The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel (5 page)

Frustrated, Dash savagely pulled at each cast key, attempting to force them apart.

He’d kept his promise to his superior, all right. But he knew the Afton case by heart now. In between assignments, he’d pored over every last piece of information he could find in the Corinthian files. It hadn’t been difficult; the leads and any real facts were few.

Early in his career, Lord Afton had encountered an individual known only as the Bishop. Any information pertaining to the man had long ago vanished from the files, but this much was known: Afton had come close to capturing the man. The Bishop had escaped—with his need for revenge fully intact. He’d bided his time and waited until Afton had let down his guard to strike. Then the Bishop had cut him to the core and murdered Lady Afton.

There had been more murders in the years following. Always a family member of agents who’d encountered the Bishop at some point during their service.

Dash threw the iron keys across the desk and watched as the puzzle skidded to a stop against a crystal paperweight.

It had become harder and harder over the years for Dash to keep his promise—and for the friends to ignore the ever-present specter of Lady Afton.

Nicholas had chosen to travel abroad rather than face yet another Yuletide hazed in regret and haunted memories. He’d stayed away for five years before his recent return, building his fortune in India, according to the few letters he’d written.

Dash drew a deep breath and reached for the puzzle, this time examining each key before moving it. Both bore the typical comb-tooth style bit, but their stems were topped with a fanciful “C” for Carrington.

He understood why Nicholas had chosen to leave. But that didn’t make the situation any more tenable, especially for those left behind.

He turned one of the heavy keys clockwise while holding tightly to the other, but they continued to withstand his efforts.

Dash closed his eyes, remembering what his father had always sworn was true of puzzles:

“Deuced counterintuitive, puzzles. The more you think about the problem, the less likely it is that you’ll solve it. Just like anything else in life, I suppose. Close your eyes, my boy. Clear your mind, and it will come.”

Nicholas’s return had brought back an old familiar pang. Dash could not say which was worse—the strange numbness that had settled into his soul during Nicholas’s absence, or the deep, enduring ache that plagued his heart when the four were together. He could not remember what it was to feel light. Young. Alive.

It had been too long
, Dash admitted, the feel of the metal keys slipping apart in his hands hardly registering in his mind.

Dash opened his eyes and looked down at the keys, one in each of his hands.

Clear your mind, and it will come
.

Dash would find the Bishop. He had his answer.

A knock sounded on the panels of the partially open door and Dash looked up.

“Bell, my good man,” Dash exclaimed, forcing all thoughts of the case from his mind. “Tell me, if you had to wager on a woman either driving me to marriage or driving me to death, which would you choose?”

The butler stood in the doorway, his face devoid of emotion. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, my lord.”

Bell had presided over Carrington House for more years than Dash could remember. He was loyal, intelligent, and supremely capable.

More important, he’d been a trusted friend to the late viscount. And while Dash didn’t know the man intimately, there was something comforting in his presence.

“Nothing, Bell, nothing at all,” Dash assured the man. “Now, what is it you need?”

“Miss Elena Barnes is due to arrive,” Bell replied, the parted keys on the desk catching his eye. He paused. Then he blinked slowly and his emotionless gaze returned. “At any moment, my lord.”

Dash reached for the two pieces and put them back together. “A puzzle man, are you, Bell?”

“Not in the slightest, my lord. But your father …” Bell looked at the floor.

Dash gently returned the keys to the desk. “Father did love a good ‘stretch of the brain,’ as he was so fond of saying.”

Bell swallowed. “Quite right, my lord. Now, Miss Barnes?”

“Yes, of course. Miss Barnes. I suppose I should prepare to …” Dash let his words fall off, hopeful that Bell would excuse him from the impending welcome party.

“To meet Miss Barnes, my lord. Exactly,” the butler confirmed.

“Exactly,” Dash repeated.
Exactly
.

Bell offered him a hint of a smile. “I’ll await you in the foyer, my lord.”

Dash nodded as he watched the butler leave. “Of course. I’ll be right there.”

God. Miss Elena Barnes was the last thing he wanted in his life. And for that matter, the last thing he
needed
either. If not for his promise to his father that the books would be given to Lord Harcourt, Dash would have left them as they were.

It was the worst time to have the woman in his home. He couldn’t have known that Nicholas’s return would spur such action on his part. But Dash had already written to her father by the time he’d heard of his friend having sailed for England.

How was he to honor his father’s request
and
get rid of the woman as quickly as possible? A bluestocking? Most of his acquaintance loathed those with a weak mind—especially men. Dash was accustomed to remaining silent and allowing others to assume his intellectual inferiority. But perhaps the situation called for him to play a more active role.

Dash reclaimed the puzzle, smiling as he did so.

He’d have Miss Barnes back in Dorset before her father had time to miss her. He’d bet his life on it.

“I beg your pardon, Miss, but I think I’m going to be sick.”

Elena had reason to take her maid Rowena seriously. The poor girl had already cast up her accounts several times during the three-day ride from Verwood to London. The stops between had done little to ease the agony of Rowena’s sour stomach.

“Right,” Elena said with brisk reassurance, thumping the roof of the carriage and calling for her father’s coachman to stop.

The traveling coach slowed and came to a full stop. Elena turned the brass door handle and pushed hard, forcing it open.

