The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel (20 page)

Elena felt him lean in farther until their skin touched, the hair of his chest teasing her nipples. She pressed her breasts against him and rubbed, savoring the sensation as it traveled from her chest to her core, where it throbbed headily.

He broke the kiss and looked into her eyes. “You’re no longer crying,” he breathed. “Good.” His tongue took in the shell of her ear and began to draw a tortuous path down her body, touching her right breast with such skillful, sensuous strokes that Elena cried out.

“I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassed by her reaction.

He paused, kneading the left breast with his fingers until Elena felt the tension beginning to wind tightly in her belly. “I’m not.”

He released her and his tongue began again, dipping lower until he reached the vee between her thighs.

Elena had seen such things in a book, though she couldn’t place which one. Her back arched when his tongue found her folds and he gently sucked, his hands pushing her legs farther apart. Her hands reached out for something, anything to secure her, his mouth sending her soaring until she feared she would fly through the very ceiling of the coach.

She wound her fingers in his hair and held tightly as the sensation stole away all rational thought. She began to pant, short, hot breaths that seem to rise in her throat of their own accord. “Please, Dash,” she begged, tugging at his hair in an effort to hold on. “Please.”

His tongue slowed and he raised his head, an almost
feral look in his eyes that only increased Elena’s need. He rose up on his knees, and then reached out for Elena’s hips, scooting her toward the edge of the seat. Then he hooked one of her legs about his waist and then the other, his finger finding her clitoris and rubbing smoothly until Elena moaned.

“As one, truly?” Dash asked breathlessly, guiding his cock into her slick skin, then settling his hands on each side of her, his buttocks moving as he rhythmically coaxed Elena’s need.

“Yes,” Elena heard herself say, as though through a pane of glass. The world was slowly distilling down to this one, single moment that she sensed was about to overtake her.

Dash nuzzled her breasts, biting at the nipples. “I don’t want to hurt you, Elena.”

“Please,” she begged, her nails scoring the velvet seat on each side of her. “I need you. Now.”

Dash acquiesced and quickened his pace, his member seductively sliding into Elena until she was sure she’d splinter into a million pieces. She closed her eyes and dropped her head back, the sensation growing until she could no longer bear it.

“God, Elena,” Dash uttered, his hands grabbing her hips. “Oh, God.” His entire body shook with the force of his orgasm, and Elena held on tight, riding the wave of her own pleasure until it claimed her body and soul.

Elena tilted her head up and opened her eyes, her gaze meeting Dash’s as they became one, the fire of their mutual satisfaction ripping a silent scream from her throat. She fell back on the velvet seat and pulled Dash with her, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Elena,” he murmured, wrapping his arms about her and holding tight.

She closed her eyes and smiled against his skin. “Dash.”

“You’re distracted.”

Dash narrowly missed stepping on a dead rat on the stairs of the Plymouth Building, skipping the tread at the last moment to avoid it. “It’s hard not to be distracted here, Bourne.”

The two men continued to climb the rickety steps toward the fourth floor, the eerie silence of the ancient Wharf Street building amplifying the sound of their progress even more than the warped wood already had.

“Yes, well,” Nicholas continued, reaching the landing of the third floor and stopping. “You didn’t expect to find a moneylender in Mayfair, did you?”

Dash joined him, scanning the dark hall ahead. “No, I suppose not. You’re sure you can trust the individual who gave you the location of this …” He couldn’t remember the man’s name.

Actually, he couldn’t remember anything. And he wondered if he ever would again.

Nothing held in his mind but the feel of Elena in his arms.

“Belville,” Nicholas finished for him, gesturing for Dash to follow him up the next flight of stairs. “Implicitly. I would trust May with my life.”

Dash scrubbed his hand across his jaw and tried to focus. “I’m sorry, but May? Please, tell me that’s a surname, Bourne. Please tell me we’re not on a wild goose chase all because the fair May felt like toying with you.”

“If by fair you mean no more than, oh, ninety years old, more hair on her chin than her head, and a goiter that, in truth, makes even the most impervious of men blanch—”

“Enough,” Dash interrupted, eyeing a large hole in the third tread from the bottom.

Nicholas reached the final landing and turned to look at Dash. “As for toying with me, well, I don’t know that such a term exists in her vocabulary. The woman owns one of the largest opium houses in all of London—keeps her rather busy, I would imagine. Plenty of money to be made from supplying her customers, from what I understand.”

“Don’t tell me that you’ve fallen into such pursuits.”

Nicholas feigned insult. “Really, Carrington. I can’t believe you would think such things.”

Dash only arched an eyebrow in response, his friend knowing very well that such assumptions would not be beyond the realm of possibility.

“When I began asking around about Smeade, a number of people suggested that I contact May. Apparently, the man enjoys his opium—and May was more than willing to tell me what she knew, including the man’s connection to Belville. She despises Smeade—said he treats her like a servant.”

“ ‘More than willing’ meaning you paid her off?” Dash asked, looking down the dingy hall.

Nicholas dug inside his waistcoat pocket, producing a slip of foolscap. “Of course. Have you ever known anyone to willingly cooperate without money being involved? Speaking of which, Belville awaits.”

He peered at the paper and pointed to the end of the hall. “Office number 444, an even number. How apropos for a cent percenter.”

Dash and Nicholas walked down the hall in search of 444. Two burly men stood on each side of a door
toward the end of the corridor. They stared straight ahead, their eyes fixed on the wall in front of them.

“I assume you’ll coax Belville with a similar offer?” Dash murmured, sizing up the two.

Nicholas grinned. “Of course. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll beat it out of him. And you’ll be responsible for looking after those two,” he said under his breath.

