“You’d think silly men like Mr. Tinyrod would have been warned about you, Miss,” Rowena commented, stepping to the side and allowing Elena to ascend the stairs first.
“Perhaps news travels slowly from Dorset. Besides, I never offered the man my name,” Elena answered, struggling, albeit weakly, with a smidge of guilt over Tinyrod. After all, his rather rude and forward assumption that a woman could have no interest in a topic such as burr puzzles was, unfortunately, too commonplace. At home in Dorset, she’d even taken to ordering books in her father’s name, the bother of doing anything else having quickly grown tiresome.
Rowena’s boots clicked on the oaken stairs just behind her, the quick, rhythmic tap soothing to Elena’s ears. “Not that Mr. Tinyrod had any right to put up such a stink, but this book … Well, it’s not even got the tasty bits that those histories of yours do. Just puzzles? Is that right?” Rowena added.
The tapping of Rowena’s shoes slowly faded until all Elena could hear was her mind as it circled, again, and again, and again around the real reason for their visit to the bookshop.
Viscount Carrington.
Well, Elena reasoned, in truth, she was simply curious. That was all. He’d denied any knowledge of the burr puzzle, yet his fingers seemed to literally itch when she’d brought out the oak sticks. As though he could solve it with his eyes closed.
But that was impossible, of course. A man of his intellectual limitations couldn’t solve a complicated puzzle involving mathematics. Elena frowned. Something about the viscount’s reaction to the puzzle bothered her, but she couldn’t put her finger on the precise detail.
“Oh, my,” Rowena uttered as they reached the landing of the third floor.
Elena noticed the Minerva Press novels to her right. Mrs. Kitty Cuthbertson’s latest lurid tale, The Castle of Prince Roderick, was prominently displayed on a large mahogany table. As far as Elena was concerned, good for Mrs. Cuthbertson. There were many, many people who enjoyed the adventurous, romantic tales—including Elena. And she was glad to see that the bookshop agreed.
And then she discovered what had actually caught Rowena’s attention. To their left, just beyond a second table laden with fiction, were books of more questionable taste. A volume of engravings was propped upright near the front, its pages opened to reveal a suggestive nymph and her shepherd at sport.
“We meet again,” a male voice drawled in their direction, interrupting Elena’s gawking.
She looked up to find the rude man from the park standing near, a book in his hands.
Elena abandoned her contemplation of the engraving and protectively moved to Rowena’s side. “Actually, since we’ve never been properly introduced, as far as I’m concerned, we’ve never met.”
The man returned the book to one of the cases and made his way toward the women, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Rowena.
“Stop right there, if you please,” Elena ordered, her heartbeat quickening.
But the man refused to obey and drew nearer. “Really, Madam, you act as though I mean you harm. But I assure you, quite the opposite is true.”
It wasn’t like Elena to be dramatic. And yet, this man and his sinister half-smile made her want to scream. Loudly. Or perhaps push over a bookcase on top of him and make haste for the Continent.
Absolute balderdash. But there it was.
“Mr. Tinyrod,” Elena called in a firm voice. “We’ve need of your assistance.”
At the sound of Tinyrod’s boots on the treads, the stranger altered his course and made for the stairs. “Such a pity.”
“Not in the least,” Elena ground out as Tinyrod appeared.
Elena was sure she’d never been, nor would she be ever again, quite so thankful to see a Tinyrod.
Dash stared out the study window of Carrington House and watched as the dark sky opened wide with showers. The rain beat against the thick glass and then lightened, settling into a mellow, almost hypnotic pattern.
He traced his finger along the glass, following the path of one, lone drop until it mingled with the others and disappeared into a sea of translucent moisture.
He’d spent the morning at his club, too much of a coward to face Elena over the breakfast table. She’d given of herself in such a beautiful, innocent manner that Dash continued to be affected by her even now. He held out his hand in front of him and watched his fingers tremble at the thought of her cries of pleasure.
If it hadn’t been for Bell’s arrival? He rested his head on the cool pane and closed his eyes.
