The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  Elena allowed the modiste to undress her, stepping out of the satin fabric and donning an offered wrapper. “List of suitors?”

  “Come now, my child. We’ll not argue the point. You will be introduced to men at the agreed-upon events. While I respect your wishes, I do think it wise to at least investigate the opportunities here in town.”

  Elena tied the sash at her waist and followed Lady Mowbray to a plush lavender settee as the modiste left the room. “I don’t know that it’s necessary.”

  “And why is that?” the woman asked leadingly, reaching for the tea set situated on a low table and pouring the first cup.

  Elena narrowed her eyes at the marchioness. “What do you mean?”

  “Why do I feel as though we’re speaking in code?” she began, dropping two lumps of sugar then a splash of cream in the cup. “You said that it might not be necessary to look for a husband. I’m merely curious as to why.”

  She briskly stirred the tea and handed it to Elena, waiting for an answer.

  The would-be matchmaker suspected that there was something between Dash and Elena; that much was clear. Elena absolutely could not give Lady Mowbray even the merest hint of hope. If she did, the marchioness would surely wheedle the truth from her and the kiss would be revealed.

  “I would have thought it was obvious,” Elena answered, taking a sip of tea. “I’ve no intention of allowing a man to distract me from my real work, Lady Mowbray. I’ll attend your events with ‘marked enthusiasm,’ as I agreed. And that is all.”

  Lady Mowbray prepared her cup, then relaxed back onto the settee and sipped. “I see.”

  Elena returned her cup to its saucer. “Splendid,” she replied, relief settling into her stomach.

  “And ‘this work’ that you speak of, Miss Barnes. Do tell me about it.”

  Elena placed her cup and saucer on the tray and folded her hands in her lap. “Well, as you know, I’ve a great interest in the Halcyon Society and the work that they do,” she began earnestly.

  “Yes,” the marchioness confirmed.

  “So many women—too many—are forced into prostitution, Lady Mowbray. For a variety of deplorable reasons, they find themselves with no other choice. But what if they were given the support and opportunity that every single human being deserves? What then?” Elena asked, her hands gesturing excitedly. “I believe they could prosper. And more important, I know that they could be happy. A donation is all well and good. But I want to help with my own two hands.”

  Lady Mowbray smoothed a stray lock of hair into place. “You are inspiring, my dear.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Elena began, pausing to reclaim her cup. “It is organizations such as the Halcyon Society that are the true inspiration.”

  “Yes, well,” the marchioness countered, plucking a seamstress’s thread from her skirt. “Either way, it is a true pity that you’ve no use for men. Viscount Carrington could do with a cause or two to support, now that he’s taken on the title.”

  Elena leaned in, nearly spilling her tea. “Oh, but I can’t imagine he’d have any interest in women’s issues.”

  “Quite to the contrary, my dear,” Lady Mowbray replied energetically. “The viscount has always been pragmatic when it comes to such things—and remarkably softhearted. I suppose it has something to do with his intelligence.”

  Elena stared at the marchioness, unable to formulate a response. She sipped some tea. And then some more. “I’m sorry, Lady Mowbray. His intelligence?”

  “Did I stutter, Miss Barnes?”

  “No,” Elena answered, fearing that she’d insulted the marchioness. “And I meant no offense, truly. It’s just that …”

  Elena took yet another drink of tea.

  “You’ve not spent enough time in the viscount’s company to truly discern his intellect?” Lady Mowbray offered helpfully.

  “Yes! Precisely,” Elena lied.

  The marchioness smiled in understanding. “Yes, well, that would make sense. But trust me, Miss Barnes. The viscount is remarkably bright. Rather like you.”

  “Ladies,” Madame Celeste called as she reentered the room. “Let us continue. I’ve a fetching red silk, just arrived from India today. It’s absolutely exquisite, with gold thread interwoven throughout. There’s also a lovely emerald green.”

  Lady Mowbray sat up at the sound of “fetching,” and “exquisite.”

