The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  Nicholas joined him. “From the Furies, more like.”

  “They are only two this evening, which dilutes their potency a touch,” Dash offered, looking wryly at his friend. “But yes, that is precisely what we are doing.”

  The two men stood quietly, gazing upon a marble centaur.

  “I do not believe I have ever witnessed an individual quite so enthusiastic about such things,” Nicholas remarked, watching as Elena pointed at various details, posed questions to herself, out loud, and answered in the same manner.

  Dash smiled proudly. “She is amazing, is she not?”

  “All right, then. Enough with the tender revelations,” Nicholas answered sarcastically. “Smeade has made contact with his superior.”

  Dash blinked hard. The switch from Elena to Smeade was too abrupt. “How?”

  “Yesterday, I watched him take a piece of coal and draw an X on the lamppost just outside his townhome. No more than an hour ago, I intercepted a messenger about to deliver a message. The letter was in answer to his request and contained specifics on when and where to meet. I wrote a second letter, of course. Wouldn’t want the handwriting confusing Smeade. Then had it delivered to the man.”

  Dash thought for a moment on Nicholas’s words. “The X must be a way to communicate directly with his employer.”

  “If the signature on the missive is to be believed, that is precisely what it is for,” Nicholas replied, widening his stance. “We have very little time. Smeade is to meet the man on the London Bridge in less than an hour.”

  The two continued to watch as Elena moved to a frieze of a chariot group. “What will you tell her?” Nicholas asked Dash, his eyes remaining fixed on the woman.

  Dash scrubbed his hand across his jaw. “You know, of course, that she will want to come.”

  “That is precisely why I am asking.”

  Elena’s possible inclusion was not even open for debate—the situation was far too dangerous. Dash could not allow Elena anywhere near Smeade nor his employer. She’d played her small part admirably earlier. The information she’d purloined from the bank had been key to cracking the case.

  The problem was, how could he convince her she must stay behind?

  “You will need to lie. Obviously,” Nicholas offered, turning to look at his friend.

  Dash met his gaze reluctantly. “I could never lie to Elena. Not now.”

  “Well, let me put it this way,” Nicholas countered, pausing while he looked again at Elena. “You can lie and keep her from meeting Smeade’s employer face-to-face. Or you can tell her the truth. It is up to you, of course. But I would like to state for the Corinthian record that I wholeheartedly supported lying in this case. Actually, I wholeheartedly support lying in most cases.”

  “Do not joke about this,” Dash insisted, wishing he could ignore his options.

  Nicholas returned his gaze to Dash and slapped him on the back. “You know what you have to do. Now do it.”

  “Damn it all to hell,” Dash uttered mournfully. He walked toward Elena, his feet as heavy as the marble before him—and his heart too.

  Nicholas narrowly avoided crashing into a coach as he steered his Tilbury carriage down Holborn Hill. His bay tossed his head nervously but pressed on, leaving behind the sound of the coachman’s angry yells.

  “Why the bridge?” Nicholas asked Dash, seated next to him on the padded leather seat.

  His friend shifted his weight in an attempt to put some space between them on the narrowed perch. “That’s a good question. It would be hard for one to hide in the middle of a bridge, I suppose. And his employer would have an unimpeded view of Smeade’s arrival, thereby guaranteeing that the man arrived alone.”

  Nicholas flicked the right rein and the bay turned down Bridge Street, one of the carriage’s wheels lifting from the road momentarily. The vehicle swayed dangerously before righting itself. “I suppose that makes sense. Damn inconvenient for us, though.”

  “Inconvenient. But not impossible.”

  Nicholas nodded, pleased with his friend’s reply. “Tell me,” he began, coaxing the bay to pick up its already hazardous pace. “Did you believe this day would come?”

  “Of course,” Dash answered instantly. “Didn’t you?”

  Nicholas had long ago given up on ever apprehending the man who’d murdered Lady Afton. He’d just assumed that it was to be one in a long line of curses that clouded his life. But he admired his friend’s optimism. And more important, he had no moral objections when it came to lying. “Absolutely.”

