The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  “Have you been able to establish a connection between the man and our concern?” Dash asked, careful to remain cryptic in front of Belville.

  Nicholas begrudgingly shook his head in response.

  “Nor have I. This scenario makes much more sense.”

  Dash uncrossed his legs and sat forward in his chair. “Where does Smeade keep his money?”

  “James and Mulroy Merchant Bank,” Belville replied. “We’ve witnessed the man making deposits—even relieved him of his deposit record a time or two. But there’s never been a source mentioned.”

  Dash frowned at the man’s words. “With all due respect, Mr. Belville, is forcing your way into a merchant bank after hours really beyond your purview?”

  Belville smiled again and winked. “Strictly speaking? No. But James and Mulroy make it their business to know anyone who might profit from doing such a thing. It would be too risky for my men. And though I’m curious, there’s really no reason for me to do so. Smeade continues to need my services, and that’s good enough for me.”

  “Unfortunately,” Dash replied grimly, “it’s not good enough for us.”

  The Carrington carriage rolled to a stop in front of 317 Tavistock Place, one of a tidy row of brick townhomes. Two large bird cherry trees flanked the walkway. “Rather serene, isn’t it?” Lady Mowbray asked as she took the groomsman’s hand and stepped to the ground.

  “Yes, quite so,” Elena agreed, following the marchioness. The ground was covered in soft, white cherry-blossom petals that drifted up and around her ankles as she walked. “I must admit that I’m surprised.”

  Lady Mowbray lifted her skirts and ascended the steep stairs. “As was I when I first visited the Halcyon Society. It seems peculiar to find a charity with such a serious undertaking in Bloomsbury. But I suppose it’s important for the women who come here to see the possibilities beyond their current lives. Inspiration, if you will.”

  Elena minded the hem of her cream patterned muslin dress. “Yes, that makes perfect sense.”

  Lady Mowbray reached the landing and waited for Elena. “You see, Miss Barnes, I can be quite clever too,” she said with a wink.

  The black lacquered door opened wide with an audible whoosh. A girl no more than twelve stood in the entryway, a frightened expression on her thin face.

  “Ladies,” she said in greeting, dipping a curtsy. “Please, come in, won’t you.”

  Elena allowed Lady Mowbray to enter first, then crossed the threshold herself, looking kindly at the girl. “Thank you … May I know your name?”

  “I’m sorry. My name is Abigail. I was meant to meet you at the coach. And now I’ve cocked up my name as well,” the girl replied, her eyes welling with tears.

  “Come now, my child, you’ve not ‘cocked up’ anything.” Lady Mowbray patted the girl gently on the head. “Miss Barnes and I are perfectly able to find our way from the street to your door. And as for your name, we know it now. I am Lady Mowbray and this is Miss Barnes.”

  Abigail dipped again, holding each side of her gray cotton dress wide as she curtsied. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance Lady Mowbray, Miss Barnes.”

  “That was lovely, Abigail,” Elena remarked, taking the girl’s hand in hers. “I don’t believe I could perform a more perfectly executed curtsy if I tried.”

  Abigail managed a small smile at Elena’s words. “Thank you, Miss Barnes. May I take your wraps and bonnets?”

  “That would be most welcome, Abigail.” Lady Mowbray released the silver clasp on her burgundy cape and handed it to the girl, then untied the silken ribbons of her poke bonnet and did the same.

  Elena unbuttoned her own quilted lilac spencer and took it off. “Thank you,” she said, carefully laying the garment in Abigail’s outstretched arms. She removed her bonnet and allowed the girl to take it as well.

  “Now, my child, would you fetch Mrs. Mason for us, please?” Lady Mowbray asked politely.

  “I’m to put you in the front room, my lady. There will be tea and shortbread for you there,” she said proudly. “I’ll go fetch Mrs. Mason once you’re settled.”

  Abigail turned to the left and gestured for the women to follow her to where a door stood open just off the entry. “Please be seated. Mrs. Mason will be with you in a moment.”

  The girl waited while Lady Mowbray and Elena situated themselves on a faded puce settee, then dipped her third curtsy of the day and disappeared out the door.

