The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  “What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Dash asked, the last of the sentence lost when Nicholas opened the door, stepped out into the hallway, and shut Dash inside.

  The pounding of men’s footfalls and vicious words followed.

  “Catch me if you can, you filthy whore spawn,” Nicholas spat out, his maniacal laughter fading as he ran down the hall for the alley.

  Dash dove beneath the desk with the book in his hands. The door burst open and Dash held his breath.

  “Nottin’ in ’ere. Go get ’em, boys.”

  He waited until the door closed again, then crawled out and stood. He’d left off at the Ks, meaning he still had over half of the book to search. Dash turned to the correct page and began again, racing through each entry with renewed vigor.

  No new entries appeared until the surnames starting with S.

  “Christ Almighty,” Dash growled, his finger landing on Mr. Francis Smeade. The “sums owed” column showed a payment made to the man in July 1798—the month Lady Afton had been murdered. And there were more, the same sum, but in different months, during different years. He’d seen the exact dates before, on a document from the Afton case. There’d been murders of Corinthian family members since Lady Afton’s death, and the dates of their deaths were the precise ones he was looking at now.

  Smeade was the Bishop. But someone connected to the brothel had paid the man to brutally kill Lady Afton and the others. He’d pointed the knife and committed the murder, but someone other than Smeade had made the decision.

  Dash had never cared for Smeade. But now pure, unadulterated hatred flashed in his heart.

  He’d put that to good use. He returned the book to its place on the shelf and finished with the remaining volumes, finding no other possible suspect. Walking to the door, he listened for any noise in the hallway. Complete silence filled the basement.

  He opened the door, looked both ways before stepping out into the corridor, and then shut the door behind him. Reaching the exit to the alleyway, he crossed the street and began to walk north, turning back only once to look at the front of the brothel.

  Where his matching bags and coach stood waiting.

  “I demand that you bring me the girl at once.”

  Elena swallowed hard. Lady Mowbray’s words had been delivered with due severity, but they’d clearly underestimated what awaited them at the Rambling Rose.

  She looked to the far corner where James, the manservant sent along to protect them, lay, incapacitated by a single blow.

  “And I demand that you shut your potato trap, love,” the ringleader replied casually. “Or I’ll shut it for ya.”

  As the coach had dipped and dodged its way across London, Lady Mowbray had assured Elena that they would retrieve Rowena with superior breeding, morals, and intelligence.

  Right would win out over might.

  Elena had been so intensely gripped by fear for her friend that she’d convinced herself Lady Mowbray spoke the truth. Her misgivings over the woman’s presence had abated and she’d allowed her indignation to lift until their success was all but guaranteed.

  And then they’d clawed their way into the foyer and it had deteriorated from there.

  Elena held tightly to the marchioness’s arm as she attempted to slap the offender. “Sir,” Elena pleaded, wincing at the sound of her frightened voice. “The girl is my maid. She’s been with my family for some time and ultimately, I am responsible for her safety. Please, return Rowena to us. I’ll happily pay you a very reasonable sum.”

  “Maybe Rowena don’t want to leave. Maybe she’s keen on a new life, ain’t that right, Mr. Brock?”

  The man from the park and the bookshop came around the corner, his filthy smile sending sparks of anger up Elena’s spine. “She appears quite settled in—almost as though she were born for such things.”

  “Mr. Brock.” Elena released Lady Mowbray’s arm and walked slowly toward the man. “Should you not do as I’ve requested, I’ll alert Bow Street and your business will be cited—perhaps even closed if I have any say in the matter. And Lady Mowbray’s considerable connections and place in society will surely do you no favors. You vile, villainous, bloo—”

  “Well, knock me down with a feather,” a deep voice spoke out from behind Elena.

  Startled, she paused in her advance upon Brock and turned to see just who was speaking.

  Lord Carrington stood just inside, leaning lazily against the doorjamb, an expression of baffled confusion written on his handsome face. “There I was, strolling about town and minding my own business, when suddenly I spy my very own coach—parked outside of the infamous Rambling Rose, no less. Funnily, I don’t remember leaving it here last night. Of course, I don’t remember being here last night, either. So, I would be grateful if someone would be so kind as to explain just what is going on.”

