The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  Elena’s face felt hot. She drew a deep breath, her fingertips gripping the edge of the table. “No, Lady Mowbray. I say this with all due respect, but I believe you are the one that is confused.”

  “I disagree,” the older woman promptly shot back. “You have come to London to retrieve your father’s books. But would it be such a hardship to return to Dorset with a viscount in tow?”

  “But only hours ago, you spoke of guarding my well-being,” Elena said, clearly bewildered. “I cannot … That is to say, I will not …”

  “Bessie, do have a care,” the viscount admonished Lady Mowbray. “Miss Barnes is uncomfortable with the conversation, as am I.”

  “All right, then.” Lady Mowbray squared her shoulders and took up her tea. “I did not mean to offend you, Miss Barnes. I simply want what is best for you. And when I believed there may be a spark—”

  “Bessie!” Lord Carrington growled.

  “Have I done it again, then?” Lady Mowbray asked, looking apologetically at Elena.

  Elena could not be angry with the marchioness. She was too busy fighting back the wave of humiliation caused by the viscount’s obvious disdain for the very idea. “It is all right, Lady Mowbray. Do not give it a second thought.”

  “Thank you, my dear girl. But do not think for a moment that this means the social invitations are forgotten.”

  “Did you not just agree that the pursuit of eligible bachelors was, as they say, off the table?” Elena responded, gently rubbing her temples with her fingertips.

  Lady Mowbray beckoned the footman stationed near the door. He nodded and disappeared, only to reappear a moment later with a silver tray, a number of invitations stacked tidily upon the gleaming surface. He set the tray at Lady Mowbray’s elbow and returned to his position.

  “Now then,” the marchioness continued. “I did not agree to such terms, not in the slightest.”

  Elena rubbed her temples harder.

  “I did not dismiss the idea of your seeking a husband altogether,” the woman added. “I agreed to dismiss any designs I may have harbored concerning the viscount.”

  Elena’s head ached. She felt warm all over and completely out of place. And it really did not help matters that the marchioness was correct.

  “I cannot argue,” she said succinctly, the words leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

  Lady Mowbray nodded in agreement, setting her china teacup onto the matching saucer with a definitive click. “Splendid. Now, do come sit here beside me and we will discuss these,” she urged. Her fingertip tapped the stack of thick, creamy paper.

  “Of course,” Elena replied, hesitating for a moment at the edge of her chair.

  “Well, it looks as though I’m no longer needed,” the viscount announced, tossing his serviette next to his plate and standing.

  Lady Mowbray peered down the length of the table at him somberly. “No, my lord. You are of little use to me now, I’m afraid.” She winked at him, then shooed him away with her hand. “Go, then. Off to your club, or wherever it is you men wander off to during the day.”

  Lord Carrington turned to Elena and nodded. “Miss Barnes.”

  “Lord Carrington,” Elena replied, lowering her chin a touch in farewell.

  “Honestly, a quarter of the invitations will be outdated by the time you’re through,” Lady Mowbray scolded. “Perhaps I’ll confirm our attendance at all of the events and be done with it.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Elena uttered disbelievingly.

  “She would,” the viscount replied dryly, then turned and walked from the room.

  Lady Mowbray cleared her throat and tapped on the invitations a second time.

  “Of course you would,” Elena muttered to herself, then went to join the marchioness.

  “This is where I belong,” Elena addressed a delicate shepherdess figurine that stood prettily atop a slender oak table near one of the windows in the Carrington library. “A place for everything, and everything in its place.”

  Unlike her fevered dreams last night that had found her in the arms of Lord Carrington.

  She looked beyond the shepherdess to the window itself, where the shadowed blues and grays of dusk were beginning to darken the mullioned panes. From the looks of it, night was ready to fall, and she was still thinking about the viscount.

  Shameful, really, Elena chided herself, wiping haphazardly at the dust smudges on the bodice of her gown. She turned her attention back to the books and sighed.

