The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  “Mr. Smeade,” Elena said politely, her voice weaker than she would have preferred. “To be precise, books.”

  The man looked quizzically at Elena, her answer clearly confusing him. “Books? Are there no lending libraries in Dorset?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Smeade,” Lady Mowbray admonished impatiently.

  “These are not just any old books, my lord,” Elena explained, her words clipped. “They belonged to the late Lord Carrington.”

  “Oh, I see,” the man replied, his interest piqued. His eyes sharpened with speculation. “Rather worth a fortune, I would think, given Lord Carrington’s tastes and interests. Has the viscount had the books appraised?”

  The simmering anger and hate in Elena’s belly started to boil.

  “I suppose so, though that’s hardly my concern,” Elena answered simply, hardly able to endure Smeade’s calculating assessment. “They hold some sentimental value for my father, never mind the wealth of information to be found between their covers. They’ll be treated with the utmost care while in our possession, and then more than likely, will be donated to the Bodleian.”

  Smeade drummed his fingers impatiently on his thigh, stopping only when Elena finished speaking. “I see. Though I do find it somewhat odd that the books would be given to someone outside the family. Usually, such treasures would be passed on to relations, you see. Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Mowbray?”

  “I can hardly speak to such things, Mr. Smeade,” the marchioness answered, clearly uncomfortable. “Seeing as I am not a member of the family by blood. But I’m sure Lord Carrington would be most eager to address your question.”

  “Ladies,” Dash called as he approached from behind the man, a cup of punch in each hand.

  He stopped just to the right of Mr. Smeade’s elbow and handed the drinks to Elena and the marchioness. “I’m afraid I’ve only fetched two, Smeade. You’ll have to see to your own refreshment,” he offered jovially, thumping the man on the back.

  Mr. Smeade laughed good-naturedly, adjusting the sleeves of his coat. “Carrington, it’s been some time since I last had the pleasure of your company.”

  Dash tapped his chin as though deep in thought. “Yes, it has been, hasn’t it? The Young Corinthians’ club, I daresay?”

  “I believe you’re right,” Mr. Smeade confirmed. “Your memory is far superior to mine, Carrington. Why, my recall of today’s events will be forgotten by the middle of next week, I fear.”

  Elena fought the urge to ask the man if he knew of Rowena’s kidnapping.

  Lady Mowbray sipped her punch and swallowed. “It seems Mr. Smeade has a keen interest in your father’s books,” she announced. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Smeade?”

  Dash’s expression was one of thorough confusion. “What’s that about books?”

  “The issue of your father’s library arose while Lady Mowbray made the introductions. Nothing to concern yourself with, I assure you,” Smeade answered smoothly, nervously tugging at his earlobe. “Merely making conversation, you see.”

  Elena could not hold her tongue. “Really? I rather thought it was something of importance to you. Or did I misinterpret your interest entirely?”

  “I’m a bit thirsty myself, old boy,” Dash interrupted Elena. “Would you mind very much? A cup of punch would be just the thing.”

  Mr. Smeade swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing from the effort. “Of course, Carrington. I’ll only be but a moment. Ladies. Until we meet again.” He bowed perfunctorily and turned away.

  The trio watched him wander off in the general direction of the punch bowl, Lady Mowbray sighing with relief when he insinuated himself between Admiral Harvey and his wife and began to chatter incessantly.

  “I know that he’s family, Dash,” the marchioness said, her eyes narrowing as she continued to watch Mr. Smeade. “But he’s …”

  “Insufferable?” Elena offered, garnering a look of surprise—then a rather satisfied smile from Lady Mowbray.

  “I do admire a nicely sharpened pair of claws, my dear Elena,” the older woman replied, “Especially when it is warranted. Oh,” she paused, her eyes now focused on the back of a woman standing near the quartet. “It appears that Lady Cumberbatch has managed to sit in something. Poor thing—the embarrassment would kill her. I’ll only be but a moment.” She gracefully strolled off to rescue her friend.

  Elena turned her attention to Smeade, the very sight of him sending a chill up her spine. “How did you keep yourself from throttling the man?”