  “This ain’t none of your affair, guv,” the ringleader spat out. “So just take your fancy self off, now. Lest you be interested in a fight.”

  Lady Mowbray pulled a long, sharp pin from her hat and pointed it at the man. “You’ve no right to speak to Lord Carrington in such an insolent manner. Rowena was living under the viscount’s roof when she was taken. Therefore, she is his responsibility. And yes, should you refuse to return the girl, he is most assuredly looking for a fight.”

  Lord Carrington pushed himself off the doorjamb, his demeanor menacing as he slowly walked toward the man. “Trolling for fresh meat for the flats, were we?” he asked, gesturing for Elena and the marchioness to move behind him. “Well, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but the chit’s not for sale. And I’ll give you my purse, just to prove my point. A very generous offer, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Elena couldn’t see exactly what was taking place, but Lord Carrington pulled something from his waistcoat and tossed it to the man, who looked all too happy to comply.

  “Brock, go get the girl,” he ordered, then greedily opened the drawstring bag and began to count the coins.

  Brock eyed Lord Carrington warily and backed up, nearly falling on the stairs before turning and running to the floor above.

  Lord Carrington walked to where James lay, nudging him with his boot. “Time to wake up.”

  James rolled to his back and opened his eyes, the sight of Lord Carrington looming over his prostrate body making the young man squeak. “My lord!”

  “Are you able to walk?” the viscount asked, offering his arm.

  James accepted the man’s outstretched hand and managed to stand. “I believe so, my lord.”

  “Splendid. Take the women to the carriage and wait for me there. I’ll be out in a moment.”

  James bowed, nearly falling over, then righted himself and made haste for Elena and Lady Mowbray.

  “Filthy heathens,” the marchioness said pointedly to the ringleader, threatening him once again with her hatpin. Then she reached out for Elena’s hand and placed it in the crook of her arm.

  Elena was both considerably grateful and oddly irritated. Only a moment before, she’d been in danger of joining Rowena above stairs, her ill-considered tirade thankfully interrupted by the viscount.

  And now, her dear friend was nearly safe. And Elena had done nothing to help.

  “My lord, I’d rather stay until Rowena is brought down. She’ll be terrified. The sight of me will calm her. I must insist.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” His jaw visibly tensed. “Rowena and I will be right behind you. James,” he called out authoritatively. “See to the women.”

  Lady Mowbray pulled her the length of the foyer. James opened the door and waited as the women crossed the threshold. The manservant closed the door behind them and ushered them down the narrow steps of the Rambling Rose. Elena heard the front door open as she stepped into the coach and looked back to see Lord Carrington, his arm protectively around Rowena’s shoulders as he all but carried her toward the conveyance. Relief flooded Elena and she stepped inside, sitting down on the plush, comfortable seat ac
ross from Lady Mowbray.

  The viscount held Rowena’s hand tightly as she climbed into the coach, releasing her only once she’d settled against Elena. Then he climbed in and sat next to the marchioness. “Go,” he ordered, thumping the ceiling with his fist.

  “Miss, I’m so sorry,” Rowena whispered in between sobs.

  Elena held her friend tightly and stroked her hair. “You’ve nothing to apologize for, Rowena. I’m the one who should have seen to your safety.”

  “But my reputation, Miss. It’s all but—”

  “Intact,” Lord Carrington interrupted firmly. “Do not think otherwise. You were taken against your own will, Rowena. Given no choice by men who would do you harm …” He paused, anger simmering just beneath his skin. “I will not allow a man such as Mr. Brock to rob you of your reputation.”

  Rowena’s sobs quieted and she rested her head against Elena’s shoulder.

  “Thank you,” Elena mouthed to the man, sure that he couldn’t know just how much his words had meant to her dear friend. And to her.

  Elena had insisted that Rowena be brought to her chamber the moment they’d arrived at Carrington House. Lord Carrington had carried her up the marble stairs himself, then left the girl in Elena’s care while he spoke with Bell.