  They careered around a corner and headed for Lower Thames Street. “And your Corinthians? What will they have to say about the matter should they find out?”

  Dash gripped the side of the seat as the carriage encountered a hole in the road, holding tightly to avoid being thrown. “I’ve broken nearly every law within the Corinthian code—and a few outside of it as well. Carmichael could not overlook such things. But I’ve come to terms with the possible consequences.”

  “And those are?” Nicholas pressed, a fine misting of rain beginning to fall.

  “My expulsion from the Corinthians,” Dash answered simply. “But we’ll have captured Smeade and his employer. And that’s what matters.”

  The bay’s hooves slipped on the wet street, but he recovered and held his stride. Nicholas called reassuringly to the horse and kept his hands firmly on the reins. “Are you sure?”

  “What on earth do you mean?” Dash countered.

  It sounded to Nicholas as though his friend genuinely wondered at the question, though he found such a thing hard to believe. “Your whole life has been dedicated to the Young Corinthians. How could you surrender it so easily?”

  Dash seemed to consider the question while he swiped at the rain gathering on his greatcoat. “Elena.”

  “Come now. Everything, for a woman?” Nicholas pressed, unconvinced.

  “Yes, Bourne. We’re capturing Lady Afton’s killer not only for justice, but a second chance at life. Elena is my second chance.”

  It was inconceivable to Nicholas that any man would think it a sound idea to put his entire future in the hands of a woman. But the purposeful look in his friend’s eyes made him believe that if someone was going to prove him wrong, it would be Dash.

  “I see,” Nicholas replied dryly, slowing the bay with a tug on the reins. “Well, as for me, I’m looking forward to a second, third, and perhaps even fifth chance at life with Lady Whitcomb. Widows are rather generous, I find.”

  Dash arched an eyebrow sardonically. “You’ll never change, will you, Bourne?”

  Nicholas brought the carriage to a stop and jumped down. “Did you honestly think I would?”

  Dash joined him on the ground and gestured for the reins. “Honestly?” he asked, tying the bay to a post outside of a butcher shop. “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “I must say I am rather surprised by Mr. Bourne’s presence here this evening,” Lady Mowbray stated, spearing an asparagus tip and delicately lifting it to her mouth.

  Elena leaned closer in an attempt to hear the marchioness over the deafening conversation of those packed tightly into the dining room, nearly dipping her bodice in her plate. “And why is that?”

  “Well, the man is not known to enjoy polite society.”

  Elena eyed the grayish roast beef on her plate with displeasure, and then pushed it toward the middle of the table. “Though I find the man not entirely to my liking, I believe he is rather popular with women, is he not? Surely such events as this one tonight would offer ample opportunity to make the acquaintance of many, many, enthusiastic new friends.”

  The marchioness smiled slyly. “Well, that is true enough. But Nicholas has never had the patience for the prologue, if you will. He appears to abhor suffering through dancing, a mediocre meal, and conversation. He does not care for the simpering milk-and-water misses, either.”

  Elena was hardly surprised by the information. Mr. Bourne seemed to care very l
ittle for anyone.

  But if that were the case, why then was he here, at the Elgin ball? He and Dash had escorted her and Lady Mowbray to the dining room and then left for the card tables, assuring the women that they would return when the dancing resumed.

  Elena eyed the cold meat on her plate once more, a sense of unease growing steadily stronger. “Lady Mowbray, I believe that I will seek out the viscount in the gaming room, if you do not mind.”

  “I don’t in the least,” the marchioness answered, pushing her own plate away. “But I will accompany you. It would hardly be proper for you to wander about the house alone.”

  Elena rose from her seat and waited while Lady Mowbray walked around the table and joined her. “And is that all?”

  “Of course not, my dear,” she answered, walking from the room and heading for the back of the house, where the gaming was presumably taking place. “It is a room filled entirely with men. How on earth could I be expected to pass up such an opportunity?”

