“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.”
Dash handed the tankard over and returned the poker to the fireplace. “My father used to make this very posset for me when I was a child.”
“And for himself, my lord,” Bell replied fondly, sleep clearly having lowered his guard. He joined Dash at the table and began to beat the ingredients together with the spoon. When a foamy froth appeared at the top, he pulled the spoon from the tankard and gave it back to Dash.
Dash leaned against the table and took a sip, the hot, creamy drink sliding easily down his throat. “Did he now?”
“Oh yes, many times,” the butler confirmed with a hint of a smile. “You were very much alike, you know. Always with too much on your minds to sleep.”
“Is that so?” Dash pressed. Talking about his father was strangely comforting after the long day he’d endured.
Bell carried the spoon to the scullery and returned. “Yes, my lord. You remind me very much of the late viscount.”
“Well, let us hope I can live up to the old man’s example,” Dash answered, his words surprising Bell—and himself.
Bell turned back to Dash. “My lord, there isn’t a doubt in my mind that you will. Nor was there in your father’s. He told me so himself.” The butler folded his hands together. “Now, if there’s nothing else, my lord, I’ll return to bed.”
“Of course, Bell. Good night,” Dash replied, watching the man’s retreating form until he disappeared.
He took another slow drink of the posset and inhaled the heady almond aroma. They’d never discussed such things, Dash and his father. It hadn’t occurred to Dash to do so, nor obviously to the late viscount.
So why did Bell’s words hold so much weight with him now? Why was Dash turning soft at precisely the moment that he needed to be strong?
He drained the tankard and set it in the sink, wiping away a trace of froth on his upper lip. He’d let the drink work its magic, claim a good night’s rest, and return to the Dash he knew and understood in the morning.
All would be right in the morning.
Elena lay in her bed, listening to the night noises floating up from the streets below. The clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the roll of carriage wheels did little to distract her from Lady Mowbray’s proposition. If Elena agreed to give herself over entirely to the marchioness and attend the selected events with “marked enthusiasm,” she would be allowed to accompany Lady Mowbray to the Halcyon Society. The group had been organized to rescue women from prostitution and was known for its progressive techniques, even to those as far afield as Dorset.
Elena had long dreamed of providing such a service to her community. And Lady Mowbray’s connections to the charity could make it all come true.
Despite her initial reservations, Elena had discovered she rather liked the marchioness. She was as demanding and, Elena felt sure, as difficult as any other woman of her rank. But she was kind, too, and in possession of a warm, sympathetic heart—very unlike her fellow matrons who had made Elena’s debut season so painful. No, she was no longer afraid of Lady Mowbray.
But the viscount?
The very thought of the man made Elena’s head buzz. She quickly jumped out of bed and donned a dove-gray linen wrapper over her plain night rail. She slid her bare feet into a pair of soft felt slippers and tipped a single candlestick into the remains of the fire, waiting until the wick burned to life. She stared at the orange flame, watching it twist and sway against the enveloping darkness. It was mesmerizing, the flame’s rhythmic movements almost making her forget why she’d flown from her bed to begin with.
Almost.
An hour or two in the library would put her mind right.
Elena laid her palm against the door; its coldness on her skin broke the fire’s trance. She proceeded to make her way downstairs. Slowly. And with great difficulty.
Elena’s sense of direction could be called “limited.” She wasn’t bothered by her shortcoming—well, not severely so. But she was rather glad that she was alone.
“Drat,” she grumbled as she traversed the west wing’s main hall.
This was hardly helping matters. At home in Verwood, Elena knew every shop and every street corner. At Harcourt House, she could find any room with her eyes closed.
But here? In London? Elena didn’t know up from down—both literally and figuratively.
Elena spied a portrait of three superior-looking spaniels that were poised on a puce cushion, looking, to her way of thinking, as though they were readying to relieve themselves. She’d passed that very same painting before—mere minutes before, unfortunately. Surely there could not be another portrait of spaniels in need of relief, could there?
No. No one would make the mistake of purchasing two such paintings. Not even the viscount.
Blast, why was the man plaguing her mind so?
Annoyed, she turned, holding the candle aloft and marching back down the hall. In Dorset, everything was in its place—including Elena. But here, in Carrington House … Well, Elena didn’t even know how to finish the thought. What was she doing?
