Dash nodded. “We’ve the account number. I’ll secure a likeness of his signature from the Corinthians Club, then Nicholas can move forward with forging the banknotes. The two of us will continue to feed the ton’s insatiable appetite for rumors with stories of Smeade’s financial woes.”
Elena’s horse tossed her head and danced. “And what am I to do?” she asked, before murmuring reassuringly to her mare.
“Protect your pretty little head and stay out of the way?” Mr. Bourne suggested acerbically.
Elena continued to coo softly to the mare, refusing to react to the man’s words.
“You don’t know Smeade, therefore it would appear suspicious if you began whispering about his money problems at every event you attended,” Dash pointed out reasonably, his leg brushing up against hers as his horse nudged her mare. “I know this is hard for you. But right now, your involvement would only jeopardize all that we’ve done so far.”
“I see,” Elena replied. The heat from where he touched her only made the situation worse. “And do you anticipate needing my help at some point?”
Mr. Bourne scoffed at her words. “Not if I have anything to say about it.” He gestured toward the bend in the track farther ahead. “First one to Hyde Park Corner wins five quid.” He lifted his horse into a trot and took off.
Elena and Dash watched as his horse picked up speed and moved from a trot to a canter, the dust rising from his hooves nearly obscuring the two altogether.
“The man would take a bet for five quid?” Elena asked lightly, needing Dash to believe she’d accepted the situation.
Dash continued to watch his friend. “He’d take a bet simply to take a bet—no money need be involved.”
“Oh, that will require very little suspension of disbelief on my part,” Elena replied, urging her mare into a trot. “I do loathe losing, though.”
Dash caught up instantly, his gelding prancing, eager to follow Bourne. “As do I,” he replied, loosening the reins and giving the horse his head.
Elena watched for a moment. Reins taut, she patted the mare’s neck as the horse danced, anxious for her turn. Then, she promptly wheeled the horse toward Lady Mowbray, leaning forward to whisper to the mare, “I’ll simply tell the marchioness that those dastardly men attempted to engage me in a wager. They’ll never hear the end of it. Serves them right.”
She trotted off back down the row, waving to Lady Mowbray as she drew near. “Protect my pretty little head?” she said out loud. “We’ll see about that, Mr. Bourne.”
Elena’s fingers curved around the brass knocker on the door of the Halcyon Society’s brick townhome and rapped it soundly against the wood panel. Waiting for a response, she looked over her shoulder at the hackney she’d hired to bring her to the Bloomsbury location. The driver had jumped down from his seat and was watering his horse, the large bay draft’s greedy gulps sending the bucket swinging back and forth.
She glanced past the pair, searching the street beyond. Elena didn’t really suspect that Dash had followed her. But she did wonder whether the very thought meant that she shouldn’t be here. A full day had passed since he’d made it clear that her part in Smeade’s capture was done. Twenty-four long hours and yet the bitter taste left in her mouth by his words lingered still.
“Good day, Miss Barnes.”
Elena turned quickly around to find the door opened wide and Abigail standing in the entryway. “Hello, Abigail. Is Mrs. Mason in?”
The girl ushered Elena into the foyer and closed the door behind them. “She is, Miss. Let me see to your things, then I’ll fetch her straightaway.”
Elena removed her pelisse and bonnet and gave them to Abigail, smiling at the girl’s obvious pride in her work. “Thank you.”
“Of course, Miss,” she replied, bobbing a curtsy. “Please take a seat in the front sitting room. Mrs. Mason will be but a moment.”
Elena watched the girl disappear down the hall, her shiny black boots making clicking noises on the floor as she hurried away to fetch her mistress.
Turning toward the front room, Elena crossed the threshold and took a seat on the faded settee. The room looked much the same as it had before, with the exception of the vase of flowers. There were now creamy white and pale pink tulips in place of the red and yellow. The colors complemented the dull puce fabric of the couch, she thought idly, much more so than the others.
“Miss Barnes,” Mrs. Mason greeted her, sweeping into the room with quick efficient movements. “I do not believe that we have an appointment scheduled for today, do we?”
