The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  Mr. Devon began to write the imaginary uncle’s name down on a scrap of foolscap. “Take all the time that you need.”

  Elena brought the handkerchief to her mouth and looked about the bank.

  “I do recall Aunt Agatha mentioning something having to do with Uncle Reginald’s particular lack of interest in her some ten years back. I wonder if that could be when he formed a connection with this woman.”

  Mr. Devon wrote something down on the foolscap, and then rose from his chair. “Possibly. I’ll have to look downstairs, anything beyond the current year having been sent down to the storerooms, you see.”

  “Of course,” Elena agreed, moving to the side. “And the current year?” she inquired, worrying her lower lip. “I would hope that such valuable information would be kept safe as well.”

  Mr. Devon bent the foolscap in his hands back and forth. “Yes, this year’s accounts are quite safe, I assure you. They’re locked away in the room, just back there,” he replied, gesturing toward a door in the back left corner. “I hold the key myself.”

  “Oh, quite a responsibility, Mr. Devon,” Elena said in awe.

  He stood up tall and puffed out his chest with pride. “Yes, well. It’s one of four official keys I look after. I am the head clerk, after all. They’re just over there, on my desk. Would you like to see?”

  “Perhaps when you return from the storeroom?” Elena suggested gently. “I’ll just wait here, then.”

  Mr. Devon nodded, then walked past her and made for the stairs at the back of the large room.

  Elena waited until she could no longer hear him, and then walked quickly to Mr. Devon’s desk. She tucked the hanky into the neckline of her dress and reached for the ring of keys, carefully placing it in her palm and closing her hand tightly.

  She scurried to the back of the room and advanced on the door, grabbing the knob with one hand while she tried the first key in the lock. The lock refused to give and she moved on to the second, turning it this way and that, with no better luck. “Blast,” she hissed, pulling the second key out and inserting the third. It turned smoothly and the lock released. Elena pushed the door open wide enough to allow entry and walked across the threshold.

  Stacks of ledgers stood in neat order, no discernable mark on any of their spines. Elena tamped down her irritation and chose one of the volumes toward the middle, pulling it awkwardly from a stack and carrying it to a table near the door. She flipped the leather-bound volume open and noted the surnames—all beginning with the letter D.

  She snapped the book shut and returned it to the stacks. Then she went nearly to the end. Grabbing for the top volume, she brought it quickly back to the desk and laid it flat, opening it and noting that she’d managed to find the names beginning with S. Her finger flew through the pages as she looked for Smeade’s name, finding it nearly three-fourths of the way into the volume.

  She looked about for a pencil, the sound of Mr. Devon’s footfalls on the stairs making her jump. She abandoned the search and instead ripped the page from the ledger and sent up a prayer for forgiveness before folding and stuffing the sheet into her tiny satin reticule, and quickly returning the book to its stack.

  She hurried to the door, crossing the threshold and turning to lock up. She ran for Mr. Devon’s desk and tossed the keys onto it, pulling the hanky from her dress at the last moment.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t find anything, Miss,” Mr. Devon announced as he walked toward her, a look of genuine disappointment on his face. “And I took the liberty to search five years back as well. There’s nothing. Perhaps the woman just wanted to see what she could get out of your family?”

  Elena sighed, allowing the man one last look at her breasts—and, while not exactly enjoying it, somehow she couldn’t quite hate him for it, either. “I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Devon. I do so appreciate your help, though—as does my family.”

  The clerk bowed. “It was my pleasure. But if you wouldn’t mind, please don’t tell anyone what I did. As I mentioned, it’s against the rules.”

  Elena nodded in understanding, and then curtsied. “Of course, Mr. Devon. It will remain just between the two of us, I assure you.”

  “Is it possible to perish from listening to something so horrendous, so heinous, that one would not believe the true atrocious nature of the sound unless they’d heard it for themselves?”

  Lady Mowbray’s question was one Dash had asked himself a number of times before. “And if I said it was?”

  Elena admonished him with a deep furrowing of her brow. “Hush, both of you. Surely no woman would allow herself to be featured, in front of a roomful of her peers, no less—if she was not talented. It’s simply not logical.”

