The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  Dash reached for the two pieces and put them back together. “A puzzle man, are you, Bell?”

  “Not in the slightest, my lord. But your father …” Bell looked at the floor.

  Dash gently returned the keys to the desk. “Father did love a good ‘stretch of the brain,’ as he was so fond of saying.”

  Bell swallowed. “Quite right, my lord. Now, Miss Barnes?”

  “Yes, of course. Miss Barnes. I suppose I should prepare to …” Dash let his words fall off, hopeful that Bell would excuse him from the impending welcome party.

  “To meet Miss Barnes, my lord. Exactly,” the butler confirmed.

  “Exactly,” Dash repeated. Exactly.

  Bell offered him a hint of a smile. “I’ll await you in the foyer, my lord.”

  Dash nodded as he watched the butler leave. “Of course. I’ll be right there.”

  God. Miss Elena Barnes was the last thing he wanted in his life. And for that matter, the last thing he needed either. If not for his promise to his father that the books would be given to Lord Harcourt, Dash would have left them as they were.

  It was the worst time to have the woman in his home. He couldn’t have known that Nicholas’s return would spur such action on his part. But Dash had already written to her father by the time he’d heard of his friend having sailed for England.

  How was he to honor his father’s request and get rid of the woman as quickly as possible? A bluestocking? Most of his acquaintance loathed those with a weak mind—especially men. Dash was accustomed to remaining silent and allowing others to assume his intellectual inferiority. But perhaps the situation called for him to play a more active role.

  Dash reclaimed the puzzle, smiling as he did so.

  He’d have Miss Barnes back in Dorset before her father had time to miss her. He’d bet his life on it.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss, but I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Elena had reason to take her maid Rowena seriously. The poor girl had already cast up her accounts several times during the three-day ride from Verwood to London. The stops between had done little to ease the agony of Rowena’s sour stomach.

  “Right,” Elena said with brisk reassurance, thumping the roof of the carriage and calling for her father’s coachman to stop.

  The traveling coach slowed and came to a full stop. Elena turned the brass door handle and pushed hard, forcing it open.

  Rowena dove from her well-appointed seat, landing safely on her feet, and vomited into a manicured patch of roses.

  Elena rushed out after her, settling a supportive hand at the back of the poor maid’s waist. “Oh Rowena, are you all right?”

  “Might I be of assistance?”

  Something coiled in Elena’s stomach at the sound of the rich, deep male drawl. That, or she’d managed to secure Rowena’s ailment for herself. “Yes, if you would be so kind,” she began, rubbing Rowena’s back lightly as she turned to look over her shoulder at the servant.

  Only it was not the liveried form of a Carrington house footman that met her gaze. A gentleman stood before her, his clothing of the finest cut and his demeanor rather more lordly than that of a servant. “My lord, I beg your pardon.”

  Now she remembered precisely who Dashiell Matthews, Viscount Carrington, was.

  Adonis, she thought to herself.

  Looking at the man was not unlike what Elena assumed mere mortals might experience if encountering the gods. His hair was, quite literally, spun gold. And she’d never been one given to flights of fancy, but his piercing blue eyes and sculpted cheekbones found Elena peering about for signs that they’d taken a wrong turn and somehow ended up on Mt. Olympus.

  What is wrong with me?

  “For what, Miss Barnes?”

  Elena suddenly realized the man was slowly waving his hand in front of her face. “I’m sorry?”

  Lord Carrington smiled with easy charm. “You asked that I pardon you. I was simply curious as to the offense.”

  Oh God, his mouth. His full, full mouth.

  She shook her head and strained to take in anything but the sight of Lord Carrington. “For my maid’s … For your rosebush, which will most likely require a serious pruning …” Elena paused, realizing belatedly that, in addition to making no sense at all, she’d also stopped the carriage short of the home’s front door. A perfect start to what would surely be a perfect stay.

  Perfect.

  She stared at the servants standing on the broad steps, all waiting awkwardly to dance attendance on her.

  “For the vomit, Lord Carrington,” she finally said, deciding the most direct course was more than likely the best at this point.