  “We’ll see the red first,” she replied efficiently, rubbing her hands together. “It just might be perfect for the Elgin ball. Then the green, if you please. No need to be confined to missish pastels, my dear.”

  Elena nodded at the woman’s suggestion. Rather like you. She drained her cup and set it gently down on the saucer. She was growing fonder of the marchioness with each passing day, which made the fact that the woman was as mad as a March hare that much sadder. Oh, she’d questioned her original estimation of the viscount since first arriving at Carrington House. But Elena worried that she’d been thinking with her heart rather than her head. “Remarkably bright.” The viscount would have to be if he were to offer any meaningful support to the Halcyon Society. And even then, he’d still be a man. Elena was not quite as militant as other bluestockings, but she’d been under Lord Carrington’s roof long enough to know that he was dangerously distractive.

  Madame Celeste returned with the fabrics and gestured for Elena to rise.

  Elena pushed the pointless notions from her mind and stood, allowing the modiste to drape the soft silken red material around her.

  “Oh,” Lady Mowbray said appreciatively. “Well, Miss Barnes, what do you think?”

  Elena stepped in front of the glass and examined herself. The woman may have overestimated the viscount, but she did have a way with fashion. “It’s lovely. Would you agree?”

  “Completely.”

  Elena slumped slightly, relieved to be done.

  Madame Celeste grasped her by the shoulders and pulled her back up. “No slouching, Miss Barnes. Now we must choose a pattern.”

  “And then we’ll look at the green. It may make for a lovely opera dress,” Lady Mowbray added, then retrieved a fashion magazine from the low table and began to turn the pages thoughtfully. “What do we think of slashed sleeves, Madame Celeste?”

  “For the green?” the modiste asked, eyeing the emerald fabric that she’d tossed upon the settee.

  “I think so,” the marchioness confirmed. “Come, look at this dress. It’s perfectly suited to Miss Barnes’s shape, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Madame Celeste released Elena’s shoulder and joined Lady Mowbray. “This is precisely what I had in mind for her. Understated but breathtaking.”

  Their conversation turned to accessories. “Did you bring many jewels from Dorset, Miss Barnes?” the modiste asked.

  “Pearls or diamonds?” Lady Mowbray wondered out loud.

  “Diamonds. No question,” Madame Celeste answered firmly.

  Elena allowed her shoulders to slump again. She hadn’t thought to bring any jewelry with her to London. But she didn’t want to spoil their fun. So she remained silent, and pondered just what a “slashed sleeve” might be.

  It wasn’t like Rowena to be late.

  Elena stared at the puzzle book in her hands, trying to concentrate. Usually by this time in the morning, Rowena would have been seeing to her hair while regaling Elena with colorful and clever stories from below stairs.

  Recognizing that her attempts to read were futile, Elena discarded the book on the night table. Standing from the plush bed, she crossed the room to retrieve her shoes. She’d dressed an hour earlier with the help of Maggie, a chambermaid whom she’d heard walking down the hallway. The maid had promised to find Rowena at once, but Elena had assured Maggie that fetching her friend could wait until she’d completed her morning duties and all the fires were lit. She’d not wanted the maid to get into trouble.

  Elena fussed with the lacings on her kidskin shoes, finally finishing the task and rising. Though Carrington Hou
se was very large and grand with many, many rooms, Maggie should have found Rowena by now.

  Which begged the question: where was her friend? A sense of dread filled Elena’s chest and she breathed deeply, forcing the feeling from her as she exhaled.

  Elena straightened the skirt of her Pomona green striped morning dress and walked to the door, opening it just as Maggie came running up the hall.

  The maid slowed to a walk but her eyes remained fixed on Elena’s. She’d been crying, her face flushed from the effort.

  Bell rounded the corner just at the end of the hall and moved stealthily toward Elena, which struck her as rather odd.

  Butlers never moved stealthily.

  Unless something was wrong.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss,” the maid began, curtsying before Elena. “Mr. Bell will have a word with you. ’Tis about Miss Rowena. I promise, I’d no idea she’d gone.”