  Elena smiled at the woman, but could not quite enjoy the humor of the situation.

  A nagging feeling refused to let loose of her—that she had been lied to. And that she had been fool enough to have believed it.

  Lady Mowbray swept into the gaming room as though she owned it, offering a superior nod of the head to those men who were brave enough to question their presence.

  The two made a complete circuit of the room, finding neither Nicholas nor Dash.

  “Where do you think they are?” Elena asked the marchioness, panic beginning to knot her stomach.

  Lady Mowbray patted Elena’s shoulder and smiled. “Smoking cigars. Drinking port—really, there are any number of activities those two could be enjoying right now. I am sure they will find their way back to the ballroom at some point.”

  “But I need to know where they are right now,” Elena demanded, her tone as desperate as she felt.

  Lady Mowbray stopped abruptly and looked Elena in the eye, her keen gaze assessing. “My dear, is something wrong?”

  “Possibly. But I cannot say anything more. Please,” Elena pleaded with the woman. “You must help me find them.”

  The marchioness hesitated for a moment, and then took Elena’s arm in hers and headed for the front door. “Victoria will be able to tell us where the two have taken themselves off to. She makes it her business to know absolutely everything about everyone.”

  “And where is she, exactly?” Elena asked, confused by their direction.

  “The mews.”

  A footman opened the door wide and they stepped out into the cool night air. Lady Mowbray quickly dragged Elena down the stairs and around to the back of the mansion. Carriages and horses filled the area until there was hardly enough room to walk between them.

  “What makes you think that Her Grace would be here?” Elena asked as they squeezed between two lacquered carriages.

  “Victoria has three passions,” the marchioness began, stopping to look about and orient herself. “First, horses. Second, sticking her nose into everyone’s business. And third …” She paused, spotting a group of liveried drivers gathered in a circle just up ahead. “Gambling. And by gambling I am not referring to Commerce or Silver Loo. I mean real, hard-and-fast gambling. For money.”

  Lady Mowbray took off again toward the men, pulling Elena along behind. “Pardon me,” she said to one of the servants, gesturing for him to step aside. He complied and the women stepped into the circle, where Victoria stood, holding a pair of dice and blowing on them.

  “Just as I told you,” the marchioness announced, supremely satisfied with herself.

  Victoria glared at her sister, and then blew on the dice a second time. “Hardly a state secret, sister—as though I would let something as inconsequential as male opinion keep me from a quality game of Hazard.”

  She threw the dice into the center of the circle and watched as they hit the ground. A servant bent to look at the numbers, then announced a pair of twos. The entire circle erupted into excited shouts.

  “Drat!” the duchess commented, then turned her attention back to her sister and Elena. “Now, what do you require? And do hurry up about it. I’ve a losing streak to break.”

  Lady Mowbray nodded, understanding her sister’s need for timeliness. “We are attempting to ascertain Lord Carrington and Mr. Bourne’s whereabouts. They are not in the gaming room, nor the dining—”

  “Of course they aren’t. The two left in Bourne’s highsprung carriage some time ago,” Victoria interrupted. “His tiger boldly attempted to join our game, claiming he’d nothing better to do since his employer had flown for London Bridge.”

  Elena felt a cold, sickening panic grow with each word that the duchess spoke. “I’ll need a carriage,” she commanded, looking at Lady Mowbray.

  “What is going on?” Victoria demanded, stepping in front of the two.

  Elena respectfully shook her head. “I cannot tell you. Not now. I must go to the bridge.”

  “Then we will accompany you,” Victoria said plainly, turning to her driver. “Prepare the horses. Apparently, there is not a moment to lose.”

  “Do you remember shooting the bridge?”

  Dash turned up the collar of his greatcoat to the damp, cool night air and looked out at the span of London Bridge from his vantage point near the center of the structure. “How could I forget? I nearly died.”

  As misguided youths, Dash, Langdon, and Nicholas had procured a ridiculously small boat, ventured out on the Thames during the turning of the tide, and held on for dear life as the water swelled from the powerful natural force and shot them through one of the small arches on the underside of the bridge.