  “I hardly have a choice,” Dash muttered in a low tone, waving amiably at a passing couple. “We need information from him, and he’s not going to give it to us if I choke the life from him in the middle of a garden party. You must have patience, Elena. Otherwise, all of our efforts will have been for naught. And he’ll never be forced to pay for Lady Afton’s death. Is that what you want?”

  “Of course not. How could you ask such a thing?”

  “I’m sorry,” he growled, pulling at his cravat as if it choked him. “I saw you with Smeade and I …”

  Elena didn’t ask him to finish the sentence. She clasped her hands together tightly behind her back and held her tongue. It no longer mattered. It couldn’t.

  Dash watched Elena walk down Threadneedle Street toward the James and Mulroy Merchant Bank. She wore a coquelicot crepe dress and a poke bonnet; her hair curled about her face, and a small smile curved her lips. To the casual observer, it surely must have looked as though she was enjoying a stroll in the waning sun, much like those around her. But Dash knew the truth of it. “What have I done?”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Nicholas countered, crossing one booted foot over the other as he leaned casually against a lamppost, his gaze intent on Elena.

  Dash ground his teeth together until his jaw ached. “You know precisely what I mean. In fact, it was you who told me that I’d regret allowing Miss Barnes anywhere near the Afton case.”

  Nicholas punched Dash lightly on the arm. “Do not choose this moment to grow a conscience, Carrington. The last thing we need is for you to go crashing into the bank, set on rescuing Miss Barnes.”

  “I’ve always had a conscience, Bourne,” Dash snarled. “Never more so than when it came to Elena’s involvement. That was the problem, you see. I knew too well what she was feeling after Rowena’s kidnapping. I couldn’t allow her to suffer from the pain for the rest of her life. That would leave her no better off than we are.”

  Nicholas grimaced at his words. “You and your feelings, Carrington,” he muttered, punching Dash again. “I’ll admit, she’s far too intelligent and irritatingly easy to admire. And for the love of God, could Miss Barnes find it in her heart to disguise her affection for you? Honestly, it’s in poor taste, I tell you. But her breasts almost make up for it.”

  “Well, Bourne. I believe that’s as close as I’ll ever come to hearing you open your cold, dormant heart. I’m honored,” Dash replied, his anger cooling as reason returned. “But I cannot let the breast comment go without mention. It simply isn’t done.”

  His friend turned, his voice completely lacking his earlier sardonic inflection. “Yes, of course I mentioned her breasts. Really, Carrington. You didn’t think that we would use Miss Barnes for her brains, did you? Look at her. She’s beautiful, which is rather the point. Besides, the bank clerk is a breast man.”

  Dash’s gaze followed Nicholas’s to where Elena continued on toward the merchant bank. Men on the street turned to watch as she walked by, casting appreciative glances in her wake. And the ladies on their arms were responding as well—Dash was suddenly very thankful that looks could not kill.

  “God,” Dash murmured, a revelation hitting him square between the eyes. “She’s beautiful.” It was more than her hair or her dress. Much more. It was a confidence that he’d seen only when she’d talked of books—a firm belief in herself that had always shone through despite the most unattractive of gowns. She was beginning to understand all that she
was, all that she could be.

  “I’ve need of a new pocket watch,” Nicholas said, turning to walk down Threadneedle Street.

  Dash followed dutifully, his gaze never leaving Elena until she disappeared inside. “You see it then, too?” he asked his friend, still piecing his scrambled thoughts together.

  “Miss Barnes? Of course,” Nicholas answered, setting a leisurely pace. “I am in possession of two fully functional eyeballs, Carrington.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Nicholas stepped aside to allow an elderly gentleman to pass. “What do you mean, ‘what do I mean’? Good God man, I believe your fondness for the chit has addled your brain.”

  “Were we not discussing Miss Barnes’s beauty?” Dash demanded, his frustration with Bourne blooming anew.

  Nicholas stopped three doors from the jewelers and waited, dusk threatening to envelop them at any moment. “Carrington, I don’t mean to be obtuse, but what, exactly, is troubling you?”

  “I’m not quite sure, to be honest,” Dash answered distractedly.