  “Too often I forget that you had but one season, my dear,” Lady Mowbray replied, reaching out and patting Elena’s hand. “Logic has no place here.”

  The marchioness turned her attention to Dash. “I would ask that you sit in the end chair, my dear boy, so that when I do die and list one way or the other, I’ll not fall into the aisle, but rather into you.”

  Dash grinned. “Lady Mowbray, the musicale has yet to begin. How can you make such assumptions? Why, this might just be the most accomplished gathering of musicians that the city has ever had the pleasure to hear.”

  The marchioness nodded an acknowledgment at a couple who passed by, smiling serenely before answering Dash’s question with her own. “That, my lord, is impossible. Do you know who is performing this evening?”

  “Haven’t a clue,” Dash answered honestly, his program having disappeared somewhere between the door and their seats as they’d negotiated the crowd.

  “Lady Haven’s grandchildren. Now, I adore the woman—she’s one of my closest friends, actually,” she whispered conspiratorially, “but she hasn’t a musical bone in her body. Cannot even manage a passable hymn in church—sings like a cat in heat, you know.”

  Dash thought he saw Elena stifle a laugh.

  “Can I assume Lady Haven passed on her lack of musicality to her children—”

  “And grandchildren,” Lady Mowbray interrupted Dash, gripping Elena’s arm. “Except for one. A girl—Millicent, I think. Plays the violin wonderfully. But the rest of them?” She let out a long-suffering sigh. “I really should feel bad about bringing you two here—to die, most likely.”

  “Then why are we here?” Elena asked honestly.

  The marchioness recovered from the dramatic pause and sat up straighter, stiffening her spine with apparent resolve. “Oh, well, I had to come—Lady Haven being a dear friend. And I couldn’t be expected to suffer alone, now could I?”

  “But you feel bad for doing so?” Elena pressed.

  Lady Mowbray looked at her with a bland expression. “Oh, I do, my dear. That’s not to say I would have made a different choice, though. Again, logic has no place here, Miss Barnes.”

  “You are quite crafty, Lady Mowbray,” Elena muttered.

  “Without a doubt,” Dash said, standing up. “Now, if I’m meant to suffer through such a dreadful performance, I would like to at least know the musicians’ names. I’m off to claim a program.”

  Lady Mowbray and Elena rose, clearing the way for Dash.

  “I would use the term ‘musicians’ loosely, viscount,” the marchioness warned, gesturing for Elena to claim Dash’s vacant seat. “Perfect. Now, when you return, my lord, I’ll have Miss Barnes on one side of me, and you, Carrington, on the other. A dignified death, just as I’d hoped it would be.”

  “Really, Bessie,” Dash replied with amused exasperation as she sat down.

  “Do try and make her behave while I’m gone,” he asked Elena, smiling when she looked to the ceiling and her lips moved as if she offered a silent prayer.

  Dash walked down the aisle toward the back of the room and approached the servant holding the programs. “I’ll take one of those, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course, my lord,” the footman politely replied, handing him one.

  Dash
nodded in thanks and walked on, noticing Lord Pembroke propped against the wall in the corner.

  “Planning an escape, Pembroke?” Dash said as he drew near.

  Pembroke gave Dash a friendly smile. “Well, something has to be done, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Dash didn’t know Pembroke well. They’d not gone to school together, nor did they belong to the same clubs. But the man had married one of Dash’s cousins and so they’d fallen into an easy, if infrequent, acquaintance.

  The one detail about the man that Dash could attest to was his intense affection for gossip. Rather like a woman. With sideburns.

  “Quite so,” Dash answered, leaning a shoulder against the wall next to Pembroke and looking at the audience gathered. “It looks as if nearly every man of our standing is here this evening, which should prove useful when it comes time to beat down the door and run for our very lives.”

  Pembroke chuckled, his gaze turning to the audience as well. “I say, do you know who appears to be absent?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Our very own distant relative, Mr. Smeade.”