  A maid bustled in almost immediately, carrying the tray of promised refreshments. She settled the tea and shortbread on a low oak table, bobbed in recognition, and left as quickly as she’d arrived.

  “May I?” Elena asked, reaching for the teapot. Lady Mowbray nodded and she prepared the cup, taking the liberty of adding two squares of shortbread to the saucer before passing it to the marchioness.

  Too tense to drink tea, Elena paused and took in her surroundings. The entire room looked washed out, as though the furnishings, carpet, and wallpaper had been exposed to the sun for far too long. Despite the shabby aspect, however, it was rather pleasant, with a cheerful fire in the fireplace and ample light from the large windows. A vase full of bright yellow and red tulips sat on a sideboard with a large leather-bound Bible next to it.

  A man and woman walked into the hall; their appearance pulled Elena’s attention away from the room and she discreetly studied them. They were deep in conversation, the tall, thin man making occasional notations on a card with a stubby pencil as they spoke. The woman offered him thanks and showed him to the door, closing it firmly behind him. A moment or two passed before she appeared in the sitting room, a subdued smile on her lips.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Lady Mowbray,” she apologized, walking to a damask chair opposite Elena.

  “Quite all right, Mrs. Mason,” the marchioness answered, then gestured to Elena. “I’ve brought a friend with me, Miss Barnes from Dorset.”

  Elena stood as the older woman curtsied.

  “It’s a pleasure, Miss Barnes.”

  Elena nodded and smiled warmly. “Thank you, Mrs. Mason. I’ve long admired the Halcyon Society’s work. I hope to one day help the women in my community by offering such services as those you provide here.”

  Mrs. Mason waited for Elena to reclaim her seat, then she settled her petite frame into the damask chair. “I am very glad to hear it. The sad fact of the matter is that there will never be a shortage of women in need, Miss Barnes. Without ladies such as the marchioness, I do not know what we would do.”

  A rumbling emanated from the hall, the sound of quick footfalls on the steps soon followed by the noise of someone running toward the back of the house.

  “Mrs. Mason, I’d rather hoped that Miss Barnes might see your classrooms and meet some of the women. But I wonder, is there something afoot?” Lady Mowbray asked, peering out into the hall.

  Mrs. Mason tucked a stray lock of brown hair back into her severe chignon, then pushed her round gold-rimmed glasses farther up her nose. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  Lady Mowbray returned her cup and saucer to the tray, as did Elena.

  “A woman, Mary Fields, was brought here today. Not long before you arrived.” Mrs. Mason folded her hands in her lap, her eyes worried. “She was discovered unconscious in her room when the landlady came to collect the rent. She contacted the society, bless her soul. I don’t think Mary would have survived much longer.”

  “And why is that?” Elena pressed.

  Mrs. Mason appeared uncomfortable with the question. She wrung her hands and cleared her throat twice before answering. “She’d been beaten. And worse, Miss Barnes.”

  Lady Mowbray’s hand covered her mouth in shock.

  “Everything is being seen to. A Bow Street Runner just left after speaking with Mary. The doctor has been called and my maids are tending to her,” Mrs. Mason assured the two. “Now, I think we should give Miss Barnes a tour of the premises. Lady Mowbray, you mentioned the classrooms?”

  “I
want to meet Mary.”

  Mrs. Mason’s mouth opened, but no words came forth.

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?” Lady Mowbray asked, taking Elena’s hand in hers.

  “Do you, Mrs. Mason?” Elena asked the woman simply, her voice devoid of emotion.

  Mrs. Mason clamped her lips together and tapped her forefinger thoughtfully on her chin. “Well, Miss Barnes. I’m not sure.”

  “I do not mean to be rude, Mrs. Mason. But to my way of thinking, if I cannot take the sight of Miss Fields, I’ll be of no use to others in her unfortunate position. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Mrs. Mason continued to tap her chin as she considered the question. “Yes,” she said finally. “Completely. I’m simply surprised at your request.”

  “Well, I’ve discovered recently that sometimes, surprises can be good,” Elena said resolutely, releasing Lady Mowbray’s hand and standing.