  “God, man, just spit it out. Not everything in life is a puzzle,” Nicholas growled, punching Dash on the arm.

  “Blast it, we’re not twelve. No more punching, do you hear me?”

  “Spit. It. Out.”

  “I’ve made a terrible mistake. And Elena will pay for it with her life—a life that she’s just now beginning to live,” Dash roared, then punched Nicholas in the arm with all of his might. “There. Are you happy now?”

  Nicholas looked at his arm, then at Dash, his mouth agape. “Not in the slightest. And you do realize that, at some point in the near future, I’ll have to give you a sound thrashing for that barbarous jab, yes?”

  Dash arched a brow in response, though he did rather suspect that Nicholas would eventually deliver on the thrashing.

  “If you would be so kind, answer this question: do you hear what you’re saying?”

  “What a ridiculous thing to ask. Of course I can hear myself,” Dash replied, mentally reviewing his words. “She’s in danger and I’m the one who put her there.”

  “And?” Nicholas pressed, gesturing for Dash to continue.

  Dash paused, his brow furrowing as he reviewed the situation once again. “No, I think that is all.”

  “God Almighty, for a man of exceptional intelligence, you really can be quite dim,” Nicholas said, rubbing his temples. “You allowed Miss Barnes to aid in our task so that she’d be spared the lack of the very thing we’ve needed our entire lives. Justice, Carrington. A clear and concise line drawn between right and wrong. And responsibility taken on the part of the wrongdoer. How could that ever be seen as a mistake?”

  Dash widened his stance and shook off a sudden attack of dizziness. “Do you truly believe that?”

  “Yes, I do,” Nicholas answered gruffly. “God, but you try my patience.”

  Damn, but the man made sense. Perfect, bloody sense. Dash nudged his friend with his shoulder. “When did you become so wise?”

  “I always have been—you’ve just been too busy admiring your own intelligence to notice,” Nicholas retorted. “Now come along. We’ll have information to review soon. Thanks to your buxom Miss Barnes.”

  “Would you do me one favor?” Dash asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “Do not think about her breasts. Ever again,” Dash said seriously.

  “When you say think, do you mean I can’t speak of them?” Nicholas asked. “Or does this include mental consideration as well?”

  “Spoken reference only,” Dash agreed begrudgingly.

  “Done.”

  Mr. Peter Devon, head clerk at James and Mulroy Merchant Bank, was, as Mr. Bourne had announced three days prior, a bosom man. Elena had balked at the idea, insisting that his sex surely possessed enough intelligence to resist something so practical. “They’re no more than mammary glands,” she’d stated pragmatically, looking down at hers with dismissal.

  Mr. Bourne, in turn, had laughed in Elena’s face and told her to wait and see, of all things. He’d gone on to create a fantastical story that she was meant to deliver to Mr. Devon should her breasts fail to brain the man into complete submission.

  Elena leaned in over Mr. Devon’s high desk inside the bank on Threadneedle Street and saw his eyes dilate with each additional bit of creamy, bergamot-scented skin that edged above her neckline. He seemed transfixed, the hazel irises disappearing at an alarming rate.

  Quite awful, actually. Yet useful. Blast. Mr. Bourne had been right.

  “It’s terribly tragic, really,” Elena began, lifting a lace-trimmed handkerchief to her nose and delicately patting. “Uncle Reginald was never a favorite of the family. The man was always impatient, extremely rude with everyone—even his very own wife,” she paused, dabbing at her eyes. “I can imagine you, yourself, have relatives of the same sort, Mr. Devon. Even my uncle’s dog wasn’t spared from his truly detestable nature. The man couldn’t be bothered to pat his own dog on the head.”

  While his eyes continued staring at her bodice, his mouth turned down in an expression of sympathetic dismay, as though she’d just told him something of heartbreaking proportion.

  She sniffed again and began to cry crocodile tears into the slim wisp of lace-edged linen. “Poor little Oliver,” she continued between sobs. “He died from a broken heart, we’re sure of it. That dog loved my uncle despite the terrible abuse he suffered.”

  “Poor little Oliver,” Mr. Devon repeated.