  Normally, the library would have absorbed her attention entirely. The very act of entering one such as Carrington House’s was like attending church on Christmas Eve for Elena: holy, a touch mysterious, and completely awe-inspiring. But she’d been distracted.

  She reached out and caressed a well-worn copy of The Lais of Marie de France, the once-stiff spine now soft and supple in her hands. It was more than mere distraction. She couldn’t stop her mind from mulling over last night’s interlude, or her heart from cringing at the pain and embarrassment of the viscount’s indifference.

  Elena returned the volume to its shelf and walked toward the second aisle. Kinship. While she’d been overcome by his scent and lost in his piercing stare, Lord Carrington had been thinking of her … What? Sisterly qualities? That is, if he’d been thinking of her at all.

  She pressed her fingertips against her lips, then covered her face with both hands. She never should have come to London.

  Elena clenched her teeth and willed herself not to cry. Yes, she should have stayed home. But she hadn’t. There was nothing to be done about that now.

  No, now, she would tend to the books and avoid Lord Carrington. She would make the best of her situation, including Lady Mowbray’s blasted engagements.

  “One in particular,” she whispered to herself. Lord Elgin’s ball was sure to be a horrific crush. But the marbles on display there? The very thought buoyed Elena’s spirit.

  Elgin’s Marbles. Distracted, she stopped in the middle of the aisle and stared down at the Aubusson carpet, her head full of the most beautiful images. The imposing figure of Iris; the powerful horse of Selene, the Moon Goddess; a noble river-god reclining against a rock. She was not particularly pleased with Lord Elgin’s removal of the art from its Greek homeland, but there was little that could be done about that now. The least she could do was offer it homage here in London.

  Would she be allowed to touch the cold, ancient marble? Place her fingers upon the finely crafted statues and feel the years of history embedded in their every curve and line?

  “Miss Barnes.”

  The glorious figures faded from Elena’s mind’s eye until all that remained were two perfectly polished boots. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly and counted to four, then hesitantly opened first one eye, and then the other.

  The boots remained.

  She inhaled deeply and slowly tipped her head up, taking in the full length of Lord Carrington. Somewhere around his expansive chest, which was covered perfectly in a dark blue silk waistcoat and matching superfine coat, a tickle teased her throat. She swallowed and her gaze continued upward, reaching his strong yet perfectly proportioned chin, then his chiseled cheekbones and nose, and finally his piercing, ice-blue eyes.

  Her heart constricted. She could not help but take note of his likeness to Elgin’s stolen treasures. Hard, muscular, beautiful, perfectly proportioned.

  No more than three seconds had passed since her resolution to avoid the man and put him completely from her mind, and she’d already failed.

  The tickle in her throat tormented her and she coughed. Hard.

  “Are you all right?” Lord Carrington asked quizzically.

  Elena clapped her hand over her mouth and coughed again.

  Lord Carrington spun her about and thumped her on the back, his aid so forceful Elena had to brace herself against the polished bookshelf. Two more hacking coughs followed and then the tickle ceased—as did the thumping.

  “Miss Barnes.” Lord Carrington’s hand settled
on the small of her back, his voice unsettlingly close to her ear. “Are you all right now?”

  Elena hadn’t the faintest clue how to respond. Her face felt hot, salty tears mixing with perspiration on her skin. Her neat chignon was askew. Her dress was twisted uncomfortably about her waist. Her chest burned. Her pride stung. And her throat ached.

  Actually, it wasn’t only her throat. The exact expanse of skin where the viscount’s hand rested literally pulsed. As did a spot just below her neckline—and just below her waist.

  “Stop,” she commanded herself.

  Lord Carrington quickly withdrew his hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not you,” Elena protested, realizing belatedly that the demand should have been for the viscount—and she was immediately irritated by the fact that she’d not thought of it first.

  She released the shelf and swiped at her hair, tucking the tendrils behind her ears and attempting to repair her face with her handkerchief. It was hopeless, of course, and she resolved not to care.