  Dash could have kissed the man. “Is that so? Seems rather odd for Smeade. He adores musicales.”

  Pembroke looked at Dash and moved in a hair closer. “Perhaps it has something to do with his recent financial woes.”

  “Then you’ve heard?” Dash replied, his tone low.

  “Well, not the particulars, mind you. Why? What do you know?”

  Pembroke’s eagerness for information left a stale taste in Dash’s mouth. But he was making himself useful, Dash would give him that. “He’s pockets to let,” Dash began. “From what I’ve been told, all of his accounts have turned the man away.”

  “All of them?” Pembroke pressed, his eyes going round with interest.

  Dash nodded somberly. “His tailor, Tattersalls—hell, the man can’t even afford snuff.”

  Pembroke appeared speechless at the news.

  “Be a good chap and keep it to yourself, would you?” Dash asked, turning his attention to the program. “Wouldn’t want to make things worse for the poor bastard.”

  “Mum’s the word,” Pembroke assured him. “Mum’s the word.”

  Elena cast a surreptitious glance across the room. Dash stood with another man, casually conversing. She wondered if he was spreading the rumor concerning Smeade’s financial difficulties.

  “Tell me, Miss Barnes. Have you reconsidered your position on the issue of Lord Carrington?”

  “I wasn’t aware there was an issue,” Elena replied with what she hoped was the right mix of surprise and innocence.

  Lady Mowbray perused her program casually. “Come now, do you think me a fool?”

  “Just a moment ago, I accused you of being crafty—which, by my way of thinking, is very far from being foolish. Though the Middle English origin for both words—”

  “I couldn’t care less about the Middle English origin of anything,” the marchioness interrupted, looking up from the list of performers.

  Elena took a deep breath, and then allowed the air to slowly leave her body. She rather wished the dreadful music would begin. “We’ve discussed this, Lady Mowbray.”

  “Well, yes, we have. But I’d hoped that perhaps you’d reconsidered.”

  Elena took a second deep breath hoping to calm herself, her lungs filling until she felt a bit light-headed from the surge of oxygen.

  “Oh, do release that bothersome air before you faint,” Lady Mowbray said with a sigh, folding the program and laying it neatly on her lap. “Shall I tell you of my niece?”

  “Yes, if it means that we’ll stop discussing Lord Carrington,” Elena replied sarcastically.

  “Cheeky girl. Never mind. Now, my niece, not so long ago, made the acquaintance of a man here in town. No one, especially my niece, thought this man was an appropriate suitor—too wild. Too dangerous. And far too devilish for such an irreproachable lady. He was quite persistent, though, in his desire to court her, despite all indications that theirs would be a disastrous match.”

  Elena nodded, following the story halfheartedly while pretending to concentrate on her program. “He was the wrong man for her, then?”

  “Oh, not at all. He was exactly the right man,” Lady Mowbray answered with complete certainty. “Of course, it took everyone some time to accept this—except for me. I saw the spark right away—much as I did between you and Dash. I’ve quite a natural talent for such things.”

  Elena looked up when a group of young women, evidently the evening’s performers, entered and took their seats in the front row. “But this man, he sounds as though he’s nothing like Dash.” It was difficult to focus on both the entertainment and Lady Mowbray’s seemingly random story, she thought with a silent sigh.

  “You’ve missed my point entirely, Elena,” the marchioness chided. “He was all of those things that I mentioned—and exactly the man for my niece. No matter the differences, the assumptions we’ve made, or the difficulties we’ve encountered, if a match is meant to be, you pursue it at all costs. Otherwise, you’re simply cheating yourself out of the life that you should have.”

  Elena’s heart suddenly felt unbearably heavy, Lady Mowbray’s words having settled squarely in the center, sinking deep.

  “At all costs?” Elena repeated the marchioness’s words, skepticism lacing her tone. “Surely there are considerations that are more important than one’s own selfish needs.”

  “Love is not a ‘selfish need,’ ” she replied simply, taking Elena’s hand in hers. “It gives you purpose, understanding, fortitude—well, everything required to address these ‘considerations’ that you mentioned.”

