The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel (18 page)

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, closing 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.

“Your favorite flower,” he answered, adding “and do call me Dash, won’t you?” in the hope that a less formal address would help ease their stilted back-and-forth.

“Hmmm …” she replied, biting her lip. “I suppose the use of your Christian name would not be too untoward at this point in our friendship.” A faint blush appeared on her cheeks. “Oh, and my favorite flower is the wild dog rose. It absolutely covers Dorset in the springtime.”

She’d flinched the moment the word “rose” had come out of her mouth.

“And these gloves,” Dash asked, suddenly desperate to distract her from such thoughts. “What do you plan to do with them?”

She looked at the paper-thin gloves in her hand as if she’d forgotten them altogether. “Oh, yes, of course. It’s something rather exciting. I’m going to pack the Paolini. Would you care to join me?”

He knew he should say no. But her enthusiasm was infectious. Dash couldn’t care less about the book on Greek mythology, but all at once, he needed to see it prepared for travel.

“I would like nothing more, Miss Barnes.” He offered his arm to her.

She smiled softly and looped her arm through his. “Splendid. And you must call me Elena.”

Dash guided Elena to the case where the Paolini was kept.

Elena released his arm and returned the flower to Dash. “Giacomo Paolini’s
Abecedary Illustrations of Greek Mythology
,” she said reverently, donning first one glove and then the other.

“And why is this book so special to you?”

“Well, as I explained before, it’s very rare—”

“Yes,” Dash interrupted, watching as she opened the glass case and gently reached inside. “I remember why
it’s special to the world. But that’s not what I asked. I want to know why it’s special to you.”

He shouldn’t be asking such questions. But he had to know more of her before she disappeared from his life.

Elena slid her fingers beneath the lower right corner of the leather-bound book and slowly opened it, supporting the cover with her left hand. “Many call it the Grotesque Alphabet,” she began, carefully turning the title page to reveal Atheonis artistically twisted into a capital A with Diana in the background. “But I think it’s beautiful. All of the power and intelligence—the very mystique of the Greek gods—distilled down into twenty-six engravings. Most miss how truly special the book is because they’re too busy expecting it to be something else.”

Like you
. Dash stared at the book as she gingerly turned the pages, each letter revealing Paolini’s talent and imagination. He saw it, the beauty and truth beneath the paper and pencil.

Just as he saw the same in Elena.

“And you, Dash. What is your favorite book?”

“Sun Tzu’s
The Art of War
,” Dash answered distractedly. “Fascinating stuff, really. Subduing one’s enemy without fighting …”

Elena had stopped turning the pages and was instead staring intently at Dash. “My lord, what an
interesting
choice.”

Ciphers and secret letters never suspected Dash of being anyone other than his Corinthian cover. Nor did ledgers or questionable finances.

He smiled at her, groping for the most vapid thoughts he could summon. “It’s Dash, remember,” he teased. “And I was only having a bit of fun with you. I overheard two gentlemen discussing the book at my club. Thought it might make me look intelligent.”

She closed the book and turned to face him, her eyes
narrowing as she inspected his face. “Are you quite sure? Because both author and title rolled off your tongue most naturally.”

“Elena, are you suggesting that I forgot about reading this Tzu chap’s book?” Dash asked skeptically. “Because that would truly make me a dimwit, wouldn’t it?”

“My lord,” Bell interrupted as he walked toward the two.

“Lady Mowbray wishes to remind you that you’re expected at the opera this evening.”

“Miss Barnes, you mean?” Dash sought to confirm.

“Both of you, actually,” Bell answered and bowed.

“Oh,” Elena replied hesitantly. “I should go. The marchioness will be anxious to see my new dress.”

She turned back to the Paolini and secured its case once again. “And if not Tzu’s
Art of War
, then what?”

“Mother Goose,”
Dash answered, his tone humorless.

Elena pivoted about, nodding somberly at Dash, a small smile appearing.
“Mother Goose,”
she repeated quietly, then followed after Bell.

Dash brought the lilac bloom to his lips and closed his eyes.

“Did you enjoy the first two acts?”

“Not in the slightest,” Dash answered, steering Lady Mowbray and Elena through the throng that had abandoned their boxes in favor of champagne and conversation during the opera’s interval.

Lady Mowbray glared at him. “I wasn’t asking you—as you well know,” she said pointedly, taking Elena’s arm in hers. “Well, my dear? Is the opera to your liking? I must say that I rather enjoyed Madame Catalani—such power, such presence. Really quite exceptional.”

Elena pasted a smile on her lips and nodded enthusiastically. The truth was, she’d never been much for the
theater, the mad crush of bodies only serving to remind her why she loved the open country best.