The stone floor, between the Persian runners that appeared intermittently, chilled Elena’s slipper-shod feet. She gritted her teeth and picked up the pace, quickly arriving at an impasse. She’d thought for sure that continuing on in a straight line would bring her to the staircase, but her path had ended abruptly with the unfortunate appearance of a wall directly in front of her.
Right or left? Elena could feel her heart begin to race. A lightness threatened to overtake her head, and her cheeks burned.
Two days in the capitol city and she’d been reduced to wandering the halls at night, thinking on a man, of all things. A man most assuredly her intellectual inferior. And yet, a man whose heart mysteriously spoke to hers.
This was madness.
Elena resolutely turned right and proceeded down the darkened hall, the sight of the staircase buoying her courage. She confidently descended the stairs, her head held high. Reaching the marble foyer she stopped for a moment, closed her eyes, and concentrated. At least she’d had the good sense to memorize which door led to the library. She opened her eyes, proceeded to the front door, then turned, as though she’d just arrived inside. She looked to the right, counting the rooms until she came to the third entryway.
She tightened the silk sash at her waist and strode toward the spot, careful to take note of the portraits on the walls so she could find her way back to the stairs once finished with her work.
No portraits of spaniels this time, only long-faced relatives and tasteful country scenes. At the end of the hall she spied a large portrait, the candlelight seemingly drawn toward it. Unable to resist, Elena passed the third door and continued down the hall.
Closer now, she held the candle aloft and examined the portrait. The subject was the viscount, standing next to a large bay horse. One hand rested gently on the beautiful bay’s neck while the other was held loosely near his waist.
Elena stood on tiptoe and moved closer, peering at his friendly smile. “You really must leave me be,” she paused, wondering just what one could expect from a portrait, then whispered, “please.”
“Why are you talking to the painting, Miss Barnes?”
The richly timbered voice caught Elena by surprise and she wheeled around, nearly igniting the viscount’s coat with her candle. “Don’t be absurd, my lord,” she replied with false confidence. “I was merely noting the fine brushwork—aloud, yes. But to myself.”
He reached out and gently caught her shoulders, steadying her. “Pity, that.”
“And why might that be?” Elena asked, trying to ignore the warmth and feel of his hands on her.
The viscount released her and stepped back, turning on his heels and walking a few paces to stand in front of a portrait just to the left of the library entrance. “Well, you see, I talk to the paintings and had rather hoped I wasn’t the only one.”
“Are you toying with me, my lord?” Elena asked warily, joining him.
The viscount held up the candelabra in his hand and it bathed the portrait in light, revealing a stunning young woman. “My mother, Miss Barnes. She was beautiful, wouldn’t you agree?”
She’d miscalculated the distance and now stood too close to him, the heady, masculine scent of sandalwood weakening her knees. Elena took two steps to the right, and then focused her attention on the portrait. “Oh,” she sighed. The viscountess was exquisite. She wore a luxurious ball gown from some thirty years past. A glittering ruby necklace encircled her slim, ivory neck. And a playful smile artfully curved her lips. And her hair—the same spun gold as the viscount’s. “You are quite right, my lord. She is beautiful, indeed. Do you miss her?”
The viscount looked at her, confusion creasing his brow. “Didn’t you know? She died in childbirth. I never knew her.”
“But you failed to answer my question,” Elena countered without thought, regretting her words the moment they spilled from her lips.
He turned his gaze back to the portrait. “Because you already know the answer.”
“Please, forgive me,” Elena entreated, looking down at the floor. “Of course you miss her—the same as I miss mine.”
She looked up and found the viscount staring at her. A muscle flexed along his jawline, and his eyes searched hers. Tension stretched between them. “There is something about you, my lord. Something that makes me act …”
“Strangely?” he finished on her behalf. He swallowed hard before continuing. “Perhaps it’s that we share so much, Miss Barnes. A kinship, if you will,” he finished in an amiable tone.
Kinship. Is that what he saw when he looked at her? A sister? Who was the foolish one now?
Elena examined her wrapper and night rail, embarrassment flooding her senses. “Precisely,” she managed to answer. “Now, I believe I’ll return to bed.”
“Allow me to escort you,” Lord Carrington insisted, placing his hand on the sensitive stretch of skin just beneath her elbow and guiding her down the hall. “Miss Barnes, I meant to ask you, why are you up at such a late hour?”
