The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match A Regency Rogues Novel (36 page)

She was five-and-twenty. If there’d been a prince for her, he’d long ago gone in search of a far more fair damsel, Elena thought philosophically. She calmly met her father’s gaze, and then pointedly turned her attention to the fine day.

Brilliant yellow daffodils and creamy Lady Jane tulips bloomed in clusters about the folly. A sea of bluebells spread out before her, their minuscule heads bobbing on the breeze. And just past the
lake, a doe and her speckled fawn nibbled at the sweet spring grass.

Elena contemplated the beauty of her pastoral home. She was content, in her own way. Hours spent relegated to the ranks of older women and wallflowers in ballrooms during her one season had firmly beaten down any hopes she may have harbored for a life in London. She’d been plain. And even worse, curved where she should have been straight. Heavy, when she should have been light. None of which had mattered a whit in Dorset.

But in London,
everything
about her appearance and comportment was taken into consideration.

And the women of the ton had judged her harshly—as if her inability to attract a man somehow made her completely undeserving of kindness or friendship.

She discreetly eyed a long curl of her brown hair where it lay against her shoulder, thoughtfully studied the formless moss-green muslin gown that hid her generous curves, and finally looked at the leather-bound book in her lap.

Bluestocking
. Elena could still recall the first time she’d heard a fellow debutante call her that. She’d questioned whether the funds used to sponsor a young woman’s season wouldn’t be better spent on the poor. The room had fallen eerily quiet at her temerity, like a Dorset winter’s morn after the first snowfall.

Elena mentally shook herself from the cold, crystalized memory. She’d left London shortly after. Turned tail, some surely said. Elena, in her darkest moments, might agree.

She’d been fully aware that returning to Dorset permanently would, most likely, end any chance of a suitable match. Again, perseverance was all well and good. But Elena was no fool.

Her father stretched his legs, the effort causing him to wince from pain.

The movement drew Elena from her musing and she slipped the cashmere shawl from her shoulders to tuck it around her father’s. “What on earth possessed you to risk inflaming your gout by venturing this far afield? It is spring, but still cold enough to do you harm.”

“The lure of seeing you smile was too great to resist,” he replied cryptically.

Elena narrowed her eyes. “Come now, I do so all the time. Surely you could have waited until dinner.”

“Oh, but this smile …” Lord Harcourt paused, grinning knowingly, “This smile will rival that of Euphrosyne.”

Elena’s heart leapt at the mention of the Greek goddess of joy. Her father knew better than to invoke one of her favorite mythological characters without just cause. “You’ve my complete attention. Please, amaze me with your news,” she proclaimed eagerly.

Reaching into his waistcoat, he drew out a letter. He slowly opened the thick, cream-colored paper and began meticulously smoothing out the folds—every last one of them.

“You torture me for the fun of it, don’t you?” Elena admonished, craning her neck in a vain attempt to read the inverted script.

Lord Harcourt chuckled and mercifully handed the letter to her. “Just a touch. You do make it so easy—and enjoyable. No one would blame me.”

Elena righted the letter and began to read. The elegant handwriting was unfamiliar, but soon enough, the names mentioned within the lines began to make sense.

As did the message itself. Thrilling, fantastic, perfect sense.

“Am I to understand …” Elena asked, carefully setting her book on the bench between them before abruptly standing with the correspondence in her hand.

“I’m afraid I won’t be of much use until you complete your sentence, my dear.”

Elena reread the letter, turning in slow circles as she did so. “That the fifth Viscount Carrington has died—”

“Rather a sad fact for you to be so happily contemplating, wouldn’t you say,” her father interrupted to point out.

“Oh, of course,” she agreed remorsefully, stopping
in front of him. “He was a dear friend, was he not?”

Her father grinned again. “That he was, Elena. And he’d lived an interesting life, which is a blessing, indeed. I’d venture to guess the man is sitting at the right hand of the Almighty at this very moment, happily setting to work on one puzzle or another, as he was wont to do.”

Elena realized he’d only been teasing her further and frowned at him before continuing. “Am I to understand,” she began again, “that the fifth viscount Carrington died and his son has offered you the late lord’s entire collection of antiquarian books?”

Lord Harcourt appeared to be contemplating her words. “Yes,” he finally confirmed.

“Including the Paolini?” she ventured, not stopping to scold him as she held her breath.

“Including the Paolini.”

Giacomo Paolini’s
Abecedary Illustrations of Greek Mythology
dated back to the fifteenth century. A single copy had survived. And it resided in the Carrington library.

Elena felt the rush of excitement bubble from her belly to her chest, and finally her face.

“Ah, that is the smile I was waiting for,” her father said, standing with some difficulty.

She automatically offered her arm just as the sun’s rays began to slant toward the horizon. “When will you go?”

“Go where, my dear?” Lord Harcourt asked as he allowed Elena to assist him down the steps of the folly.

“To Carrington House in London, of course,” she replied distractedly, her mind already contemplating where the valuable tome would be placed in the library at Harcourt House.

“Oh, there. Yes, well, you see, I won’t be.”

Elena stopped, forcing her father to do the same. “What do you mean? Lord Carrington is expecting you.”

He gestured ahead to where a cart and horse waited, and they set off once again. “That may be, but I can hardly travel with this gout plaguing me so. You will have to go in my stead.”

“Father, is that really necessary?” Elena countered. “Could we not send Mr. Ghent after the book—that is, books?”

Lord Harcourt patted his daughter’s hand. “And are you aware of my estate manager’s knowledge of such things, my dear?”