  Elena slowly turned toward the man with all the confidence she could muster. “I apologize, Lord Carrington. And after you came to my aid. It was really quite dreadful of me to …”

  She couldn’t bring herself to say it, so instead Elena pasted a friendly smile upon her lips. “Well, that is, thank you.”

  She awkwardly stepped around the viscount and continued down the aisle. “What brings you to the library, my lord?”

  “You.”

  Elena stopped abruptly and turned to face the man. She searched his eyes, hopeful for some hint of the depths she’d discovered last night. There was nothing there.

  Stupid, delusional woman.

  The viscount stared back at her and smiled cheerfully. “You haven’t left the library all day, Miss Barnes. It can’t be good for a person to concentrate in such a manner. Perhaps a walk in the garden with your maid would do you good.”

  “My lord, I must focus on the task at hand if I want to return to Dorset—which I do, most fervently,” Elena replied, though distractedly.

  It wasn’t that the volumes sitting on the shelf just past the viscount’s right shoulder were out of place. Quite the contrary, they were exactly where one should keep Froissart’s Chronicles—that is, if one were at all concerned with a well-ordered and sensible library.

  Which Elena knew the late viscount was not. She’d spent a relatively short amount of time in the Carrington library, but one detail had made itself glaringly clear from the start: the man may have valued his books, but he had not valued order.

  “Miss Barnes?”

  Elena ignored Lord Carrington’s voice and squeezed past him, stopping in front of the volumes.

  She reached for one of the books and pulled. It remained unmoved. She tried again with both hands, and yet, it continued its stubborn immobility.

  She pulled hard at the book a third time, infusing her attempt with every last sensation of humiliation and embarrassment she felt and succeeded in moving it a fraction toward her.

  “Miss Barnes?” the viscount said a second time. “May I be of assistance?”

  “This book seems to be stuck,” she explained, gritting her teeth. Elena knew she shouldn’t force the volume. It could damage the binding. Or tear the pages. Even dent the cover. She grimaced at the nightmarish list of possible outcomes.

  “So it is,” he replied, watching the decidedly unimpressive progress Elena was making.

  Elena blew out a frustrated breath. Ah, that might just help. She knew it was cruel, but the man’s brainless state might in time quiet her heart and mind.

  “And would you make an attempt, my lord?” she asked, gesturing toward the bookshelf.

  “With what?”

  Last night’s dreams suddenly faded a touch. “The books, my lord.”

  The viscount stared at the volumes, his brow creasing. “But why?”

  Elena squinted at the man, watching as his soft, sun-kissed hair dulled before her. “Because they’re stuck—and in need of unsticking,” she answered.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” he answered, offering her a vacuous smile.

  Lord Carrington reached for the book, placing one hand upon the top of the volume and the other around the bottom. And then he pulled. And pulled again.

  “Unhand that book!” Elena demanded, suddenly struck by his attempt to force the book from the shelf with no regard for potential damage.

  Lord Carrington immediately released the volume and held his hands up in surrender. “But you asked for my help.”

  “Yes, but there must be another way.” Elena couldn’t concentrate while he was so near. She closed her eyes and tried to focus. “Let me think …”

  “Not my area of expertise, I’m afraid,” he replied. “Besides, one more attempt and I’m sure we’ll have success.”

  Elena’s eyes shot open just in time to see the viscount reach out and grasp the book with both hands. He yanked hard.

  She gasped in horror.

  And the book moved, only not quite as Elena would have imagined. Instead of the one volume, all six of the books shifted forward in unison, until the entire row sat teetering on the edge of the wooden bookshelf. “How peculiar,” Elena muttered, her interest thoroughly piqued.

  Lord Carrington lifted the collection out, revealing not books at all, but a carved box.

  Elena traced her finger along the carved top, noting an intricate design that marked nearly the entire surface. “Do you recognize this, my lord?”