  Lord Carrington looked at her, his brow clouding with confusion. “But you’ve not cast up your accounts, have you Miss Barnes?”

  Ah, yes, it was all coming back to her now. Of course she’d never been privy to the conversations of the more desirable debutantes of her day, but Elena had heard snippets of delicious gossip here and there when the girls hadn’t been aware of her presence.

  This man was reputed to be as brainless as he was beautiful.

  Perhaps even more so.

  “No, no, I have not, my lord,” Elena replied, releasing Rowena into the care of a footman who’d made his way down the street.

  Elena almost, almost wished Lord Carrington had not opened his mouth.

  “Shall we ride to the front door, Miss Barnes?” the viscount asked, pointing to the carriage’s open door. “Seems a waste, after all. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Elena watched as the footman escorted Rowena toward the waiting servants, reassured by his solicitous manner, before turning her attention back to Lord Carrington. “In the carriage, then?”

  “Of course, Miss Barnes,” he replied incredulously. “I’d hardly ask you to sit astride one of your matching grays.”

  She peered deep into his blue eyes, searching for intelligence.

  And deeper.

  And found nothing.

  Oh, dear.

  Elena sighed. “Actually, if you would not mind ever so much, I do believe I’d prefer walking.”

  Lord Carrington shrugged his shoulders and gestured toward the house. “Then we shall walk.”

  The two walked in silence to the waiting servants. Lord Carrington introduced the principal staff in a leisurely manner, finishing with the butler, Mr. Bell.

  The man bowed politely. “Miss Barnes, if you would allow me,” Bell began in a low, firm tone, “may I make the proper introductions?”

  The short, round man looked as uncomfortable as Elena felt.

  Lord Carrington laughed. “Hardly necessary, Bell. We met—over there, just a moment ago. Couldn’t you see from here?”

  Elena looked at Bell with relief. “Yes, Mr. Bell, that would be lovely.”

  “Miss Elena Barnes, may I present Dashiell Matthews, Viscount Carrington.”

  Elena dipped into a graceful curtsy, then offered her hand to the viscount.

  He executed a dignified bow and took her gloved hand in his, placing a chaste kiss against her knuckles. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Barnes,” he pronounced, his friendly smile accompanied by a wink.

  Elena smiled warmly at the man, much the same way she did every time she encountered Peter Hoskins, a pig farmer who lived not far from Harcourt House. Some years before, Peter had made the unfortunate mistake of coming between a sizeable angry sow and her offspring. He’d never been the same in the head after that, nor would he ever be.

  “And I, yours, Lord Carrington,” she replied conspiratorially, noting yet again the man’s devastatingly handsome looks.

  Such a pity, she found herself thinking, though she could not imagine why.

  Bessie stood just inside the foyer, willing herself to remain still. She cocked her head to the right in an effort to better hear the conversation taking place just on the other side of the viscount’s front door. Blast, but Carrington and Miss Elena Barnes were practically whispering. Try as s
he might, the marchioness could hardly hear a detail of their conversation.

  Oh, Dash, she sighed. It was true enough that her past efforts to find him a wife had failed. But it wasn’t entirely her fault. The man’s irksome habit of hiding his intelligence from the world had done little to help. She knew the truth behind his lie, of course. Lady Afton’s death so many years before had made any meaningful connection with others almost beyond his capabilities.

  Almost, that was. No, Bessie wasn’t the woman to bring him to task. But she’d find the one who was. She loved him too much to accept failure; the memories of her own happy marriage comforted and strengthened the marchioness during dark times. And she longed for Dash to have the support of a loving wife.

  Of course he’d mentioned Lady Scott, she reflected wryly. Cheeky boy.

  But Miss Barnes’s visit offered the chance of a new beginning. True, Bessie had little to go on. Not one of her friends had been able to provide any real information regarding the baron’s daughter, other than that the woman was smart. Too smart, most of them commented, arching their brows for emphasis.

  The door handle rattled, startling Bessie into action. She spun quickly and scooted toward the staircase, then turned back as though she’d just that moment descended.

  Too smart, the marchioness thought. Well, she’d thrown women who were too pretty, too cultured, and too perfect in the viscount’s path with no success whatsoever.