  Lady Mowbray had offered to help, but Elena had assured her that she could take care of Rowena—and indeed, needed to—on her own. She’d asked the marchioness to see that tea was prepared and told her she’d join her soon in the drawing room.

  She’d called for a bath to be drawn and seen to her friend’s needs, gently scrubbing the dirt and blood from Rowena’s skin and hair and sluicing the warm, steaming water over her dear friend’s exhausted body.

  “Burn these,” she told Molly firmly, handing Rowena’s filthy dress and underpinnings to the maid. “And let me know the moment the doctor arrives, will you?”

  Molly took the clothing in hand and dipped a polite curtsy, her eyes wide with horror as she stared at Rowena. “Of course, Miss,” she answered, managing nothing more than a whisper and turning to go.

  “Rowena, can you stand for me?” Elena asked softly, reaching for the length of linen that Molly had supplied earlier. She held out her hand and her friend took it in hers, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet.

  “They gave me something, Miss,” Rowena said, her voice hoarse. “It made me sleepy.”

  Elena held tightly to her friend’s hand as she coaxed her to step from the tub. “I know, dear. Don’t worry. You’ll sleep soon.”

  Rowena had informed Elena of this very fact several times since their return to the viscount’s home. She prayed that the haze had taken control some hours before and left Rowena with very little memory of her ordeal.

  Rowena drew one foot out and placed it on the carpet, and then the other.

  Elena wrapped the linen around her friend, the sight of her battered body stealing the air from her lungs. The skin on both Rowena’s wrists was raw and bleeding where she’d clearly been tied up with rope. An angry purple mark in the shape of a large hand was a darkening shadow where the base of her neck had been seized more than once. And small, red scratches marred her forearms and feet, blood oozing from a broken toenail.

  Rowena held tightly as Elena carefully dried her, wincing with pain when her injuries were touched.

  Elena bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying, finishing with the linen and laying it over the side of the tub. She retrieved the night rail from the sideboard and urged Rowena to lift her arms.

  “I’m tired, Miss. They gave me something. I tried to spit it out. But they just gave me more.”

  Elena dropped the gown over her friend’s head and carefully placed each arm into its respective sleeve, before catching the hem in her hands and drawing it the rest of the way down Rowena’s body.

  Her throat ached with unspent tears. She looped one arm about Rowena’s waist and guided her out of the dressing room and across the chamber to the bed.

  Molly had already seen to turning down the bed. Elena released Rowena and slowly swung her about, holding her shoulders as her friend slumped to a sitting position, raised her legs, then lay down. She drew the coverlet up and delicately tucked it under Rowena’s arms, noting how fragile her friend looked. Her wet hair was spread out upon the pillow, the blond curls haphazardly spinning this way and that, so unlike her usual neat knot. There were blue smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes, and her lips were ashen.

  It wasn’t Rowena. At least not the Rowena she’d been only the day before. And Elena couldn’t stop her mind from wondering if she’d ever be the same again.

  Her friend shifted slightly and grimaced. “I’m sorry, Miss. I thought it would be a lark. He was so handsome, so refined. I never should have gone. I know that now,” Rowena confessed, her eyes fluttering closed. “You told me he was dangerous and I didn’t listen.”

  Elena knelt next to the bed and took Rowena’s hand in hers. “Do not apologize, my dear, dear friend. It is my fault, and mine alone,” she assured Rowena. Sharp, stinging tears forced their way past Elena’s will and down her cheeks. “Those men will not go unpunished. I promise you.”

  “Excuse me, Miss, but the doctor’s here.”

  Elena wiped at her face before meeting Molly’s gaze. “Of course. Send him in.”

  She turned back to Rowena and caressed her dear friend’s gaunt cheek. “Rest now. Everything will be all right. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Dash stood behind his desk in the study. He watched as the afternoon sunlight collided with the crystal decanter on the sideboard and sent sparkling shards of light dancing upon the wall. Three days had passed since the Rambling Rose incident. Brock had roughly shoved the girl down the stairs and watched with amusement as she’d lost her balance on the last step and landed in a heap at Dash’s feet. She’d cried out at the sight of him and gratefully accepted his protective arm about her shoulders, hiding beneath his coat until he’d delivered her safely to Miss Barnes.