  Elena flattened her palm against the wall and looked at the girl. “Maggie, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Bell stopped abruptly next to Maggie and bowed to Elena. “Maggie, quiet, if you please,” he said to the girl, who’d started to cry again. She did as she was told, stepping back and turning her gaze to the Kidderminster carpet.

  “Now, Miss Barnes, I’ve some distressing news. Would you prefer to sit down?”

  Elena pressed hard against the wall with one hand, her other coming to clutch at her neck. “No, Bell. Thank you. Now, if you would please tell me what is going on. Where is Rowena? And why is Maggie crying?”

  Bell looked disappointed with her decision to remain standing, but pressed on. “It seems that Rowena received a missive late last evening from a certain Mr.

  Brock.”

  “Am I meant to know this ‘Mr. Brock’?” Elena asked, scouring her brain for any hint of association.

  “You wouldn’t, Miss. He’s a nasty one—not the type the ton would take notice of,” Maggie answered, garnering a quelling look from Bell. “It’s true enough. I’m not lying—never would to you, Mr. Bell. Nor you, Miss.”

  The butler shushed the girl, then returned his gaze to Elena and continued. “I’ve been told by the staff that this Mr. Brock performs any number of services for a cadre of men—”

  “Dangerous blokes, Miss,” Maggie interrupted a second time. “Or so I’ve heard. A gang run out of White-chapel. Controls all of this side of London.”

  Elena released her neck and shakily placed her hand on the wall. The man from the park. She’d assumed his appearance in the bookshop had been an unfortunate coincidence. Oh God, what had she missed? “I’m sorry, but what, exactly, are you telling me?”

  “Among other things, Mr. Brock procures young women for use as prostitutes,” Bell answered, his lips drawing into a thin line.

  “What on earth is going on?”

  All three looked to where Lady Mowbray appeared, her skirts swishing violently as she hurried toward them. “My Gemma will not stop crying and carrying on—something to do with Rowena, though I could hardly decipher her words.”

  Elena’s heart was racing. Her head felt dangerously light, and she was suddenly so angry she could not stand still. “It seems that Rowena has been taken by this—this Brock,” she said as she pushed open the door to her chamber and stepped quickly inside.

  “Brock?” Lady Mowbray parroted, following her. “I’m not acquainted with the man.”

  Elena retrieved her pelisse and chip hat. “Nor should you be. Apparently he lures young women into …” She paused, haphazardly placing the hat on her head. She couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t even think it through. “I need to find her. Now.”

  She made to step by Lady Mowbray only to be caught by the woman’s surprisingly strong hold.

  “Bell, where can we find this Brock?” she asked, staring into Elena’s eyes reassuringly.

  “I took the liberty of asking the staff. It seems Mr. Brock is associated with the Rambling Rose, my lady,” the butler answered. “A house of ill repute, located in Covent Garden. Unfortunately, Lord Carrington is not here to accompany you.”

  Lady Mowbray wrapped Elena in her pelisse and turned toward Bell and Maggie. “Well, then we’ll have to make do with a manservant, won’t we?”

  “You cannot possibly accompany me,” Elena insisted and attempted to loosen the marchioness’s grip on her arm. “I will not allow it.”

  Lady Mowbray only tightened her hold. “You’ve no choice, Miss Barnes. Either I go with you, or you wait for the viscount to return. I am your chaperone, remember?”

  “But I am responsible for Rowena,” she ground out angrily.

  “No, my child. I am.”

  The marchioness would not stand down, and Elena could not wait.

  “Mr. Bell, have the coach readied,” Elena boldly instructed the butler. “There is no time to waste.”

  “Hold for a moment,” Dash whispered to Nicholas as he picked the lock on the door of the Rambling Rose. He turned the tool this way and that until the door opened.

  Nicholas scanned the alley, then consulted the hastily drawn map in his hands. “You really must visit India, Carrington,” he said. Pausing in the doorway, he turned to his friend and grinned. “Your skills would be put to good use.”

  Dash gestured for his friend to turn back, but not before arching an eyebrow in response. “I’m sure they would. But my Corinthian duties keep me here,” he answered sardonically, following Nicholas into the building.

