“It sounds utterly perfect,” she replied, understanding in her voice. “And very much like my childhood in Dorset, though I know you’ll find it hard to believe.”
“But you’re a woman,” Dash countered without thinking. The realization that it was exceedingly easy to appear witless in front of Miss Barnes was not lost on him.
Her shoulders relaxed and an effortless smile lit her face, all nervousness gone. “Yes, my lord. But my mother died in childbirth. And after my fourth nanny resigned over a frog’s mysterious appearance in her soup, my father left me to my own devices.”
Dash slapped his knee in approval. “Miss Barnes, you are a surprise!”
She tensed and suddenly scooted back until she leaned once more against the wall, folding both arms across her bodice. “I don’t know about that, my lord. But tell me, when were you last in Sussex?”
Dash stared at her, nonplussed at the abrupt return to wary reserve and desperate to discern what he’d done wrong. “Not for fifteen years.”
“Why would you take so long to return?” she continued, her face revealing no hint as to what he’d done to offend her. Her voice was cool; her expression held only polite interest.
“A family tragedy, Miss Barnes. A dear friend’s mother was killed,” Dash began, still distracted by the loss of her earlier friendly warmth and unaware of what he revealed. “Too many memories in Sussex.”
Miss Barnes’s stiff politeness evaporated. She unfolded her arms and reached out as though she thought to take his hands, and her eyes filled with concern. “I am sorry, my lord. I should not have pried.”
Dash leaned in farther, desperately wanting to take her hands in his, but reason forcing him not to.
God, what was he doing? This wasn’t like him. Not at all.
He abruptly stood, pushing the brocade panels wider to fully reveal the world once more.
The sound of the brass curtain rings sliding against the rod startled Miss Barnes and she straightened.
“No need to apologize, Miss Barnes,” Dash reassured her, his words clipped. “What is in the past is just that—the past.”
She reclaimed her book and opened it, laying one palm flat against the smooth pages. “Of course, my lord. Good day.”
Dash realized that having stood, he should move, preferably soon. “And good day to you, too, Miss Barnes,” he replied, turning from the alcove and retracing his steps out of the library.
The encounter with Lord Carrington in the alcove had left Elena with the oddest sensation, as though something of significance had happened. What that “something” was, she hadn’t been able to identify. She’d eaten her breakfast, drank more tea than any one person should, and still the situation had continued to mystify her.
She’d decided she needed fresh air and a bit of exercise to clear her mind and set out with her maid for a walk.
“Londoners truly call this a park, then?” Rowena asked disbelievingly, holding up one hand and counting off one finger at a time. “Miss, I can count the trees standing—might need my toes to do it, but still.”
Elena bit her lip to keep from laughing at her friend’s exaggerated country accent and turned to take in Bloomsbury Square. Rowena was right—the quaint, tidy square of green couldn’t hold a candle to Dorset’s lush fields and wide, welcoming lanes. But it did afford Elena the opportunity to get away from Carrington House and think—even if doing so meant walking the entire park five times around.
“How do city people stretch their legs, then?” Rowena asked, hurrying to keep up with Elena.
“Well, perhaps they don’t feel the need to do so,” Elena answered, though she couldn’t imagine such a thing. Without a good walk, Elena wouldn’t be able to make sense of her multitude of tangled thoughts.
Such as when Lord Carrington had called her a “surprise” in the alcove. The word had startled her from the comfortable intimacy their childhood revelations had created and forced her to remember just who she was and why she was there.
Elena was a woman who hated surprises. She was in the viscount’s home to see to his father’s books. And that was all.
Then why was she still bewildered by the interlude?
“Or perhaps they don’t worry quite as much as you.”
Elena slumped momentarily against her friend, sighing when Rowena looped an arm about her waist and squeezed gently. She couldn’t share her feelings regarding the viscount, not yet. But she couldn’t lie. Luckily, there were a multitude of concerns on her mind. “Well, it involves Lady Mowbray. And anything having to do with a marchioness is quite worry-worthy, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Is that even proper English, Miss? ‘Worry-worthy?’ It must be awful. Tell me, what has you so upset?”