  The woman couldn’t know how hard it had been for Elena to deny herself. She wanted all of those things that love brought. But most of all, she wanted them with Dash.

  I had wanted, Elena mentally corrected herself. She’d made a decision—a sound decision. Logic may not have much to do with the ton’s world. But in hers, it was everything.

  “Oh, merciful heavens, they’re starting with Prudence, the worst of the lot,” Lady Mowbray whispered urgently, squeezing Elena’s hand tightly. “I’ll leave you alone—for now. We’ll continue our conversation later.”

  The following morning dawned sunny and clear. Fortunately for Elena, Lady Mowbray hadn’t kept her promise to return to their conversation about Dash. Still, Elena felt as if she were escaping a pending lecture when she set off for the park on horseback, accompanied by Dash and Mr. Bourne.

  Scores of the ton surrounded them on Rotten Row, the mild, pleasant weather having coaxed the haut ton out for a bit of seeing and being seen.

  “Ah, there’s Lady Mowbray,” Mr. Bourne commented dryly, tipping his hat at the woman as she rolled slowly by in an elegant landau. “Always was quite the sport.”

  The marchioness narrowed her eyes at Elena, Dash, and Mr. Bourne. “Gentlemen, I expect you to be on your best behavior. Particularly you, Mr. Bourne,” she called.

  Mr. Bourne returned her instruction with a beatific smile, as though to assure her there was no reason for concern.

  Dash’s horse flicked his tail impatiently, the wiry, dark hair swishing against the flank of Elena’s mare. “Let us move on before she thinks better of it and insists that Elena ride in the carriage with her.”

  The three clucked their mounts into motion and started out at a gentle walk.

  For her part, Elena was glad for the chance to be out of doors, especially on the back of a horse.

  “You see, it is just as Lady Mowbray said it would be,” Elena offered, nodding hesitantly at a group of men as they greeted Dash and Nicholas. “Brimming with the best of polite society.”

  “If you count the horses, I suppose,” Mr. Bourne remarked.

  “Well, of course I count the horses,” Elena muttered. “They’re far more civilized than most of their owners. Therefore, it would seem wrong to exclude them.”

  Elena looked over her shoulder. Lady Mowbray’s carriag
e had stopped and she sat amid a group of matrons, no doubt discussing the latest on-dits.

  She turned around and faced forward, certain that there was enough distance between them and the marchioness. “Now, gentlemen, please tell me, was the information I stole from James and Mulroy of use?”

  “Yes, quite useful,” Dash replied. “We needed Smeade’s account number in order to forge the banknotes.”

  Elena settled back in her saddle, relieved to know that she’d been helpful. “Anything else?”

  “The moneylender’s story was accurate; he told us the truth. Smeade does receive regular large payments from a company called Burlington Shipping,” Mr. Bourne answered, patting his bay Thoroughbred on the neck. “Unfortunately, Burlington Shipping does not actually exist.”

  Confused, Elena looked at him. “What do you mean it doesn’t exist?”

  “There isn’t an actual, functioning entity. More than likely, whoever Smeade works for has a network of businesses—some real, some not—that provide cover, if you will, for the main body of the operation,” Dash explained, easily controlling his high-spirited mount when the horse shied at a branch on the path.

  Elena nodded in understanding. “Oh, quite like the Hydra, then?”

  “Precisely. It makes it nearly impossible to trace any path back to the men responsible,” Dash confirmed. “And I would be willing to bet that the similarities do not end there. I’m certain that when the authorities discover and close one dishonest business, two more grow in its place.”

  Mr. Bourne let out an exasperated sigh. “All right, then. Are we quite done with the mythology lesson?”

  “There’s much to learn from mythology, Mr. Bourne,” Elena countered with asperity. To her dismay, his callous remark stung.

  Dash cleared his throat loudly, claiming their attention. “We’ve enough to think on without you two bickering. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Elena knew he was right, although she still felt the urge to strike Mr. Bourne. “I apologize.”

  “Right,” he answered brusquely. “And I to you. Now, may we return to the plan?”