  He pushed the door shut, easing it back into place, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim morning light. A worn brown runner accompanied by faded wallpaper and painted sconces slowly came into focus. A peculiar smell permeated the area, sour and sickeningly sweet at the same time.

  “We only need access to this floor, thankfully,” Nicholas whispered, gesturing for Dash to follow him. “According to the map, the madam’s office should be the first door on the left, just there,” he explained, moving slowly so that his Hessians didn’t make a sound.

  Dash thought to ask where the map had come from, but decided against it. The more time he spent with Nicholas, the less he wanted to know about the man’s time in India.

  “They’ll be asleep above stairs, won’t they?” he asked, listening for any sign that someone might be afoot.

  Nicholas pointed to the door. “In theory, yes—the girls anyway. But there’s the madam to consider. And her henchmen—who are quite adept at cracking skulls, according to the information I received.” He tried to turn the knob, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Dash reached for the tool within a concealed waistcoat pocket, knelt down, and set to work.

  “Information? Supplied to you?” he asked, despite his concern. He finished with the lock and stood, returning the tool to his pocket.

  “Do you want to catch this man?” his friend asked.

  “Of course I do. I just don’t want you killed in the process,” Dash replied, bothered that Nicholas had asked him such a thing.

  Nicholas tried the knob and smiled when it turned. “Carrington, I never pegged you for being such a sensitive soul. Really, quite soft, when it comes right down to it.”

  “Stow it,” Dash grumbled, and then walked into the office.

  Nicholas followed, closing the door behind them. “Well, someone is tidy.”

  Dash narrowed his eyes, taking in the small, organized room. He walked to a window along the opposite wall and drew one curtain aside just enough to let a measure of light through. “Yes, quite tidy, indeed.”

  The beechwood desk was scratched and worn, but every last item upon it was dusted and perfectly ordered. A row of leather-bound books stood up against the back wall, supported by a matching beechwood case. Each book was the same size as the one before it, their spines facing out and perfectly aligned.

  “I’ll start with the books. You see to the desk,” Dash instructed Nicholas. He turned to examine the spines of the books. Each bore a rose and a number, which Dash assumed indicated a year.
He moved down the row until he found 1798.

  He pulled the volume from its place on the shelf and turned back, gently placing the book on the desk.

  “Do you think they’d leave such information out, where anyone could find it?” Nicholas asked, rifling through the contents of a drawer.

  Dash opened the volume. “Plain sight is oftentimes the most effective hiding place of all,” Dash answered, thumbing through the entries. “Besides, we’ve no idea what information will tell us which customer we’re looking for.”

  Nicholas walked around the desk and eyed the pages. “Well, it looks to be in alphabetical order.”

  Dash ran his finger across the top, where six columns were identified. Name, address, date of last “service,” preferred girl, money owed the brothel, and money owed the customer.

  “Money owed the customer?” Nicholas asked, looking to where Dash’s finger had stopped on the page. “What does that mean?”

  Dash tapped his finger, and then ran it down the length of the column to where the first amount was noted. “It means said customer must have done something for the Rose. We’ve a way to track him, Nicholas,” Dash replied, reaching for a scrap of foolscap and a quill.

  He moved to the left along the columns until landing on the customer’s name. “John Trenney.”

  “Is that him?”

  Dash looked at the man’s address, and then moved on. “No. Remember, the woman that my father spoke to swore that the man was of quality. We’re looking for someone with a title.”

  He flipped page after page, not finding another notation until reaching the Fs. That too failed to identify a nobleman.

  The sudden pounding of footfalls upstairs sent Nicholas toward the door. He opened it just a hair and the noise from above intensified.

  He closed the door suddenly and turned to Dash. “Looks as though we may be interrupted.”

  “I need more time,” Dash demanded, quickening his pace and happening upon a notation in the Ks. “Dammit,” he swore under his breath when the name was not one that he recognized.

  Nicholas walked back to the desk and snapped up the discarded map. “I’ll do my best, but you’ll need to hurry.”