Elena slowed her steps, the sound of Rowena’s voice soothing her jangled nerves. “She’s insisted that I attend a number of social events while we’re in town.”
“Heavens, that is the end of the world,” Rowena teased, nudging Elena with her elbow. “You’re not fresh from the schoolroom, Miss. You’re older. And wiser.”
Elena returned the favor and looped an arm through hers. “Older, anyway.”
“What does the mistress of Harcourt House have to fear from these London swells? Don’t forget who you are and how far you’ve come. Not now,” her friend pleaded, resting her head on Elena’s shoulder for a brief moment. “I believe in you.”
“You are the dearest girl. Have I told you that?” Elena replied, her confidence bolstered by Rowena’s words.
“Not today, no,” Rowena answered distractedly, looking ahead as a gentleman approached.
Elena eyed the man critically as he drew closer. He was fashionably dressed in buff breeches and a deep blue waistcoat, his Hessian boots polished expertly and his snowy white cravat perfectly tied. A thin, white scar marred an otherwise ideal face. He was one of the most beautiful men she’d ever laid eyes on. And yet, there was something in his swagger, or perhaps his overly expressive eyes, that made Elena uneasy.
He fastened his gaze on Rowena and his lips curled into a predatory smile. Elena pulled her friend protectively closer and quickened their pace.
“Miss,” Rowena begged, trying to put some distance between them. “I can hardly walk without stepping on your skirts.”
Elena patted her hand. “Never mind my skirts, Rowena.”
The man was nearly upon them now. “Goodness,” Rowena sighed, clearly having forgotten all about Elena’s skirts.
“No, no! Not ‘goodness,’ Rowena,” Elena admonished, the unsettling feeling inspired by the man only growing as he purposefully stepped directly in their path and bowed.
“Ladies.” He smiled brilliantly. “A beautiful day, is it not?”
“Goodness,” Elena muttered disgustedly.
Rowena squeezed Elena’s arm and giggled.
“It is indeed, your …” Elena paused, as though searching for the correct address. “Well, I hardly know what to call you—which is why I find proper introductions to be infinitely useful in such situations, don’t you?”
Somehow, the man managed an even bolder grin, eliciting a second giggle from Rowena. “You are correct, madam. But wouldn’t you agree there are times when one simply cannot wait on propriety?” he countered, winking at Rowena.
“No, I would not,” Elena replied succinctly, not even bothering to curtsy before dragging Rowena around the man and down the path.
Rowena looked over her shoulder and giggled again. “He’s still staring after us, Miss,” she said breathlessly.
“Let him stare,” Elena said, her voice quivering from the encounter. “But a lady? Never.”
Rowena obediently turned her head and focused on the path. “He was quite handsome, wasn’t he?”
“Rowena, you must understand that men, no matter how handsome or charming, are dangerous—in one way or another.”
The girl frowned. “Even Viscount Carrington? Because, to be perfectly honest, Miss, he doesn’t seem smart enough to cause
anyone trouble.”
“Yes, especially Viscount Carrington—he’s too dim to realize just how dangerous he is. And that makes him doubly dangerous,” Elena replied earnestly.
She steered Rowena toward a bench and sat, relaxing at the feel of the sun on her skin.
“Well,” Rowena began, settling in next to her. “If there’s one thing I mean to look out for, it’s men who are—”
“Dangerous,” they said in unison, with the full and proper seriousness that the statement deserved. And then they collapsed against each other and laughed until their sides ached from the effort.
Dash had fled for an auction at Tattersalls after encountering Miss Barnes in the library alcove. Once there, he’d helped Langdon choose a chestnut Thoroughbred and purchased a bay gelding for himself. The friends had then found their way to the club, where Dash had been ever since.
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, wa
ving 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?
The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel Page 6