“My dear, you look positively frightened,” the older woman observed worriedly. “Are you quite all right? Perhaps this was too much, too soon. I’d hoped to take your mind off of poor Rowena with a bit of entertainment, but it appears I’ve only aggravated the situation.”

Elena couldn’t think on Rowena. She wouldn’t. Late at night, in her bed, with the coverlet over her head, then she thought of her dear friend and wept. And wrestled with the guilt she suffered over allowing such a thing to happen. And plotted her revenge.

And wept some more.

But she would not allow the mere mention of the girl’s name to toss her into histrionics. “I am fine, Lady Mowbray; only a bit overwhelmed by the evening. Perhaps I’ll return to Carrington House now. But do stay for the rest of the performance,” she urged the woman, readying to make her escape through the endless sea of nattering nobility.

“Lady Mowbray,” a booming voice called, the man attached to it coming forward and stopping next to Dash.

Lady Mowbray curtsied and allowed the man to kiss her hand. “Lord Finesmith.”

A young woman followed after Lord Finesmith. She was clearly uninterested in Elena, a frown of irritation clouding her beautiful face. And then she caught sight of Dash, and it was as if she’d been smiled on by the gods themselves.

“Lady Meeks, delightful to see you out again,” Lady Mowbray said to the woman, though her enthusiasm was clearly for Lord Finesmith.

The woman curtsied. Her slim form, encased in sapphire-blue silk, elegantly folded and then returned to its noble line. “Lady Mowbray, it is indeed a pleasure to
be back in society where I belong. And what a lucky girl I am to chance upon you and Lord Carrington. It has been too long.”

Elena fidgeted with the slashed sleeve of the green silk dress Lady Mowbray’s modiste had sent over. She hated the fact that the mere presence of a fashionable lady of the ton could make her feel nervous.

“May I introduce you to Miss Elena Barnes?” the marchioness replied, gesturing to Elena. “She’s just up from Dorset.”

The woman offered Elena a polite smile, her eyes taking in the length of her. “How do you do, Miss Barnes.”

Elena couldn’t decide if it would have been worse to have been ignored altogether by the duo. She smiled in return and curtsied, rather suspecting that she would have preferred the latter.

Lord Finesmith took Elena’s hand and kissed it gently. “Welcome, Miss Barnes. Glad to have you in town. And during the season, no less. Perfect timing on your part. Plenty of people to meet, parties to attend, so on and so forth.”

“Yes, it’s always lovely to see new faces—especially one from the country,” Lady Meeks agreed, her gaze now turned back to Dash. “Such colorful stories you people have of life on the farm. Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Carrington?”

Elena swiftly realized that she did not like Lady Meeks. Actually, she’d already figured that out before the woman accused her of being a shepherdess. But now, she really did quite loathe her.

“Oh, yes,” Dash agreed, winking at Lady Meeks in a conspiratorial manner and smiling. “Colorful indeed.”

Elena ceased fidgeting with the slashed sleeve and grasped one gloved hand in the other behind her back, locking both elbows. “Yes, well, we rustics do adore our color,” she replied sarcastically.

The entire party laughed out loud, save Lady Mowbray and Elena.

“Nonsense. Without such ‘rustics,’ as you delicately referred to them, England would not be the great nation that it is today,” Lady Mowbray stated, glaring at Dash, then Lord Finesmith and Lady Meeks in turn. “Besides, Miss Barnes is, by far, the most charming girl I’ve had the honor to chaperone—and the smartest. I would go so far as to say she’s the brightest woman I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. You’d do well, Lady Meeks, to have such friends.”

Elena wanted to kiss the woman, but knew such a breach in etiquette would only prove the others correct in their assumption that she was nothing more than a country bumpkin.

“Ah, a bluestocking then?” Lord Finesmith said, waggling his eyebrows. “It’s all right, Miss Barnes. I don’t mind an intelligent woman—as long as she’s not overly so. Deuced unattractive though, when she is.”

Lady Meeks’s hand came to cover a small, delicate giggle that had escaped from her heart-shaped mouth.

Elena’s heart began to race and she could feel the heat forming in bright, red spots on her cheeks. Fear stuck in the base of her throat, thickening as it wound its way about her neck and squeezed every last sensible word from her.

She instinctively looked at Dash for something. Anything. She didn’t know what, precisely, and didn’t really care. But she needed him to respond.

“I’ve no idea what color Miss Barnes’s stockings are, Finesmith, and it’s rather indelicate that you would make reference to such a thing,” he jokingly replied, garnering a second giggle from Lady Meeks for his efforts and a thwack on the arm from the marchioness’s fan.