The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel (35 page)

“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.”

“But it is all that I have,” Smeade answered, his body suddenly wracked with uncontrollable coughing. Blood spurted across Dash’s coat as Smeade convulsed. The killer reached out and gripped his arm, his eyes widening in fear and alarm, then he slumped, his body suddenly quieted and stilled.

Dash looked to where he’d last seen the shooter, just in time to witness the dark figure jump over the railing and disappear into the black water of the Thames below. Nicholas bent over the side of the bridge, but quickly abandoned the chase.

He turned back and ran to Dash, stopping beside him. He peered down at Smeade’s body. “Is he dead?”

“Yes,” Dash answered, looking down at the corpse.

Nicholas kicked the body and shouted, “Dammit! Did he tell you what we need to know?”

“We have a lead, Bourne,” he said quietly.

“Then your answer is no?” Nicholas pressed, his voice thick with emotion.

“My answer is no.”

Nicholas stared at Dash, his eyes hard and cold. “I knew it. This nightmare will never end.” He kicked Smeade a second time and roared, the sound coming from his mouth more animal than man. He turned and strode away toward the end of the bridge, the rain and the darkness quickly swallowing his figure up until Dash could no longer see him.

The carriage hit the bridge hard, throwing all three women up in the air, then bouncing them back down with a thud. Elena opened the coach window and peered
out, the sight of Dash walking straight for the carriage making her scream.

“Stop the coach!” Victoria demanded, thumping the roof as hard as she could.

The driver obeyed, pulling up the horses with marked force. The women held on as the coach rocked to a halt and finally stopped.

Elena threw open the door and leapt out, pulling up her skirts as she ran toward Dash. Just as she reached him he opened his arms, catching her in an embrace. She felt a sticky wetness and looked down. Blood stained his shirt and smeared the front of her dress.

“Oh, my God, Dash,” she gasped, terrified and struggling to remain calm. She pressed her palms to him, seeking out the wound. “Please, my love. Please stay with me.”

He caught her hands in his to still the frantic search. “I am not injured, Elena.”

“But the blood,” she began, straining against his hold.

“It’s Smeade’s—not mine,” he assured her, gently kissing each gloved hand, then closing his eyes.

She looked past his broad shoulders to where a man lay on the bridge. “I thought it was you,” she began, her words thick with tears. “I saw the blood and I …” Elena could not finish her sentence.

Instead, she burrowed deep against Dash’s chest and began to cry long, soulful sobs of relief. “Do not ever leave me again. I could not bear it. I cannot live without you, Dash.”

“Nor I you, Elena,” he answered, resting his chin against her soft curls.

A scream came from just behind them, followed by the telltale sound of a slap.

Elena looked over her shoulder to find Victoria glaring at the scene while Bessie tenderly held her cheek.

“Are you injured, my boy?” Victoria barked, eyeing the blood.

Dash allowed Elena to ease back a step in his arms and looked down at his shirt. “Despite appearances, I am not.”

“Thank God!” Bessie wailed in tearful relief, stepping gingerly away from Victoria’s tense form.

Victoria drew a deep breath and nodded abruptly. “And the man on the ground there. Who is he?”

“Smeade,” Elena answered, looking at the still, lifeless form.

“Good God, though I daresay, choosing between you two,” Victoria replied, “I would much rather it be Smeade than you, dear boy.”

Dash nodded.

Victoria took Bessie’s arm. “Come along, then. This is most likely the one time we’ll be given the chance to see a corpse. And I, for one, will not pass up such an opportunity.”

Bessie patted Dash on the shoulder, pausing briefly. “Do not frighten her so again. Ever.”

The two sisters walked on, though Victoria appeared to be pulling Bessie toward the grisly scene.

“Did he tell you what you needed to know?” Elena asked, looking at Smeade a second time.

Dash’s arms tightened around her. “No.”

“I’m so sorry.” Elena looked into his eyes and realized with absolute confidence that nothing mattered to her more than Dash. If only he felt the same way. “You’ll continue to search, then?” she asked, though she felt certain she knew what his answer would be.

Dash enveloped her in his powerful arms and pulled her protectively closer until she was pressed against him from head to toe. “No.”

“I’m sorry,” she faltered, sure that she’d misheard him.

He placed a soft, soul-searing kiss on her forehead and sighed deeply. “
You
are all that I need, Elena. I know that now. But what about you? Is Brock’s capture and Smeade’s death enough?”

Elena turned her chin up and captured his mouth in a grateful kiss. “It is,” she said with conviction. “Never let me go, Dash. Promise me.”

“I promise, Elena. I will never let you go.”

Everything in Dorset was calm, even tranquil, Dash thought. He breathed in the crisp night air and looked out over the lake from his vantage point in the folly. A full moon illuminated the dark water, the fringe of trees separating it from the fertile land beyond casting fanciful shadows across the waves.

He pulled Elena against him and wrapped his arm about her shoulders. “Are you tired, my love?”

“Yes, but in the best possible way,” she replied, resting her head on his chest. “And Rowena has been such a help. The Dorset branch of the Halcyon Society is almost ready to receive the first of our Verwood residents.”

Dash smiled at the news and an overwhelming sense of pride filled his heart. Elena had worked tirelessly since their wedding and subsequent move to the rented estate that bordered her father’s. She’d overseen the renovation of the home that would house the society. And she’d asked Rowena to assume the role of headmistress, which had pleased the now fully recovered maid greatly.