The door hinges creaked, followed by the butler’s calm voice. “My lord, Mr. Nicholas Bourne.”
“Thank you, Bell,” Dash replied, opening his eyes to look out once again at the rain.
“Bloody hell, I’d forgotten how wet this island is. You could have waited for a break in the weather to summon me. I nearly drowned out there, Carrington.”
Dash turned at the sound of Nicholas’s voice and took in the sight of his wet friend. “You’re still English, you know,” he said dryly. “Rain comes with the territory, I’m afraid.”
Nicholas allowed Bell to assist him in removing his sodden greatcoat, thumping the man on the back for his efforts. “Thank you, Bell.”
The butler folded the coat over his arm and bowed. “Might I bring you the port, my lord?”
“God, yes, my good man,” Nicholas answered for Dash. “Think on my offer, won’t you?”
“A fine one, indeed, sir. But I’m afraid the answer is still no,” he replied, and then stepped from the room, quietly closing the door behind him.
Dash lifted one eyebrow. “Please tell me you’re not attempting to hire away my butler.”
Nicholas shook his head, the water flying from his dark hair. It reminded Dash of one of his wolfhounds after a romp in the rain-soaked forest on his country estate.
“Of course I am. Bell’s the best there is,” he replied, giving his black hair one more shake, then raking it back from his face. “And now that I’ve returned to London, I find myself in need of such things. Well, actually, I find that everyone else finds me in need of such things and I tire of objecting.”
Dash gestured for his friend to take one of the Sheraton chairs situated in front of his desk. “Then you will not be returning to India?”
Nicholas dropped into the comfortable seat and settled back, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. “I don’t plan to, not anytime soon anyway. Honestly, I’ve no idea. Never felt as though I wanted to put down roots—God knows you could have knocked me over with a feather when I realized my …” he paused, spearing his fingers through his hair. “Well, my fondness for the place. Except for this blasted rain.”
His tone and words were classic Nicholas—so blithe that they couldn’t possibly be true.
“You were born here, raised here too,” Dash pointed out gently, picking up the interlocking keys that lay near the one and only item he’d found within the puzzle box.
Nicholas quirked a brow sardonically and leaned in. “If you’re not careful, my friend, you’ll make me weep.”
Yes, Dash thought, classic Nicholas indeed.
Dash separated the two keys easily, and then interlocked them again before settling the puzzle on the desktop. “I see India didn’t soften you, then.”
“Not in the least,” Nicholas answered easily, settling back into the chair once more. “Actually, if anything, I’m even more of a bastard than before I left—which, I know, you’ll find hard to believe. No doubt my brother will be thrilled.”
Dash tried to smile at his friend’s words, because he knew how this visit was meant to go. Wry, ironic talk, followed by amusing banter, and finally the afternoon ending with Nicholas in his cups.
There wasn’t meant to be any acknowledgment that something was wrong.
Dash was about to change the rules.
“Is that so?” Dash asked, looking up when Bell knocked gently on the door.
“Oh yes, I’m afraid it is,” Nicholas answered omi
nously. “A right rum duke, I am. No doubt about it. Dangerous—wily, even. I’d go so far as to bandy about words such as ‘sinister’ and ‘calculating.’ ”
Bell unobtrusively entered, settling the silver tray containing tawny port and two crystal glasses on the sideboard. “May I pour?”
“No, that’s all right, Bell. I’ll see to it,” Dash answered. “That will be all.”
The butler bowed his head in understanding and noiselessly left, shutting the door once again.
“Worried he’ll under-pour, are we?” Nicholas said with a grin.
Dash stood and walked the short distance to the sideboard. “Come now, Bourne. As you said yourself, Bell is the best.” He uncorked the decanter and poured a reasonable amount into the first glass. “No, I’ve entirely different reasons for requiring absolute privacy.”
He handed the glass to Nicholas, then returned to pour his own.
“Well, you’ve got my attention, now. Don’t keep me in suspense.” His friend’s light words possessed a darker undertone.
