He’d bided his time and waited until Afton had let down his guard to strike. Then the Bishop had cut him to the core and murdered Lady Afton.

  There had been more murders in the years following. Always a family member of agents who’d encountered the Bishop at some point during their service.

  Dash threw the iron keys across the desk and watched as the puzzle skidded to a stop against a crystal paperweight.

  It had become harder and harder over the years for Dash to keep his promise—and for the friends to ignore the ever-present specter of Lady Afton.

  Nicholas had chosen to travel abroad rather than face yet another Yuletide hazed in regret and haunted memories. He’d stayed away for five years before his recent return, building his fortune in India, according to the few letters he’d written.

  Dash drew a deep breath and reached for the puzzle, this time examining each key before moving it. Both bore the typical comb-tooth style bit, but their stems were topped with a fanciful “C” for Carrington.

  He understood why Nicholas had chosen to leave. But that didn’t make the situation any more tenable, especially for those left behind.

  He turned one of the heavy keys clockwise while holding tightly to the other, but they continued to withstand his efforts.

  Dash closed his eye
s, remembering what his father had always sworn was true of puzzles:

  “Deuced counterintuitive, puzzles. The more you think about the problem, the less likely it is that you’ll solve it. Just like anything else in life, I suppose. Close your eyes, my boy. Clear your mind, and it will come.”

  Nicholas’s return had brought back an old familiar pang. Dash could not say which was worse—the strange numbness that had settled into his soul during Nicholas’s absence, or the deep, enduring ache that plagued his heart when the four were together. He could not remember what it was to feel light. Young. Alive.

  It had been too long, Dash admitted, the feel of the metal keys slipping apart in his hands hardly registering in his mind.

  Dash opened his eyes and looked down at the keys, one in each of his hands.

  Clear your mind, and it will come.

  Dash would find the Bishop. He had his answer.

  A knock sounded on the panels of the partially open door and Dash looked up.

  “Bell, my good man,” Dash exclaimed, forcing all thoughts of the case from his mind. “Tell me, if you had to wager on a woman either driving me to marriage or driving me to death, which would you choose?”

  The butler stood in the doorway, his face devoid of emotion. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, my lord.”

  Bell had presided over Carrington House for more years than Dash could remember. He was loyal, intelligent, and supremely capable.

  More important, he’d been a trusted friend to the late viscount. And while Dash didn’t know the man intimately, there was something comforting in his presence.

  “Nothing, Bell, nothing at all,” Dash assured the man. “Now, what is it you need?”

  “Miss Elena Barnes is due to arrive,” Bell replied, the parted keys on the desk catching his eye. He paused. Then he blinked slowly and his emotionless gaze returned. “At any moment, my lord.”