Rowena dove from her well-appointed seat, landing safely on her feet, and vomited into a manicured patch of roses.

Elena rushed out after her, settling a supportive hand at the back of the poor maid’s waist. “Oh Rowena, are you all right?”

“Might I be of assistance?”

Something coiled in Elena’s stomach at the sound of the rich, deep male drawl. That, or she’d managed to secure Rowena’s ailment for herself. “Yes, if you would be so kind,” she began, rubbing Rowena’s back lightly as she turned to look over her shoulder at the servant.

Only it was not the liveried form of a Carrington house footman that met her gaze. A gentleman stood before her, his clothing of the finest cut and his demeanor rather more lordly than that of a servant. “My lord, I beg your pardon.”

Now she remembered precisely who Dashiell Matthews, Viscount Carrington, was.

Adonis
, she thought to herself.

Looking at the man was not unlike what Elena assumed mere mortals might experience if encountering the gods. His hair was, quite literally, spun gold. And she’d never been one given to flights of fancy, but his piercing blue eyes and sculpted cheekbones found Elena peering about for signs that they’d taken a wrong turn and somehow ended up on Mt. Olympus.

What is wrong with me?

“For what, Miss Barnes?”

Elena suddenly realized the man was slowly waving his hand in front of her face. “I’m sorry?”

Lord Carrington smiled with easy charm. “You asked that I pardon you. I was simply curious as to the offense.”

Oh God, his mouth. His full, full mouth
.

She shook her head and strained to take in anything
but the sight of Lord Carrington. “For my maid’s … For your rosebush, which will most likely require a serious pruning …” Elena paused, realizing belatedly that, in addition to making no sense at all, she’d also stopped the carriage short of the home’s front door. A perfect start to what would surely be a perfect stay.

Perfect.

She stared at the servants standing on the broad steps, all waiting awkwardly to dance attendance on her.

“For the vomit, Lord Carrington,” she finally said, deciding the most direct course was more than likely the best at this point.

Lord Carrington looked at her, his brow clouding with confusion. “But you’ve not cast up your accounts, have you Miss Barnes?”

Ah, yes, it was all coming back to her now. Of course she’d never been privy to the conversations of the more desirable debutantes of her day, but Elena had heard snippets of delicious gossip here and there when the girls hadn’t been aware of her presence.

This man was reputed to be as brainless as he was beautiful.

Perhaps even more so.

“No, no, I have not, my lord,” Elena replied, releasing Rowena into the care of a footman who’d made his way down the street.

Elena almost,
almost
wished Lord Carrington had not opened his mouth.

“Shall we ride to the front door, Miss Barnes?” the viscount asked, pointing to the carriage’s open door. “Seems a waste, after all. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Elena watched as the footman escorted Rowena toward the waiting servants, reassured by his solicitous manner, before turning her attention back to Lord Carrington. “In the carriage, then?”

“Of course, Miss Barnes,” he replied incredulously.
“I’d hardly ask you to sit astride one of your matching grays.”

She peered deep into his blue eyes, searching for intelligence.

And deeper.

And found nothing.

Oh, dear.

Elena sighed. “Actually, if you would not mind ever so much, I do believe I’d prefer walking.”

Lord Carrington shrugged his shoulders and gestured toward the house. “Then we shall walk.”

The two walked in silence to the waiting servants. Lord Carrington introduced the principal staff in a leisurely manner, finishing with the butler, Mr. Bell.

The man bowed politely. “Miss Barnes, if you would allow me,” Bell began in a low, firm tone, “may I make the proper introductions?”

The short, round man looked as uncomfortable as Elena felt.

Lord Carrington laughed. “Hardly necessary, Bell. We met—over there, just a moment ago. Couldn’t you see from here?”

Elena looked at Bell with relief. “Yes, Mr. Bell, that would be lovely.”

“Miss Elena Barnes, may I present Dashiell Matthews, Viscount Carrington.”

Elena dipped into a graceful curtsy, then offered her hand to the viscount.

He executed a dignified bow and took her gloved hand in his, placing a chaste kiss against her knuckles. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Barnes,” he pronounced, his friendly smile accompanied by a wink.

Elena smiled warmly at the man, much the same way she did every time she encountered Peter Hoskins, a pig farmer who lived not far from Harcourt House. Some
years before, Peter had made the unfortunate mistake of coming between a sizeable angry sow and her offspring. He’d never been the same in the head after that, nor would he ever be.

“And I, yours, Lord Carrington,” she replied conspiratorially, noting yet again the man’s devastatingly handsome looks.

Such a pity
, she found herself thinking, though she could not imagine why.

Bessie stood just inside the foyer, willing herself to remain still. She cocked her head to the right in an effort to better hear the conversation taking place just on the other side of the viscount’s front door. Blast, but Carrington and Miss Elena Barnes were practically whispering. Try as she might, the marchioness could hardly hear a detail of their conversation.

Oh, Dash
, she sighed. It was true enough that her past efforts to find him a wife had failed. But it wasn’t entirely her fault. The man’s irksome habit of hiding his intelligence from the world had done little to help. She knew the truth behind his lie, of course. Lady Afton’s death so many years before had made any meaningful connection with others almost beyond his capabilities.