  Lord Carrington studied the box intently, his expression unreadable. “I’m afraid not.” He grasped the box in both hands and turned it around, clearly searching for a lid. Though he pulled and pushed, the box remained shut, revealing nothing. He set it back down on the shelf and shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose it belonged to my father.”

  Elena craned her neck for a better view. “There’s no visible keyhole,” she said to herself, desperate to try her hand at opening the mysterious box, but loath to move any closer to the viscount.

  “Miss Barnes, are you here?” Lady Mowbray’s clear voice broke in, the sound of her skirts swishing as she marched toward the two. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were hiding from me.”

  “She is impossible to avoid,” the viscount said. “You might as well give me the box.”

  “We’ve still much to discuss,” the marchioness continued, the growing power of her voice signaling that she was drawing nearer. “I would like to give my modiste some idea of what we’re hoping for in terms of dresses.”

  Elena eyed the wooden box. She didn’t want to talk with Lady Mowbray at the moment. Especially about dresses. She grabbed the box and cradled it tightly, turning in the opposite direction of Lady Mowbray’s advancing voice.

  “You never saw me, my lord,” she whispered to the viscount over her shoulder, and then ran silently from the room.

  Dash padded silently along the west wing, Carrington House still as a grave in the night. The servants were abed and all was quiet, the faint noise of his bare feet brushing against the Axminster carpet the only sound to be heard.

  Why had Miss Barnes taken dinner in her room?

  More specifically, why Miss Barnes?

  The answer to the second question would suffice for the first as well.

  Dash slowed his steps, his conscience plaguing him. He’d revealed too much to her last night. And God, but she’d responded to him, her kindness and vulnerability running him through.

  And then he’d betrayed her. Turned his back and resumed his role as if her words had all meant nothing.

  Dash stopped and leaned his back against the wall. It was something. And Dash didn’t know how to make it stop.

  The talk with Bell had sorted things out. What he’d revealed reminded Dash of the responsibilities he bore to his father’s memory. And to his friends. He needed to move forward with finding Lady Afton’s killer. And he couldn’t do so with Miss Barnes under his roof. She was intensely distracting. But more than that,
the longer she stayed, the more danger she was in. If he had any luck at all, each day would bring Dash closer to finding the Bishop—which would only place Miss Barnes within the killer’s grasp. The Bishop attacked the wives of Corinthians. Not that Dash had any plans to marry Miss Barnes; quite the contrary. But his growing feelings for the woman surely wouldn’t do her any favors.

  Conservatively speaking, it should take no more than a fortnight for her to finish with the books and be gone. Unfortunately, he could not trust himself around the woman for such a length of time.

  Last night, he’d been caught off guard by the rush of unfamiliar emotions. He could not afford to make the same mistake again.

  Dash pushed off from the wall and continued toward Miss Barnes’s chamber. He needed the puzzle and what he hoped were valuable clues inside the box. He could not wait any longer.

  The carved wooden container was a burr puzzle. The box was meant to safeguard those things a Corinthian could not entrust to anyone else. Only the owner knew the cipher that allowed him to solve the puzzle and open the box. Dash’s earlier searches of the late viscount’s study had unearthed nothing nearly as promising as the box.

  Why had his father not told him of its existence? There could only be one reason: it contained information about the Afton case.

  He reached Miss Barnes’s door and pressed his ear to it. Hearing no movement within, he looked down the hall both ways, then placed his hand on the carved brass doorknob. Turning it noiselessly, he gently pushed and the paneled door opened, revealing very little in the darkened boudoir.

  Dash slipped silently inside and eased the door closed behind him, taking a moment to get his bearings. It had been some time since he’d been in this particular room, but the faint light from the fireplace embers lit the shadowed space. The wall directly across from him bore a row of high mullioned windows that were heavily draped. A pair of chairs sat near the fireplace, separated by a low table. And to his left was a canopied four-posted bed, where Miss Barnes slept.

  The bed curtains were only partially closed. He moved stealthily to the edge of the bed and gently tugged the fringed curtain.