  Perhaps intelligence would rule the day.

  The door opened wide, the bright spring sunshine beaming across the gleaming floors to where Bessie waited.

  Miss Elena Barnes crossed the threshold and paused.

  But not in that dress, Bessie mentally made note. She was so eager to make Miss Barnes’s acquaintance that she found it necessary to purposely slow her steps as she crossed the expanse of marble. She drew nearer and the girl pasted a smile on her face—one she clearly did not feel in either her heart or her head. It wasn’t merely fatigue that marred her countenance. Bessie could hardly claim to know her thoughts, but the rise of Miss Barnes’s chest as she drew a quick intake of breath indicated what, precisely? Surely not fear?

  “My lady.” Dash drew Bessie’s attention away from Miss Barnes. “May I introduce Miss Elena Barnes?”

  The girl dropped into a polite curtsy and bowed her head, giving Bessie an unguarded moment to take in the whole of her. The dress did not improve upon closer inspection, the puce color and ill fit truly a crime of fashion. But the form beneath the drab gown was decidedly spectacular—not unlike Bessie’s own at that age. Her hair was a lovely mahogany brown, shot through with hints of gold. Unfortunately, the style brought to mind a terrifying governess Lady Mowbray and her sisters had endured during their childhood.

  That governess and her particular hairstyle had met with a most unfortunate accident involving honey, if Bessie remembered correctly.

  Miss Barnes rose slowly and lifted her gaze.

  No, Bessie thought with conviction, she’d not cover this woman in honey. But there was a great deal of work to be done. And much of it had nothing to do with frocks or coiffures.

  For she was certain that was fear in the younger woman’s eyes.

  “Miss Barnes, this is Elizabeth Mowbray, Marchioness of Highbury. Lady Mowbray will act as your chaperone during your stay at Carrington House.”

  Bessie wanted to wrap her arms about the girl and assure her that all would be well. Instead, she acted the ever-respectable marchioness and nodded. “My dear Miss Barnes, it is indeed a pleasure to make your acquaintance. You see, I have no children of my own. I consider it a distinct honor to have such an opportunity. There is so much I would like to teach you.”

  “The honor is all mine,” Miss Barnes replied, the placid smile remaining, though Bessie could have sworn she saw the girl tremble.

  “Lady Mowbray, do refrain from frightening Miss Barnes, won’t you?” Dash teased as he gestured for Bell to approach. “Bell, see Miss Barnes to her chambers—in the west wing,” he ordered, his emphasis on the instructions not lost on Bessie.

  Miss Barnes bowed her head once again. “Lady Mowbray, I look forward to seeing you at dinner. Viscount Carrington, I’m most eager to tour the library. Perhaps after I’ve settled in, you’d be so kind as to allow Mr. Bell to show me about the books?”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Bessie replied before Dash could answer. “The viscount will do the honors.”

  She bit back a smile as Dash clenched his teeth and nodded in agreement. “I can’t claim to know very much about the books, but I would be happy to show you the library, Miss Barnes.”

  “Very well,” Miss Barnes replied. She started up the wide marble staircase after Bell, pausing and turning to look back. “I will return within the hour. And if you’d be so good as to secure some foolscap and a writing instrument, I would be most grateful.”

  She continued up the stairs, not waiting for Dash’s reply.

  Bessie looked at Dash, smiling with delight.

  “Why are you grinning as though you’ve just escaped from Bedlam?”

  Bessie clapped her hands and nearly crowed. “She’s lovely.”

  “Hmph,” Dash grunted in response.

  “Oh, she needs a bit of love and care,” the marchioness added confidently. “But just wait and see, my boy. Just wait and see.”

  “Rowena?” Elena exclaimed, entering her bedchamber and closing the door on Bell with relief.

  The young maid stood before Elena’s open trunk, pursing her lips as she eyed the contents. “I’m afraid your dresses are creased something fierce, Miss.”

  “I don’t care a tuppence about such things—as well you know,” Elena replied, walking purposefully to the wan girl’s side. “You’ve need of rest. And tea. A restorative cup of tea is just the thing.”