Elena yanked the two sides of her wrapper tightly together and reluctantly accompanied him. “I could not sleep.”
“Yet one more commonality between us,” he remarked, looking down at her and grinning. “And what kept you awake?”
“Flights of fancy, my lord,” Elena answered, tears forming just in the corners of her eyes. “Nothing more than flights of fancy.”
“My dear, did you sleep well?” Lady Mowbray ladled a second spoon of sugar into her tea and studied Elena.
Elena savored a forkful of bacon and looked across the breakfast table at the marchioness. Rowena had assured her that the dark smudges beneath her eyes were hardly noticeable. Clearly, Lady Mowbray thought otherwise.
“I’m afraid not,” she answered, smoothing her hair. “Due to the unfamiliar sounds of the city, no doubt. I’m certain I’ll grow used to such things soon enough.”
The viscount lifted his teacup and stared into it, as though searching for something.
“My lord, are you in need of tea, or have you taken to reading the leaves?”
“Neither,” Lord Carrington replied, examining the dregs at the bottom of the cup one last time before setting it carefully back on the table. “Simply thinking is all.”
Elena turned her attention to the coddled eggs on her plate. Simply thinking? Was he contemplating their conversation last night? Lord knew Elena had been—and still was, apparently.
“Hmm, now that I look at you more closely,” Lady Mowbray remarked, “you appear rather exhausted, as well. Odd that both of you would have difficulty sleeping, and on the very same night,” she continued, stirring her tea while she looked first at the viscount, then Elena, a certain gleam in her eyes.
A gleam that unnerved Elena.
“Come now, Bessie,” the viscount said. He shrugged and returned his attention to his breakfast plate. “Nothing odd about it at all. A late evening spent at one’s club tends to drain a man.”
“Quite so,” she agreed. “As does wandering about in the dark—together.”
Elena dropped the forkful of eggs that she’d brought to her mouth and looked at the viscount expectantly.
The man’s jaw tightened as he clenched his teeth. He said nothing.
Oh, that wouldn’t do at all.
Elena tilted her head slightly to one side and arched her brows inquiringly as though she hadn’t a clue as to what the marchioness meant. “I beg your pardon, Lady Mowbray?”
“Really, my girl, don’t play coy with me,” the marchioness replied, sipping her tea. She watched both Elena and Viscount Carrington over the rim of her cup, her eyes twi
nkling with suppressed amusement.
The viscount emitted a deep sigh. “One of your spies has been busy, I assume?” he asked.
“They are your servants, and it is their job to ensure the safety of all those who dwell within Carrington House,” she replied simply, stirring a third teaspoon of sugar into her tea.
“It’s not at all what you—or the servants, for that matter—may be thinking. Assuming—really either … Well, actually …” Elena fumbled to a halt and set her fork down. “I couldn’t sleep last night, that part is true. So I thought to visit the library. Only, I became lost.”
Lady Mowbray nodded in acceptance of Elena’s explanation, though a hint of amusement remained.
“And I came to her rescue,” the viscount added, quickly holding up his hand. “That is, I found her, returned her to her suite, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Really?” the marchioness said mildly, the gleam fading with each passing moment.
“Honestly,” Elena promptly added.
The marchioness pursed her lips and set her cup down in its saucer, clearly completely put off her tea. “Well, that’s a disappointment.”
A wicked voice in Elena’s head agreed, while the pragmatic side of her brain tsk-tsked at the very idea. Really, the marchioness was as misguided as Elena, hoping that there was more to the story.
“Lady Mowbray, you are my chaperone, are you not?” Elena asked, folding her hands in her lap.
Lady Mowbray did the same, a supreme look of defeat upon her face. “I am.”
“Should you not be relieved to hear that nothing …” Her words trailed off, as they were wont to do when speaking of something she’d rather not.
“Really, my dear girl, I feel you may be confused as to a chaperone’s duties.” The woman’s voice was feminine but firm. “Let me explain. Midnight meetings with just anyone are cause for alarm. But Dash is a viscount—a viscount, my dear,” she said with emphasis. “They do not come along every day.”
Lord Carrington visibly cringed at Lady Mowbray’s words.
The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel Page 7