  “But you did not,” Nicholas replied, looking toward the north end of the span.

  Dash folded his arms across his chest and looked out from their hiding place behind the wall of the bridge master’s quarters, fighting a smile. “That is not the point.”

  There were times when Dash wondered how he was alive at all. From the moment Lady Afton had been laid to rest to, well, that very moment on that very bridge, Nicholas had organized far too many death-defying acts to count.

  Would this be the last one? God, he hoped so.

  Nicholas elbowed Dash and pointed toward where he’d been looking. “Smeade,” he said in a low tone, inching back a touch.

  The two men watched Smeade walk slowly toward the central span of the bridge, his head turning often to look behind him suspiciously. As he drew nearer, he suddenly stopped and stared into the night directly in front of him. “Is that you?” he called, jutting his head out and squinting.

  Dash followed his gaze. A man walked out of the darkness. Dressed in a greatcoat and beaver hat, the shadowy figure strode confidently to where Smeade stood.

  “There,” Nicholas whispered, tensing to attack.

  Dash held tightly to his friend’s arm and restrained him. “Wait.” He may have spent most of his Corinthian career behind a desk, but Dash knew that waiting for the exact moment was of paramount importance.

  Smeade backed up two steps, gaping at the man who stood in front of him. “I did not request a meeting with some errand boy,” he ground out, his voice thick with forced indignation.

  The man slowly began to unbutton his greatcoat, his eyes never leaving Smeade’s. “Really, Mr. Smeade. Did you truly believe that we would take your summons seriously? The Bishop does not have time for you anymore, I’m afraid.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Smeade faltered, backing up further.

  A pistol appeared in the man’s hand and he pointed it directly at Smeade’s heart. “It seems rather simple, even for the likes of you, Mr. Smeade. You failed to kill the Barnes woman. Your services are no longer needed.”

  Smeade held up his hands defensively. “Lord Carrington interrupted my attempt. What was I to do?”

  Dash fisted his hands at his sides, willing himself to remain concealed.

  “Your job, Mr. Smeade. You are far more trouble than you are worth.
”

  “Surely my history counts for something,” Smeade shouted, his voice quivering. “I demand to see the Bishop, right now.”

  The man cocked the gun, the sound making Smeade jump. “You are in no position to make demands. No, the only someone that you will be seeing is the Lord God Almighty—if you are fortunate enough.”

  Smeade suddenly lunged at the man, throwing him off balance. Then he turned and made for Fish Street Hill.

  The man righted himself, pointed the gun, and fired off a shot.

  Smeade fell forward, stumbling, tripping on his own feet, and hit the bridge deck, hard.

  “I’ll take Smeade, you see to the shooter,” Dash told Nicholas. The two men exploded forth from their hiding place and ran with all that they had.

  Dash passed up the shooter as he headed for Smeade. He looked back to see the man run toward the west railing of the bridge, Nicholas changing his course and following.

  Dash reached Smeade and fell to his knees, turning the man over on his back. He was still alive, gasping for breath as small, round bubbles of blood slipped from his mouth.

  “Tell me who you work for. Tell me who ordered Lady Afton’s death,” Dash demanded, looking down into the dying man’s face.

  Smeade managed a blood-frothed smile. “You. Really, Carrington. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  Dash wanted to kill him with his own hands, but he needed to know the truth. “Tell me, Smeade. Now. You have nothing to lose at this point.”

  “The sad truth is, I can’t tell you because I do not know,” he answered, his breath becoming shallower. “I took my orders from the Bishop, but never met the man face-to-face. And the bastard who shot me? Not the Bishop, unfortunately.”

  A gurgling noise sounded from the man’s throat and set off a steady stream of blood. “Find the Bishop. And then you’ll find the King,” his voice rasped, his words barely discernible.

  “Who is this King? We’re not playing a bloody game of chess. Is the Bishop our man or not, Smeade?” Dash ground out, grabbing his coat collar and shaking him. “This is not enough.”