Dash didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he watched the amber liquid flow into the cut glass, then returned the cork to its rightful place and carried his port to the desk.
He reclaimed his chair and took a drink before speaking. “What would you say if I told you that new evidence has come to light regarding the Afton case?”
Nicholas seemed to stop breathing. The glass of port was suspended halfway to his lips as though frozen in a winter river. “You know better than to joke about that, Carrington,” he finally uttered, the words cutting, stark, and cold.
“You’re right, I do,” Dash replied simply, taking a second drink before setting the glass down.
Nicholas’s hand finally moved and he brought the port to his lips, emptying the glass in one swift move.
“Well?” Dash pressed, beginning to question his decision. Perhaps Nicholas wasn’t truly ready, or prepared, to finally settle this once and for all. Perhaps, Dash thought with a growing sense of concern, he never would be.
“I’d say it’s about bloody time,” Nicholas answered, his voice hard, gravelly with grim conviction.
Dash nodded with relief, taking up his glass once again and raising it. “What I’m about to tell you cannot be shared with anyone. Not Stonecliffe, and especially not Sophia. Agreed?”
Nicholas uncrossed his legs and stood, walking to the sideboard. He unstopped the decanter and poured a second glass, turning back toward Dash and raising it. “Goes without saying,” he answered.
The two men drank deeply, the only sound in the room that of the rain steadily falling outside.
Nicholas picked up the decanter and returned to his chair, setting the port on the edge of Dash’s desk. “Enough cloak-and-dagger, Dash. Out with it.”
Dash moved the decanter until it was outside of his friend’s reach, then picked up a leather-bound book and handed it across the desk to Nicholas. “My father’s diary.”
Nicholas set his glass down next to the decanter and took the book. He began to thumb through it slowly, a frown forming on his mouth.
“It was hidden inside a puzzle box. He used my birthdate for the combination, sentimental old fool,” Dash explained, secretly touched by the gesture. “From the looks of it, my father only picked up the case again shortly before his death.”
“How can you tell anything from this gibberish?” Nicholas answered, his fingers flipping through the pages, obviously frustrated.
“It’s in code—one created by Sir Francis Bacon.”
Nicholas looked up at Dash and scrubbed at his jaw. “Ah, like father, like son. As you well know, such things are not in my purview, so if you’ll skip to the important bits?”
“Of course,” Dash answered, leaning forward to prop his elbows on the desk. “A woman by the name of Daisy Melville visited my father a week before his death. She told him she was dying of the pox and needed to unburden herself.”
“Of what?”
Dash picked up the puzzle keys again. “Seems Daisy worked at the Rambling Rose at the time of Lady Afton’s death. The madam there had confided in Daisy that she’d blackmailed a customer—a man who’d boasted that he’d slit the throat of a lady of quality. She didn’t tell Daisy the man’s name, wanting to keep the valuable information for herself. But she did say that he was a member of the ton. The madame died two days after telling Daisy, her own throat slit from ear to ear.”
Nicholas’s eyes narrowed. “And how did she find your father?”
“The Duke of Ames likes to talk when he’s in his cups. After the madam died, Daisy decided to do a bit of poking about. It wasn’t long before Father’s tie to the Aftons—Lady Afton, in particular—was revealed by her favorite customer, the duke.”
“And I suppose Daisy was too frightened to go to the authorities?” Nicholas asked, closing the diary and setting it on the desk.
“Precisely,” Dash answered, taking up the diary and turning to his father’s account of the meeting with Daisy. “A prostitute would never get their full attention—at least not in the way she required if she were to stay alive. And her madam had been killed. She assumed the man would come after her next.”
Nicholas reclaimed his glass and held it in both hands, rolling it this way and that between his palms. “No, she was absolutely right not to talk—bloody authorities.” He took a long drink. “And the Rambling Rose? Was your father able to investigate who the customer was?”
“I’m afraid his health didn’t allow him to do so,” Dash answered, still struggling to come to terms with his father’s willful hiding of the vitally important information.