  Elena braced herself dramatically against the desk with one arm and rolled her shoulders back. The crepe fabric of her dress tightened suggestively across the expanse of her bosom. “So you can imagine our surprise when, upon the passing of Uncle Reginald, a certain mistress arrived on our doorstep! And do you know what she said?”

  Peter Devon couldn’t help himself. He was staring at her breasts, all but licking his lips. “What?” he asked, distractedly. “Do tell me, Miss.”

  Elena had him entirely in her hands now. It had almost been too easy. And she realized that she felt sorry for the man—and a touch guilty. After all, Mr. Devon did not work for Mr. Smeade, nor for anyone else connected to the Rambling Rose. He’d only had the misfortune of being employed by the bank that Smeade used. That, and his fondness for the female anatomy, was the reason he was currently being manipulated by a pair of breasts.

  But Elena didn’t have the time to argue morality. Peter Devon was captured on the end of her fishing pole like a tasty trout, with nothing left to do but reel him in.

  “Well, this mistress expected to be compensated. She claimed that Uncle Reginald had made provisions for her—a secret account of some sort. Can you imagine?”

  Peter Devon shook his head. “No, my lady, I cannot.”

  “Precisely,” Elena agreed, bringing her hand to rest just above her heart—Peter Devon’s eyes following dutifully. “But she will not relent. Which is why I’m here. You see, Aunt Agatha cannot bring herself to investigate the matter. And quite understandably so, which is exactly what I told her. She’s far too busy dealing with the funeral arrangements. But it must be sorted out. Otherwise, this woman is threatening to bring her ‘relationship’ with my uncle to light—which, you can understand, would destroy my aunt.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Devon agreed quickly. “What can I do to help?”

  Elena beamed at the clerk—a true, genuine smile of gratitude. “Oh, Mr. Devon, I’m so glad to hear you say that. It is simple enough. The mistress claims that the secret account is with your bank—all of his other money resides at Hoare’s Bank, you see. All I ask is that you confirm the existence of the account. If the mistress is telling the truth, then we’ll need to get our solicitors involved. But I’d rather not make mention of something so tawdry until I know for sure that the money is there.”

  Peter Devon looked down at the top of his desk and picked up his quill, running the feather along the seam of his lips. “The rules state that only the account holder is privy to
any information regarding the funds.”

  Oh, God, she was losing him. The hook had torn free from his mouth and he threatened to return to the lake! Desperate times called for desperate measures.

  Elena reached out and placed her hand gently on his shoulder, then sighed a rather large, breathy sigh. The effect was exactly what she’d hoped for. The sudden forced release of air caused her breasts to strain dangerously against the crepe fabric of her dress until they threatened to burst forth in all their firm, pale glory.

  The quill stopped in midair and remained aloft. Mr. Devon didn’t seem to notice, as if his intent study of the exercise continued to require all of his energy.

  “Normally I would not be so bold as to ask such a favor, Mr. Devon. But with Uncle Reginald’s unfortunate and rather sudden death—a horrifying encounter with a wild boar on his estate in Wales,” Elena explained, pausing to bring the handkerchief to her mouth as she pretended to silently mourn for a moment, then rallying and moving on. “Well, it’s impossible for the account holder to request any information as pertains to the funds. And Aunt Agatha is quite desperate to put the matter behind the family quickly and with as little notice as we can manage. Is there anything that can be done?”

  She threatened to cry again, taking small, panting breaths that forced her breasts to keep pace.

  Mr. Devon was transfixed, his head nodding in time to Elena’s breasts as they bobbed up and down. “Yes, of course,” he replied, adding, “I’m sure that my superior, were he here, would agree that it’s a matter meriting special consideration.”

  “Exactly,” Elena agreed in a soothing tone, careful not to break the spell the man seemed to be under. “Now, whatever may I do to help?”

  Mr. Devon’s head stopped suddenly as Elena’s breath normalized. “Oh, yes. Well, your uncle’s full name. And the year the account was opened—or at the very least, an educated guess as to the year.”

  “Of course. His full name is—that is, was,” she replied, letting her lip tremble. “Reginald Xavier Whitcomb. As for the year, give me a moment to think, won’t you?”