Elena smiled in apology. “No, we do not, Mrs. Mason. I do hope my presence is not an inconvenience.”
Mrs. Mason sat down in the chair opposite Elena. “It’s quite all right, though I am rather pressed for time today, I’m afraid.”
“Of course,” Elena replied, appreciating the woman’s candor. “Let me get to the reason for my visit, then. Nearly a fortnight past, my maid, Rowena, was taken against her will by a Mr. Brock of the Rambling Rose.”
Mrs. Mason scooted to the edge of her seat, concern clouding her face. “Miss Barnes, I am dreadfully sorry to hear this. We are familiar with Mr. Brock and the establishment. Was she …” The woman’s voice faded as if the question was simply too terrible for words.
“She was rescued from the Rose no more than a handful of hours after the kidnapping,” Elena answered reassuringly. “There were cuts and bruises, but her honor remains intact today.”
Mrs. Mason’s shoulders slumped with relief and she smoothed out the skirt of her gray dress. “Thank the Lord, Miss Barnes.”
“Yes, quite,” Elena replied, her gaze turning to the Bible on the sideboard. “I cannot begin to tell you just how thankful I am for Rowena’s safe return,” she continued, facing Mrs. Mason once again. “But I need more, you see. I need justice.”
The woman folded her hands in her lap and looked pointedly at Elena. “I do understand, Miss Barnes,” she said. “But do you recall our conversation concerning Mary Fields? Justice is hard to come by in such cases.”
“Yes, I remember. But I must do all that I can, for Rowena’s sake—and mine, to be completely honest. Can you understand that?”
Elena hadn’t done all she could, not yet anyway. She’d leave Smeade to Dash and Mr. Bourne. But retribution and justice for Mr. Brock was hers.
Mrs. Mason looked out the large front windows as she considered Elena’s explanation. “Do you have time to wait while I send for a Bow Street runner, Miss Barnes?”
“Yes,” Elena replied eagerly. “And thank you.”
“Do not thank me yet,” the woman warned, standing. “I cannot stay, I’m afraid. You’ll have to speak with the man yourself. And it will not be easy, Miss Barnes. You’ll be required to provide every last detail, no matter how painful the telling.”
Elena nodded her head resolutely. “I am prepared.”
“No, you’re not,” Mrs. Mason answered, a compassionate tone to her voice. “But you’re strong, and that should help.”
She turned to the door and prepared to leave.
“Mrs. Mason, if I may ask after Mary Fields? How does she fare?”
The woman looked back and shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but Mary died, Miss Barnes. The very night you were here. But she did not die alone. There is that.”
Elena focused her eyes on Mrs. Mason’s retreating form, a painful ache settling into her heart. “Yes, there is that, Mrs. Mason. There is that.”
Two days after Elena’s interview with the Bow Street runner, she received word from the man that Mr. Brock had been forcibly removed from the Rambling Rose and now sat in a cell awaiting further action.
She lay in bed, staring at the heavy damask fabric that formed the canopy. Lifting both arms above her head, Elena winced with pain. Perhaps she should not have been quite so industrious in her efforts. But the interview with the Bow Street Runner had played heavily on her mind and she’d needed something to throw herself i
nto—something that required physical as well as mental attention.
Elena couldn’t move. Her body ached from two days spent in the library, cataloging books, listing them in her ledger, then carefully packing them away in the custom wooden boxes that she’d ordered from Marsh and Tatham. She was quite happy with the progress being made. Her father would be thrilled when he saw all the volumes, a veritable treasure trove for a man who valued the written word above all else.
Lady Mowbray had commented on Elena’s fervor at dinner, suggesting that a lovely evening out might be just the thing after such an exhausting day. Elena had politely declined.
And done so again following the fish course, when the marchioness had wondered aloud whether dancing wouldn’t ease her aching muscles.