The men turned as one and faced Dash, their combined size blocking out the light from the wall sconces. “Of course I will,” he muttered, elbowing Nicholas in the ribs. “Wipe that ridiculous smile off your face. You look as though you’re enjoying this.”

“There’s no need to be rude,” his friend whispered, then stepped in front of the men. “Gentlemen, we’re here to see Mr. Belville, if you please.”

“Appointment?” the one on the right asked, cocking his head and cracking his knuckles as he spoke.

Nicholas retained his friendly manner, speaking as if they’d been chums all their lives. “I’m afraid not. But May assured me we would be welcome.”

“Her with the opium house—the one who makes her money off the likes of you?” the other asked, chuckling to himself.

“That’s the one, my good sir.”

“Well,” the first one said, opening the door to reveal a small, well-appointed room. “You’d hardly be the first to need Mr. Belville’s help after May got her hooks into ya. Go on then. Ring the bell and he’ll be out for ya quick-like.”

Nicholas dutifully stepped over the threshold, assuming an air of apologetic defeat.

Dash followed, barely inside the room before the men shut the door.

He looked around, noting the Axminster carpet and Chippendale chairs. A landscape by Richard Wilson hung on the wall and a rosewood table stood to the side,
supporting a crystal decanter and four glasses neatly displayed on a gleaming sterling Paul Storr tray.

“The Plymouth Building cleans up well,” Dash said dryly, wondering if Belville had purchased the items in the room or accepted them as payment from his desperate clients. “Makes one wonder why he keeps an office here.”

“Gentry coves at
point non plus
are not fond of airing their affairs in public,” Nicholas answered, picking up a chased silver bell. “It’s one thing to sneak away to the Plymouth Building where an anonymous hackney and a servant’s clothing will hide your identity. Quite another issue entirely to do such questionable business surrounded by your peers.”

He rang the bell, the light tinkling sound almost too delicate for such a place.

A door on the opposite side of the room opened and a man appeared. “Gentlemen, do come in.”

Dash didn’t know what he thought a moneylender would look like, but Mr. Belville was not it.

As the men moved toward their host, Dash couldn’t help but compare the man to a kindly great-uncle he’d had. Close to eighty, with a wisp of snow-white hair that wound about his head and spectacles so thick he was surely blind without them, the diminutive moneylender didn’t look threatening in the least.

Dash was beginning to wonder at Nicholas’s contacts. Surely the entire underbelly of London could not be run by aged individuals such as Belville and May, could it? Or perhaps that’s exactly what kept them from being apprehended. After all, who would ever think to accuse Belville of wrongdoing?

The man walked behind a modest walnut desk, then gestured for the two to take their seats. He waited until they’d settled before taking his own, opening a fresh ledger and dipping his quill into a crystal inkpot.

“Now, gentlemen, if you don’t mind, please tell me how you came to find me?”

Nicholas crossed his legs and began. “May Fletcher suggested that we speak with you.”

Belville made note of something in the ledger, his head nodding as he did so. “I see. And what is the figure that you owe Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Oh, no, you misunderstand. We do not owe Mrs. Fletcher anything,” Nicholas answered simply.

Belville returned the quill to its holder and looked up at the two. “Yes, I’m afraid I don’t understand at all. Perhaps you’re not aware of the nature of my business?”

Nicholas shook his head. “We’re completely aware, Mr. Belville, but it’s not money we’re in need of. It’s information.”

The small man closed the ledger and sat back in his chair, pausing to fold his fingers together before resting his chin on them. “Gentlemen, discretion is more important to my clients than anything else. I’m afraid I cannot be of help to you.”

“Not even for this?” Nicholas asked, fishing a black leather pouch from a hidden pocket within his tailcoat. He tossed the pouch toward Belville, the sound of numerous coins clanking against each other drawing the man’s attention.

“Tell me this first: who is it that you wish to know more of?” The older man picked up the pouch, testing the weight of it in his narrow hands.

“Six pounds. Am I correct?”

Nicholas eyed Belville with appreciation. “You are. And there’s more where that came from if you answer our questions concerning Mr. Francis Smeade.”

“Oh, well, you hardly needed to offer me coin for information on Smeade,” Belville answered, opening the center drawer of his desk. “But I’ll take it all the same.”

“Not very fond of the man?” Dash asked.

Belville tossed the pouch inside, closed the drawer, and settled back once again. “No one is. My clientele are men of noble birth—such as you. Smeade bought his way into polite society and now he’s holding on for dear life. There’s nothing noble about that man—of course, there’s nothing noble about me, either. But I don’t go about pretending to be someone I’m not.”

Interesting
, Dash thought to himself. It seemed that no one could stomach Smeade, which could work to their advantage. A person without connections was vulnerable—and Dash planned on finding out just how vulnerable Smeade was.

“Mr. Belville, I assume that, in your line of work, you’re careful to gather information on your clients?”

Belville nodded in agreement. “And Smeade’s is an interesting story. The man wastes money more than any other I know—and that, gentlemen, is saying something. Opium, drink, business ventures that fail time and again. He’s either incredibly stupid or ridiculously optimistic.”

Nicholas laughed out loud. “Perhaps the two are not mutually exclusive?”

Belville smiled, reminding Dash of his kindly great-uncle yet again. “Perhaps. But there is money that cannot be explained. I keep track of my clients. There’s competition among my type, you see, and it pays to know who is borrowing from whom. But Smeade doesn’t do business with any of my competitors. And yet, there are funds beyond what I lend.”

Dash experienced the oddest sense of guilt over his growing admiration for the man. Surely no Corinthian was meant to ever side with a moneylender?

God, his desk at the Corinthian Club with endless paperwork would be a welcome sight after all of this, he thought.

“There’s no trail,” Belville continued. “The money simply appears, Smeade spends it faster than the crown
can make it, and once his pockets are empty, he finds his way to my door.”