  Dash stopped to consider why he was standing. He’d wandered through the last few days in a constant state of confusion, or so it seemed. He walked around his desk and stepped out into the hall, hesitating as he decided where to go.

  The interior of the coach had been eerily calm. The marchioness was clearly shaken, but quietly proud. Rowena had settled against her mistress’s side, weeping silently as Elena whispered reassuringly to her maid, holding tightly to the woman the entire ride back to Carrington House.

  He began to walk down the hallway aimlessly, his fingers reaching out to skim the wall.

  Dash would never forget the look upon Miss Barnes’s face. Her milky skin had gone ashen and her lips had drawn into a tight, grim line. But it was her eyes that had chilled him, the deep brown glistening with pain and regret.

  He’d hardly seen the woman since their return. Rowena had been sent back to Dorset two days after her rescue, the doctor assuring them she would convalesce best at home. And Miss Barnes had retreated to her room, Lady Mowbray visiting often in the hopes of lifting her spirits, or so the marchioness had told him.

  Dash had willed himself to keep his distance, but he knew what must be done. Their kiss in her chamber was nothing more than the means to an end—or so he had told himself whenever he thought on it. She trusted him. And now, he had to break that trust. It was cruel to be sure, but she had to leave London. He needed her safe.

  He curled his fingers into a fist and struck the wall, failing to notice whether it hurt. He didn’t deserve to feel, physically or emotionally. Before Miss Barnes, it wouldn’t have mattered. But now, it was all that did.

  Once they’d returned from the Rambling Rose, the doctor had no more than closed his kit when Bell had informed Dash that a visitor awaited him in his study. It was Nicholas. He’d evaded the brothel’s men, and then doubled back, making sure that Dash had escaped, too.

  When Dash had told Nicholas of Smeade, his friend had gladly accepted a snifter of brandy and drank deeply, c
losing his eyes as he did so. “We’ll have to wait,” he’d told Dash, his eyes opening once again. “We’ll need proof. Give me time. I’ve a man in the Rose. He should be able to tell us more.”

  Dash reached the front of the house and turned into the library. And so he’d waited a day. And another. And now a third, he thought begrudgingly, stepping across the threshold.

  He reached out and stole a lilac blossom from an arrangement that sat upon a table. Smeade’s place in society, though questionable, secured a certain privacy that Dash would find difficult to penetrate. And there were no Corinthians to speak to on the matter, not even Carmichael.

  Especially not Carmichael.

  No, there was nothing to be done but wait for news from Nicholas. It was bloody torture, and Dash was nearing the end of his rope.

  “Lord Carrington?”

  Dash looked up to see Miss Barnes coming toward him, a pair of odd-looking gloves in her hand. “Miss Barnes, what a surprise to find you here.”

  “Is that so?” she asked quizzically. “I was going to make the same observation about you.”

  She offered him a small smile, though it was tinged with sadness. “I’d grown restless in my chamber and needed to do something.”

  Dash understood all too well. “Of course. I feel precisely the same way.”

  “Ah,” she replied, looking at the flower in his hand. “We all do, I think.”

  He looked down at the bloom contemplatively. Miss Barnes possessed much in common with the flower, both beautiful, hardy in an English rain, yet intensely fragile in certain ways.

  Breakable, really.

  He held the lilac out to her. “It’s one of my favorites.”

  “It’s lovely,” she replied, bringing the bloom to her nose and delicately sniffing.

  “And yours?”

  Miss Barnes lowered the lilac and twirled it between her fingers. “My what, Lord Carrington?”

  Dash winced at the awkward quality of their conversation. He knew what to do with ledgers and financial sleight of hand, ciphers, and secret letters. But Miss Barnes had a way of undoing his senses, even when he’d made up his mind that she wouldn’t.