The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel (26 page)

“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?”

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.”