The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel (23 page)

“And if I did?” Elena countered boldly.

Nicholas released her hand and looked at Dash, his eyes narrowing. “The bluestocking, I take it,” he said dryly.

“Sit,” Dash ordered, then pulled out the opposite chair for Elena and waited until she was comfortably settled.

“I must apologize to both of you,” Elena began, looking first at Dash, then turning to take in Nicholas. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but it was rather hard not to hear you with only a single slab of wood separating us.”

“Do not think on it, Miss Barnes,” Nicholas answered gruffly.

“You’re most kind, Mr. Bourne,” Elena replied caustically. “Now, if you would, please tell me what you know of the Rambling Rose.”

Nicholas muttered an oath under his breath. “I don’t suppose you’d agree to forget what you heard?”

“No,” Elena replied, simply. “And I can’t imagine why I would want to. I have a particular interest in seeing anyone with ties to the brothel being brought to justice.”

“Would money help?”

“She’s the daughter of a wealthy peer, Bourne,” Dash pointed out.

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders. “That hardly means anything these days,” he replied.

Elena looked pleadingly at Dash. “Surely
you
understand my interest in any information that would avenge Rowena.”

“The maid?” Nicholas asked.

“Well, yes,” Elena said defensively. “She’s my maid. But she’s more than a servant to me, Mr. Bourne.”

Dash picked up the interlocking keys and rubbed the pad of his thumb over the cool metal. He did understand what avenging Rowena’s kidnapping meant to her; that was precisely the problem. Elena craved justice just as he did. And Dash had the means to satisfy that craving.

“Is that all?” Nicholas asked incredulously.

Elena squared her shoulders. “I would think it would be quite enough, sir.”

“Then you would be wrong, Miss—”

“Bourne,” Dash interrupted, setting the puzzle down.

Nicholas raked his hands through his hair. “You cannot be seriously considering her request?”

“Perhaps Lady Mowbray could secure the aid of the Halcyon Society,” Elena offered, a faint blush of agitated color pinkening her cheeks.

Nicholas abruptly stood and made for the sideboard. “Oh, yes, that’s right,” he said with sarcasm. “You’re the one who brought an elderly marchioness to the Rose. Tell me, did she amaze you with her diplomatic skills? Or was it her raw, brute power that got the job done?”

“She gave me no other choice,” Elena bit out, the flush turning to a blaze. “Besides, if there’s proof of this Smeade’s involvement with the brothel, surely ‘diplomatic skills’ and ‘raw, brute power’ will not be required.”

Dash flexed his fingers and folded his hands together, reaching for calm. “It’s not that simple, Elena.”

Nicholas unstopped the crystal decanter and poured a glass for himself, tossing it down in one long swallow. “You naïve, innocent girl. You’ve absolutely no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Bourne, I must insist that you stop speaking to Miss
Barnes in this fashion,” Dash growled, his fingers curling into fists.

Nicholas returned his glass to the silver tray and walked to the door. He reached for the knob and turned it, pausing to look back at Dash. “It’s your decision. But if she gets in the way and Smeade goes free, it will be on your head.”

He turned back and opened the paneled door wide, stepping over the threshold and disappearing down the hallway.

“Dare I say, you’re in need of a woman’s touch,” Dash commented, looking about the dark, unkempt rooms that comprised Nicholas’s bachelor quarters at the Albany.

“Would you be referring to my home—or me?” his friend replied, lifting an eyebrow in lazy inquiry as he waved Dash to a seat on the soft couch.

Dash could vaguely recall the last time he’d set foot inside the apartment in Piccadilly. At that time, Langdon had been in residence, his father still alive and in command of the familial home in Mayfair. The quarters had been kept in pristine condition, just as Langdon liked it. The pale yellow walls had perfectly accented the Turkish carpets, which in turn had perfectly matched the various shades of gold in the furnishings. The furniture had probably even perfectly matched Langdon’s eyes, Dash imagined.

So very different from what presented itself to Dash now.

The air was stale and hinted at cigars and neglect, as though the rooms hadn’t been aired in years. The furniture and walls were faded, as were the carpets. A thick layer of dust covered everything—save for the low table in front of him where a mess of documents and maps
was spread open, one on top of the other, edges sticking out here and there.

“Both, actually,” Dash finally answered, swiping his hand along the French walnut table to his right, and then showing his grime-covered finger to Nicholas. “As you know, I am a complete domestic slouch compared to Stonecliffe’s high standards—which makes what I am about to say even more disconcerting: Bourne, you really ought to do something about this.”

Nicholas handed Dash a cut crystal tumbler of brandy, then took up his own. “I’ve just arrived. Give a man some time to sort things out.”

“It’s been nearly a month, my friend—which in most parts of the world, does not qualify as ‘just arrived.’ And drinking at two o’clock in the afternoon?” Dash pressed, setting his own glass down. “Is that the custom in India, then?”

Nicholas swallowed the contents of his glass whole, and then eyed Dash warningly. “And what if it is? What if I choose to drink at two o’clock and three o’clock? Hell, let’s make it an even twenty-four hours, shall we? Do you want to make something of that, too?”

Dash knew better than to cross the line when it came to Nicholas. He loved the man like a brother, but the demons that kept Nicholas awake at night were far more sinister and numerous than Dash’s. Furthermore, they’d not be slain in a day. Nor even a week or a month, Dash feared. And he couldn’t afford to lose the man’s help now.

Dash carefully chose each word. “You know why I ask. We’re all concerned for you.”

