The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel (25 page)

Elena looked down at the deep rose silk gown, still surprised that she’d never seen how well such a color complemented her skin. “Thank you, Lady Mowbray. And I will try to do something about the rest.”

“A smile, my dear, start there,” the marchioness replied, gesturing for Dash to take her arm. “Now, my lord, compliment the girl. Though you’ve both turned up your noses at my attempts to throw you together, you’re still a man. A nice word here and there will not kill you.”

“Your dress is quite fetching, Miss Barnes,” Dash said dutifully, looking back at her and winking. “And your shoes match. How clever.”

“Is that the best you can do?” the marchioness asked with a long-suffering huff of disappointment, allowing
Dash to lead her up the broad marble stairs. “Really, young man. No wonder you’ve not married yet. Once I’ve found a husband for Elena, I promise to turn all my attention on you. Poor, poor boy.”

The liveried servant standing at the top of the stairs opened the front door and stood aside, allowing Lady Mowbray and Elena to enter, with Dash following behind. Another servant assisted the women in removing their pelisses, then disappeared, while yet another appeared as if on cue to lead them down the hallway.

It was all so organized. So calm and dignified, Elena noted to herself. And so very different from what she was feeling at that very moment.

Lady Mowbray murmured, briefing Elena on the eligible men who were rumored to be in attendance, her military style both alarming and admirable.

Elena tried her best to concentrate, not wanting the woman to think her rude. But she found her mind drawn inexorably to the man walking directly behind her.

They reached the French windows and stepped across the threshold. Before them stretched a broad manicured lawn, thronged with guests gathered in groups or strolling in couples, trios, or foursomes. The large garden party hardly helped Elena’s strained nerves.

Elena curtsied as the marchioness introduced her to the hosts. Dash bowed and thanked them for the invitation, then steered the women toward the center of the garden where most of the partygoers stood, chatting and enjoying refreshment.

His hand rested briefly against the small of Elena’s back as he gestured toward the location, his touch so very, very right. She steeled herself against the sensation and casually shifted so that he no longer touched her.

“My dear, do pay attention. Mr. Smeade approaches,” the marchioness murmured quietly. “A most unlikable
sort, but a relation of Dash’s. There’s a certain duty, if you understand my meaning.”

Elena startled at the sound of Smeade’s name. Anticipation turned to simmering anger and hate. And fear. She was loath to admit it, but she was afraid.

“Smeade?” Elena repeated, looking about for Dash.

“Unfortunate name, I’ll admit,” Lady Mowbray answered, preparing to receive Smeade. “But it rather fits him. There he is now.”

Smeade came into view. Not a monster, as Elena had prepared herself for, but an ordinary, older man. He possessed wispy, ginger-colored hair and was of impressive stature and build. His head was a bit out of proportion to the rest of him, and his ruddy face bore the markings of far too many years of strong drink.

There was nothing in the man’s bearing that hinted at who he really was.

Which made Elena shiver.

The man approached, stepping into a sweeping bow in front of the marchioness. “My dear Lady Mowbray,” he said in a lilting tenor voice, rising to reveal a sparkling smile.

“Mr. Smeade,” the marchioness replied, offering her hand to the man, her face remaining emotionless as he placed a lingering kiss on her knuckles.

He released her hand and turned to Elena, his lips curving into the practiced, rather too dazzling smile once more. “And who might this be?”

Elena looked into his unusual pale gray eyes and forced herself to smile, a chill skipping across the back of her neck as she did so.

Lady Mowbray drew Elena’s arm through hers in a possessive gesture. “Miss Elena Barnes, daughter of Baron Harcourt. In town from Dorset for the season.”

The man repeated his overblown bow and waited for Elena to offer her hand, which she did reluctantly.

He took her fingers in his and pressed his too soft lips to her gloved hand, releasing her and rising once more. “Now, Miss Barnes, what brings you to London?”

“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?”