  Elena took Rowena’s hand and urged her toward a charming pair of upholstered chairs. Pointing to the one closest, she waited until the maid settled onto the peach damask cushion before claiming the second chair.

  “Now, tell me, are your quarters suitable?” Elena began. A silver tea service sat atop a low rosewood table. She prepared a delicate china cup with a splash of milk and two lumps of sugar, finishing it off with the aromatic tea.

  She handed the cup and saucer to Rowena, ignoring her friend’s squeak of protest. “You’re as white as limestone, Rowena. The least I can do is ready your tea.”

  Rowena reluctantly accepted the gently steaming cup and sipped. “Must you always be worried about my comfort, Miss? Shouldn’t you be thinking about what dress you’ll be changing into?”

  Rowena had been abandoned on the steps of Harcourt House as a newborn some twenty years before. She was rumored to be the by-blow of a local prostitute and a member of the aristocracy, though Elena’s father hadn’t bothered to confirm the story. His tender heart had found a child in need and for him, that was enough.

  Five-year-old Elena had been instantly smitten with the baby, and her affection for Rowena had only increased over the years, as had Rowena’s for her. The two motherless girls had bonded and become fast friends, despite the differences of birth and station in life.

  “I’m a bluestocking, Rowena. Defending women’s rights is what we do,” she chided gently. Rowena’s mysterious beginnings had always plagued Elena’s mind. What would have become of her dear friend if she’d not been dumped on their doorstep? The possibilities were chilling—and unnecessary. Equality and enlightenment were needed in their world, and Elena wanted more than anything to be a part of accomplishing that goal.

  “My room is neat and tidy, just the way I like it,” Rowena assured her, adding, “I’m to share with Molly, one of the housemaids. Nice girl, if a touch talkative.”

  Elena readied her own tea and sank back onto the damask cushions, weary from the long journey. “Is that so?” She gestured invitingly at the plate of cucumber sandwiches.

  “No, thank you.” Rowena shook her head and took a second fortifying sip of th
e hot, sugared brew. “Molly went on and on, telling me about all the changes of late. Lord Carrington’s only been in residence a short while. He’s nice enough, but keeps to himself. Now Lady Mowbray …”

  Elena smiled at the twinkle in Rowena’s sky-blue eyes. “Yes?”

  “Well, everyone knows Lady Mowbray—or her story, I should say. She’s terribly elegant. Invited to all the right parties and finest balls. How did Molly put it?” Rowena paused, appearing to consider her tea. “Oh, I remember now: ‘Lady Mowbray is one of the most influential ladies of the ton.’ The whole staff is in a dither over her presence.”

  Elena returned the rose-patterned cup and saucer to the silver tray, her tea having lost its flavor.

  “Oh, and over your arrival, of course, Miss,” Rowena added hastily.

  “It’s not that, Rowena, but bless you for the effort.” Elena reached for a sandwich and took a bite, chewing contemplatively before swallowing. Her stomach rolled with worry and a growing anxiousness. “My last chaperone was a celebrated member of the ton, and as you know, that did not end well.”

  Lady Hastings had been persuaded to sponsor Elena’s first season. Baron Harcourt had paid a moderate sum and the influential woman was engaged to take the awkward girl under her wing. Unfortunately, the widowed baroness forgot her duties all too soon, leaving Elena vulnerable to fellow debutantes who seemingly took pleasure in her unschooled ways.

  Rowena set her cup and saucer on the tray and stood, her beautiful creamy coloring nearly returned to normal. “That was then, Miss. And this is now,” she said firmly. “Have some faith. Lady Mowbray might just surprise you.” She walked to the trunk and eyed the garments inside, a gentle huff of displeasure escaping her lips.

  Elena sighed deeply. She hated surprises. They didn’t fit into her well-ordered, predictable world. The very word “surprise” made her anxious. “Bite your tongue, Rowena Smith. Bite your tongue.”

  Dash drummed his fingers on the arm of the upholstered chair as he looked about the library. He’d promised to give Miss Barnes the grand tour of the massive room. Actually, Bessie had offered him up, and then conveniently disappeared upstairs.