  “I will stay here, my dear,” the marchioness announced, settling more deeply into the soft settee.

  Mrs. Mason nodded, then walked to the doorway. “Come, Miss Barnes. Follow me.”

  Elena looked at Lady Mowbray. “I’ll return shortly.”

  “Do be careful, Miss Barnes,” she replied tenderly. “Your Rowena still weighs heavily on your mind. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “I will,” Elena murmured, touched by her sympathetic concern.

  Elena turned back and joined Mrs. Mason in the entryway.

  “Just up here, on the second floor,” the small woman said, walking to the stairs at the end of the hall. She ascended the treads at a quick clip, the fabric of her dun-colored dress swishing about her ankles.

  The two reached the landing and Mrs. Mason paused just outside the first closed door. “Are you ready, Miss Barnes?”

  Elena took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Yes.”

  Mrs. Mason put her hand on the dull metal knob and turned it, then pushed the painted door open. The pungent smell of spirits hit Elena hard and she cupped her hand over her nose. “For the cuts and scrapes,” Mrs. Mason explained, ushering Elena into the room.

  The maid who’d delivered the tea earlier stood in front of a sideboard rinsing a rag in a porcelain basin of water. Another maid sat on the edge of a scarred slatted bed. The bed linens were pushed nearly to the end. A pair of ghostly white legs sprawled inelegantly atop the coverlet, red, angry scratches and cuts marring most of the exposed skin.

  Elena slowly moved across the sparse room, the shape of Mary Fields revealing itself with each step forward. The woman wore a white cotton night rail that bunched about her knees, a bloom of hateful green and purple bruising rising from the neckline and continuing on to her shoulders. Her matted hair was plastered to the pillow, forming an unearthly halo. And her face.

  Dear God. Her face.

  Elena clapped a hand across her mouth to keep from crying out in shock and protest. Mary’s face was hardly recognizable as a woman. Her eyes were swollen shut and her nose bent at an impossible angle. The planes of her cheeks bore blunt, black bruising. And her mouth was blistered as though something hot had been used to burn her lips. Elena neared the bed and leaned over. The blistering appeared on her neck and chest as well. All of the burns were the same shape; a crude circular pattern.

  She’d seen burn marks like those before, on wood. But what had caused them? She frowned, trying to remember—and then gasped in horror.

  “A cigar,” Elena choked out, sliding her hand down to rest at the base of her neck.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the maid whispered. “Covers her back as well.” The woman nimbly retrieved a damp cloth from Mary’s forehead, then stood, gesturing for Elena to take her place.

  Elena lowered herself to the bed carefully, not wanting to disturb Mary’s sleep. She stared at her for some time, intensely struck by how fragile the woman looked. She’d been found all alone, broken and torn. But alive. Despite everything, Mary lived. “Does she have family?”

  “Bow Street is attempting to locate them now,” Mrs. Mason replied. She stood quietly next to the footboard, compassion and worry written on her features as she looked at the battered woman in the bed. “Though quite often, these women have families that would rather they stayed gone.”

  “And the man who did this?” Elena asked, resting her hand next to Mary’s on the wrinkled linens.

  Mrs. Mason sighed deeply. “It is hard to predict, Miss Barnes. Very few of those responsible for such violence are ever caught. Bow Street will do what they can. But we are Mary’s only real hope now.”

  Elena moved her hand ever so slightly until she barely touched Mary’s fingers. “Yes, Mrs. Mason. I believe you’re right.”

  The letter arrived while Elena was with Lady Mowbray in Bloomsbury, but Bell made sure it was delivered to her the moment she returned.

  “From your maid, Miss Barnes. A rider brought it from their first stop in Farnborough,” he said by way of explanation, adding, “perhaps tea in the library?”

  Elena could see why Dash relied on the man. He was efficient, true enough. But more than that, he was perceptive and sensitive to others’ needs. And kind.

  “Yes, I believe I will. Thank you, Bell,” she said gratefully.

  The butler nodded in acknowledgment, then disappeared.

  Elena held the missive in both hands as she walked to the library, closing the door behind her to assure absolute privacy.

  She chose a chaise lounge near the trunk that held the Paolini and sat down.