Nicholas balanced the glass on his palm, staring into its emptiness as he spoke. “I do know, Dash. But I cannot consider myself. Not now—not when we’re so close to catching the killer. I cannot allow myself to think on anything else but Smeade. Let us leave it at that.”

“Of course,” Dash answered, giving in with a shrug of acceptance before sitting forward and examining the documents piled on the table. He had no choice but to respect his friend’s wishes, aware that even if he pressed, Nicholas would likely continue to drink too much. “Now, shall we discuss Miss Barnes?”

Nicholas set the glass out of reach and turned his attention to the mess before him. “Must we?”

“You know the answer to that, Bourne,” Dash replied, readying himself for an argument.

“God, Carrington,” Nicholas began, blowing out a breath before continuing. “I don’t have the patience to waste any more time on Miss Barnes. As I said before, it is your decision.”

Dash stared at his friend. “Then she’ll aid us in the investigation,” he replied, surprised that his friend wasn’t putting up more of a fight.

“Very well.”

Dash continued to stare at Nicholas. “Then it’s decided?”

“You’re beginning to irritate me,” Nicholas growled. “If you truly believe that you’re making the right choice, then I’ll trust you. Now, may we move on?”

Dash nodded, dumbfounded but thankful.

“Look here,” his friend began, rummaging through a stack of documents and pulling a page from the unruly stack. “My inquiries into Smeade revealed much that you would expect, which is why I didn’t dwell on most of the information. But look here, a record of a mistress on Berkeley Street. And here,” he paused, grabbing for a smaller stack of what looked to be shop receipts. “Bills from Weston for tailoring, record of sale from Tattersalls. And an additional footman brought on just last month. Yet, according to Belville, the man has pockets to let. And he still continues to spend. From what I could tell, not once did the man consider altering his spending
habits—he’s addicted to his existence as it is—no matter that it’s empty and a complete sham. What do you think Smeade would do if something threatened to take it all away?”

Dash considered all that Nicholas had told him, leafing through the documents and reading the expenditures for himself. “Would he do anything to preserve his life, including giving up who he works for?”

“It’s a possibility,” Nicholas answered, reaching for his glass and standing. “And, unfortunately, the only option we have left. Though your Miss Barnes should come in handy. We’ve need of Smeade’s bank records. And she might be the perfect woman for the job.”

Elena had read Penelope’s story so many times over the years that she’d lost count. The tale of the clever and steadfast wife of Odysseus never failed to fascinate her. The cousin of Helen of Troy was truly one of the most important female figures in Greek mythology, at least as far as Elena was concerned.

The late viscount’s book containing the woman’s story was not precisely like Elena’s. She’d realized the disparity the moment she’d fetched it from a shelf in the library and sat down to read. In his copy, her favorite passages were not underlined. Her name was not to be found inside the front cover, written in bold, flowery script as only a twelve-year-old girl could do. And his pages were clean and crisp, not worn and loved.

But Elena knew it wasn’t the book’s fault that she couldn’t settle and enjoy the well-loved tale. She closed the volume and stared at the candelabra, watching the flames flicker and twist. She’d waited seven hours for Dash to return from speaking with Mr. Bourne. And she was waiting still.

“There you are.”

Dash’s voice startled Elena and she jumped, looking over her shoulder. “You frightened me half to death.”

He strode forward, emerging from the darkened aisle to claim a chair next to hers. “I’m sorry. That was rather the last thing I wanted to do.”

He bent forward and glanced at the book in Elena’s lap. “Penelope, eh? Always thought she had a tougher time of it than Odysseus. Twenty years spent weaving a shroud, then unraveling it each night. And all those suitors, pestering her to remarry.”

Elena smiled faintly. “I agree completely. But I didn’t wait hours for you to return so that we could argue the merits of Penelope.”

Dash settled back against the chair cushions, resting his elbows on the padded arms. “I know.”

“Then tell me,” she urged. “Tell me what Mr. Bourne had to say.”

“Oh, quite a lot—most of it unfit for your ears.” Dash rested his chin on the palm of one hand and studied her. “But he stands by what he said this afternoon. The decision is up to me.”

Elena instinctively made to rise and go to him in order to show her thanks with a kiss. But she gripped the arms of her chair and forced herself to remain seated. “Thank you, Dash. Truly.”

“Do not thank me yet, Elena” he replied, sighing deeply. “First, I will tell you of Mr. Francis Smeade and his importance. Agreed?”

“It will make no difference to me,” Elena assured him. “I will not be denied—”

“Agreed?” he interrupted, then waited for her to respond.

“Agreed.”

“Good. Now, Mr. Francis Smeade is a distant relation of mine on my mother’s side. The man came from very limited means and managed to work his way into polite
society through various and assorted ventures. This much is public knowledge,” Dash began, settling deeper into his seat. “And the rest is not. Do you remember in the alcove when I made mention of a family tragedy?”

Elena nodded immediately, the image of Dash’s griefstricken face as he’d told the story flashing in her mind. “Yes, of course.”

“The woman was Lady Afton, the mother of Sophia, a dear friend to Nicholas, his brother Langdon, and myself. Her death was, for obvious reasons, devastating to her daughter. As it was for us boys. The killer was never caught—not even a possible suspect identified. Until now.”

“How?” Elena asked, eager to hear more.

Dash sat up and stretched both arms above his head before resting them on the chair arms again. “That is not important,” he said, his expression grim. “Nor are the steps that led us to Smeade. But I can tell you we know for certain Mr. Francis Smeade is the man who murdered Lady Afton.”