And one more time, for good measure, just as Elena was about to take a bite of strawberry tart. Lady Mowbray’s reasoning was sound—the rumor being that the Roxburghe Club possessed one of the largest libraries in all of London—but Elena refused. Again. And less politely so, though admirably, considering her fatigue.
She lowered her arms to the bedcovers, unable to hold back a moan as she did so. Lady Mowbray probably was correct—a ball would have required all of Elena’s attention, thereby making it nearly impossible for her to think about Brock.
But it also would have demanded patience and good humor, which Elena couldn’t quite muster at the moment. She’d bid good evening to the marchioness, spent two more hours laboring in the library, then retired to her room.
Elena would sleep. Soundly. She needed the rest.
She rolled slowly onto her side, carefully tucking one hand under her pillow.
She wanted Dash. Needed to feel his body molded against hers, his arm around her waist and his breath in her ear.
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, exhaling with renewed commitment to the task at hand. Elena was a firm believer in the idea that a person could accomplish anything if she set her mind to it.
She would sleep. Now.
One eye popped open and she contemplated the curtain in front of her.
She willed her eye to shut. Recitation was just the thing. She pictured her beloved copy of Homer’s The Odyssey in her mind, and then slowly began to silently recite the words from book XII.
So I spake, and quickly they [the men] hearkened to my words. But of Scylla I told them nothing more, a bane none might deal with, lest haply my company should cease from rowing for fear, and hide them in the hold. In that same hour I suffered myself to forget the hard behest of Circe, in that she bade me in nowise be armed; but I did put on my glorious harness and caught up two long lances in my hands, and went on the decking of the prow, for thence me thought that Scylla of the rock would first be seen, who was to bring woe on my company. Yet could I not spy her anywhere, and my eyes waxed weary for gazing all about toward the darkness of the rock.
Elena had never quite figured out why it was that the most exciting bits of poems and books lulled her to sleep at such times, but the explanation hardly mattered now. She felt her entire body relax, her limbs now dead weight, her head pressing more deeply into the pillow as her breath slowed.
Somewhere, in the far reaches of her mind, Elena supposed that Homer would be perturbed to know his work lulled her into the arms of Morpheus when sleep eluded her. If she were a writer, the mere fact that someone bothered to read her work at all would make her happy. So really, Homer had very little to complain about, she thought drowsily.
Of course, not having actually known the man, it was entirely possible that he would, in fact, feel this way without any prompting at all.
It was a difficult thing to pin down, really.
And then, a sound reached her ears. Elena wanted to fight responding, her body already sliding into slumber. But her brain did not.
And, as usual, her brain won out.
She opened her eyes and listened again. The sound had stopped. She slowly sat up and looped her hair behind her ears, concentrating on the quiet. Elena knew she hadn’t imagined the slight noise.
She crawled on all fours across the bed and reached for the curtains, pulling them to one side and peering out into the relative darkness of her room. Sharp pain slammed into her jaw and Elena instantly saw stars. She lost her balance and fell from the bed, landing hard on her left shoulder and hip.
She instinctively rolled back toward the bed and grabbed at the carpet with her fingers, scuttling under the massive frame as fast as she could.
But it wasn’t fast enough.
A hand grasped her ankle in a hard grip and savagely yanked. Elena threw her arms around one of the bedposts and dug into the carpet with her knees, her skin burning as the hand pulled harder.
“Let go of me,” she cried out, kicking at the hand holding her.
He only jerked harder, succeeding in pulling one of Elena’s hands free from the post.
She tried to dig her nails into the wood, but it was of no use. Her other hand slipped from the post. She clawed at the carpet and kicked again, writhing back and forth while being pulled free from the bed.
The attacker bent closer, his grip punishing as he rolled her over and covered her mouth with his hand, silencing her cries.
Elena fought the urge to beat her fists against his threatening bulk, looking up at the man.
His clothing was black, from his shoulders to his boots, revealing very little beyond a broad form. He wore a dark patterned domino mask. The moonlight, shining through the opened window where he must have entered, cast a low glow across his covered face and Elena stared into the assailant’s eyes. They were pale and gray. A shiver captured her entire body and she convulsed with terror. It was Smeade.