  “Please, let Rowena be all right,” she prayed to the putti cavorting on the carved ceiling. She fumbled with the letter, breaking the seal and unfolding the thick sheet of foolscap.

  May 19, 1813

  Dear Miss Elena,

  Thank you for the letter that you sent along in my trunk. It cheers my heart to read your words, truly.

  I dreamed of Mr. Brock last night and woke screaming. The Doctor tells me that such nightmares will go away, much like the bruises and cuts.

  Miss, we weren’t able to speak privately before I left. There’s so much I wanted to tell you. You’d get after me for writing such a thing, but you need to know that those men did not take my honor. I could tell from their talk that such a thing was coming, but I crossed my legs tight and didn’t let go until I was safe in Lord Carrington’s arms. They touched me in places that no one but a woman’s husband should, and hit me, as my bruises show. But I left there a virgin, I promise you.

  I hope you’ll still have me for your maid when you return. I know it would be hard, and if I remind you too much of that horrid place, I’ll understand. But I don’t want to leave you, Miss.

  I pray that you return to Harcourt House soon and safely.

  Respectfully yours,

  Rowena

  Elena laid the letter beside her on the chaise lounge, then dropped her head into her hands and began to cry.

  “My sweet, innocent Rowena,” she whispered, covering her eyes completely, sealing out the light. “How can you ask such a thing?”

  Elena wept, forgetting everything else and completely surrendering to the chaotic storm of emotions that buffeted her. Relief that Rowena’s virginity had not been taken from her. Anger and hatred for the men who’d tortured her dear friend. Grief for the loss of innocence that Rowena had most assuredly suffered, her life never to be the same again.

  And guilt. Guilt that she’d not been able to protect her loyal friend. Even worse, that Rowena clearly did not in any way blame her—but, in fact, seemed to blame herself.

  Men such as Mr. Brock ruined the lives of women every single day. It was a crime. And Elena needed to make him pay.

  She looked up at the sound of a knock on the door, swiping at her tearstained face and managing a serene demeanor just as Molly brought in the tea tray.

  “May I pour, Miss?” Molly asked as she set the heavy silver tray down.

  Elena smiled weakly. “Thank you, Molly.”

  The maid busied herself with the tea, doing so with supreme
efficiency and skill. “Might I ask after Rowena, Miss? Or would that be rude?”

  Elena wiped again at her eyes, and sniffled quietly, crumpling her damp, lace-edged handkerchief in her clasped hands. “It’s never improper to care, Molly,” she assured the maid. “And as it happens, I’ve a letter from her—though I suspect you already knew that.”

  “News has a way of making the rounds here,” she said guiltily, handing her the teacup and saucer. “Please don’t tell Mr. Bell.”

  Elena sipped, the warm, sweet liquid bracing her spirits. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Molly. And as for Rowena, she’s going to be just fine. I promise.”

  Elena stood completely alone in Dash’s study, her heart thudding with fear. She had no one to blame but herself. Her own selfish desires had brought her to this point.

  “Honestly,” Elena said out loud, growing more impatient by the moment with her cowardice. She quietly shut the door behind her and leaned against it. The scent of sandalwood that she associated with Dash subtly teased her senses and she braced herself against the emotions it stirred inside of her.

  Making love with Dash mere days before had been magical. Mythological, even, Elena thought with a stab of sadness. Much like Icarus, she’d soared on wings made of wax and feathers and experienced what was surely the purest form of pleasure known to mankind. She’d been giddy with the heights they’d reached, so taken with the way he’d made her feel, she’d failed to notice how close she’d ventured near the sun.

  Her wings were melted now, and she realized how much her distracted mind had been a factor in Rowena’s kidnapping. Elena had placed her own fascination with Dash before the needs of the very people she was meant to protect.

  She noticed an iron key puzzle tossed haphazardly upon the polished broad desk. Elena walked around and settled herself into Dash’s large Windsor chair, then reached for the keys.

  She could not take away what had happened to Rowena, she thought with a deep pang of remorse. No matter how hard she wished it to be so, there would be no going back and obliterating Mr. Brock from her history.