“Well, for my part I’m glad he didn’t have the opportunity. Gives us something to do. That is if your Corinthians don’t get in the way.”
“Ah yes, well, about that,” Dash began, carefully choosing his words. “We’ll not have any Corinthian help with this. If Carmichael finds out, he’ll have my hide. It’s just you and I.”
“All the better.” Nicholas finished his port and reached for the decanter yet again. “You may be good with numbers. But I’ve talents of my own.”
“Such as?” Dash asked, sliding his glass across the desk toward Nicholas.
“Well, we’re beginning our search at a brothel. God only knows where that will lead—somewhere equally seedy, I would assume. And eventually to the bastard who killed Lady Afton—a run-in that will require certain skills. Let’s just say you’ve picked the right man for the job.”
He topped off Dash’s glass, then filled his own, raising the glass and slowly rotating it so that the contents gently swirled within.
“This is not a game, you know,” Dash said quietly, watching his friend ruminate. “This ‘bastard’ has a name: the Bishop. He’s killed many since Lady Afton and wouldn’t think twice about pursuing our families and close friends—including Sophia.”
“No, no, it’s not,” Nicholas agreed with cold certainty, continuing to turn the glass. “It’s our very lives. Now, you’ve obviously been keeping secrets from me regarding the case. It’s time to tell me all about the Bishop.”
Madame Celeste, the marchioness’s modiste, gestured grandly at the bow festooned with rosettes somewhere in the vicinity of Elena’s shoulder blades while Lady Mowbray looked on, a satisfied smile playing across her lips.
Elena wasn’t convinced that she was entirely prepared for shopping with the marchioness.
In truth, she didn’t know that she was prepared for anything after … Well, once the viscount had stroked her breasts. Sucked her earlobe. Licked her throat. Kissed her lips.
“My dear, does the capucine meet with your approval?”
Elena realized that the marchioness was talking to her. “Oh, yes. It’s fine.”
The modiste huffed. “Fine is not what we do, Miss Barnes. If the gown does not delight you, there is no point.”
Elena turned and gazed at herself in the full-length looking glass. Somehow, the woman’s creation flattered her figure
, accentuating her slim waist, while delicately framing her considerable bosom and derrière.
“How did you do this?” Elena asked, dumbfounded, turning to see the bow and rosettes.
Madame Celeste arranged the skirt of the gown and stepped back, eyeing Elena critically. “You did this, Miss Barnes. How could I not create something beautiful when given such inspiration?”
Elena looked up at the woman and quirked an eyebrow, waiting for the cutting remark or titter of amusement. But the modiste simply stood there, pulling at the fabric this way and that until it appeared she was satisfied. “Parfait.”
Elena turned back around and took in her reflection once more. Could Madame Celeste be right?
She stared hard at herself in the glass, examining her body from head to toe while worrying her bottom lip.
“My dear, you have a charming smile,” Lady Mowbray commented, coming to stand next to Elena. “You really should show it more often.”
The marchioness reached for Elena’s hair and began to efficiently pull pins out. She did not stop until every last lock of hair danced about Elena’s shoulders.
“Unruly. Absolutely awful,” Elena muttered, moving to twist the mass into a simple plait.
Lady Mowbray batted her hand away. “Hold these,” she instructed, pushing all but six of the pins on Elena. She stepped behind and took up several pieces of hair, arranging them this way and that before finally settling on something that pleased her and pinning the style into place. She fluffed the remaining hair about, seemingly willing the curls to do her bidding.
“My dear, you’re a very bright girl—about most things.”
Elena looked again in the mirror and her breath caught in her chest. She looked … She couldn’t even think the word without feeling befuddled.
“Beautiful,” Lady Mowbray said simply.
“Mais oui,” Madame Celeste agreed, nodding her approval.
“But we must continue. Otherwise, we’ll have no time to discuss your gown for Lord Elgin’s ball—never mind the list of suitors who will be in attendance.”
The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel Page 10