He pressed harder with his hand and Elena whimpered, afraid he would smother her. Desperate, she pulled her knees in toward her stomach and kicked up with all of her strength, delivering a sharp blow to the man’s testicles. He grunted and doubled over, his hand slipping from Elena’s mouth as he fell against the bed.
She seized the opportunity and rolled over, scrambling to her knees, then her feet, screaming and running for the door.
But despite her disabling kick, Smeade’s hands were suddenly in her hair, dragging her backward. Her scalp stung as she struggled to regain her footing, and she raked her nails across the man’s face, loosening his mask.
He shoved her hands away, took her by the arms, and swung her up onto the bed. He yanked her arms above her head and held them there while he tied her wrists to the bedpost with a rough cloth, then bound her feet together in one swift move. Elena screamed again, her teeth biting down as he stuffed a cloth into her mouth.
Elena flopped about as though she were a fish, hauled up onto the deck of a boat and ready to be gutted.
Smeade stood over her, breathing hard as he watched her frantic movements—her fear. And enjoying it.
He straightened his mask, carefully retying the ribbons at the back of his head before adjusting his coat. His movements were precise, as though he required his appearance to be impeccable before he killed. Elena couldn’t know what the mind of a murderer held, but she was suddenly chilled to the bone—so cold that she shivered violently again.
Elena tried to scream, but the fabric muffled the sound, pressing against her tongue and making her gag. He drew a knife from his pocket and methodically wiped it back and forth on his sleeve.
Elena told herself to stop shaking. If she could keep herself from trembling, then perhaps she could focus enough to figure out a way to escape.
He held the knife up and examined it, then ran it along a tasseled pillow, ripping the silk with one clean slice.
The soft feathers, released from their ticking, floated gently down against her skin. Tears of frustration and fear slipped down Elena’s cheeks. She choked and gagged again, twisting violently, but only succeeded in stirring the feathers into a storm of downy rain.
“Elena?”
Smeade turned wildly toward the voice.
Elena’s heart su
rged with hope when she saw Dash in the doorway, his figure illuminated by the sconce in the hall.
Smeade was a blur of speed as he ran toward the other side of the room and disappeared around the far side of the canopied bed.
Elena tried to scream for Dash, but her cries were a guttural jumble of bound consonants and choked gags.
“Elena.” Dash ran to the bed. “What in God’s name is happening?” He quickly pulled the fabric from her mouth and yanked her bound arms and legs free.
Elena coughed hard and tried to speak, her throat ragged from her screams. “Go. The window,” she choked out, urging Dash to follow after the man. “He ran off as soon as you entered the room. Go!”
His expression fierce, he moved, swiftly disappearing.
“Dammit.”
The thud of a fist connecting with the wall in frustration was loud, followed by the snick of the window sliding back into place and finally the rasp of the lock being engaged.
“What in the bloody hell just happened?” Dash demanded, returning to sit next to her on the bed. He quickly took her in his arms, wrapping her possessively against his chest. “If I’d not thought to visit you tonight, you would have been killed.”
She buried her face against the fine linen of his shirt, allowing the scent of him to fill her senses. “It is my fault. Retribution for Mr. Brock. I’m sure of it.”
“What do you mean, retribution, Elena?”
She turned her head and looked up at him, afraid. “I couldn’t stand by and do nothing, you see. I sought help from Mrs. Mason of the Halcyon Society, who in turn introduced me to a Bow Street Runner. I never made mention of Mr. Smeade, I promise you.”
“So that is why Brock is in Newgate awaiting trial, then?” Dash asked angrily.
“Yes,” she confirmed quietly. “Justice will be served. But I never dreamed that …”
“That they would try to kill you?” he finished for her, his voice raw. “I did.”
Elena dropped her chin and wept, pressing closer as fear and regret coursed through her trembling body. “It was Smeade. I recognized his eyes. I’m sure of it.”
The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel Page 20