“No,” she admitted, already anticipating what would come next.

“Mr. Ghent knows no more of priceless books than a robin does,” her father replied. “He’s a good man, Mr. Ghent, but not the sort one sends to collect such valuables. Your expertise is needed, my dear.”

Elena could hardly argue. She would not risk her father’s health by insisting that he travel, and she’d
not risk the safety of the books by employing Mr. Ghent.

Besides, there was no one more uniquely qualified to catalogue the tomes than herself. Their own library was a thing of beauty, if Elena did say so herself. From the time she could toddle along with the help of her dear nurse’s hand, the baron had welcomed Elena into the enormous room that housed his most prized possessions. She’d come to love not only the books themselves, but the respectful process that was required for the care and safekeeping of the delicate volumes. They were an extended family of sorts to her, each one with its own unique place in her heart.

And Lord Carrington’s books? Could she leave them in the hands of an unschooled individual? Elena envisioned rare books being tossed hither and yon, thrown into trunks without the benefit of even the most basic of lists to distinguish one collection from the other. It was too much to bear.

“I see,” she answered practically, relishing the warmth of the sun’s fading rays. “Of course, I’ll go. We’ve no other choice, do we?”

“No,” her father confirmed, patting her arm reassuringly.

Elena looked again at the letter in her hand. She’d met Dashiell Matthews once, which had been quite enough for her. She couldn’t recall much about him, but she did remember the man had caught the attention of eligible females within the length and
breadth of London—and quite a few ineligible ones as well. He was tall and broad, with golden hair and a face that could only be described as beautiful.

If you liked that sort of thing
, Elena thought, feigning disinterest.

“And so I shall go,” she agreed resolutely. They reached the aged farm cart and Elena allowed the groom to lift her onto the seat. She attempted to smooth her wrinkled skirt, ultimately accepting defeat and folding her hands tightly in her lap.

Returning to London had not been in her plans—ever.

But neither had acquiring Paolini’s
Abecedary
.

She would travel as soon as possible, catalogue and pack the books, then return to Harcourt House before her father had time to miss her.

Simple. Straightforward. Just as Elena preferred.

“Good God,” Dash muttered under his breath as he watched the landau bearing Elizabeth Bradshaw, Marchioness of Mowbray, pull to a stop in front of Carrington House.

Several heavy leather trunks were lashed to the conveyance, leaving Dash to wonder if there’d been room for the marchioness. He narrowed his eyes and peered through the window, fully expecting to
find the interior filled with the familiar boxy shapes of yet more trunks.

Instead, he discovered a pair of bright green eyes watching him above a mouth that curved upward in a mischievous smile.

A footman dutifully opened the lacquered carriage door and lowered the steps, extending his hand. Lady Mowbray graciously accepted his aid and stepped from the carriage onto the pavers. She pulled her deep crimson pelisse tightly about her narrow shoulders and beamed at Dash.

“Lady Mowbray,” Dash addressed the handsome older woman, walking to her side. “My dear lady, it’s delightful to see you. And looking as beautiful as always, I must say.”

The marchioness turned her cheek and allowed Dash to chastely kiss her soft, scented skin. “Yes, you must say, as I’m wearing a new gown. But ‘delightful to see me’? Come now, my lord. Our shared history assures we may speak plainly, does it not?”

“You question my sincerity?” Dash asked with amusement, offering Lady Mowbray his arm. He waited while she adjusted her gloves, and then led her toward the wide, solid steps of Carrington House.

“Always,” she confirmed, gracefully adjusting the pale yellow scarf tied jauntily about her neck. “That is why I’m your favorite aunt.”

The irresistible woman was not his aunt, strictly speaking. But she may as well have been. Dash
could not recall a time when Lady Mowbray had not been poking about his affairs, firmly asserting that her role as his mother’s dearest friend gave her the right to do so. Not that the woman needed permission—at least not to her way of thinking. She could be incredibly opinionated and pushy, but Dash loved her all the same. Lady Mowbray knew him better than almost anyone else in his life. And so he overlooked her many annoying habits.

Though the number of trunks did give him pause.

“Now,” the marchioness began, patting Dash’s arm. “When does Miss Barnes arrive? I cannot wait to make her acquaintance. She is rumored to be quite intelligent—perhaps even as sharp as you, my boy.”

The hair on Dash’s neck prickled at the woman’s words. “Do not even think on it,” he warned.

“Think on what?” she replied innocently, gracefully lifting her skirts as they mounted the stairs.

Dash shook his head slowly in disbelief. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Your attempts to secure a wife on my behalf are legendary.”

“I would hardly call them legendary, my boy—”

“Lady Emma Scott?” Dash interrupted. The very mention of the woman’s name quieted the marchioness.

A footman opened wide the oaken front door and stepped aside. “That was simply a bit of bad luck,” Lady Mowbray
countered, sweeping into the foyer ahead of Dash. “How was I to know she was acutely allergic to flowers?”

Dash groaned and released her arm. “Precisely. Which is why you’ve no place dabbling in such matters—ever,” he answered. “I do adore you, but come now. You’ve behaved so well since the infamous Scott scene. I thought you’d learned your lesson.”

“Really, my lord, you haven’t a clue as to how the female mind works, do you?” the marchioness answered blithely and patted him reassuringly on the arm.

Lady Mowbray handed her pelisse to a waiting servant and removed her poke bonnet. “Now, I would like to retire to my room. I would prefer to be settled before Miss Barnes arrives so that she might have my full attention. After all, it is my duty as her chaperone to provide instruction and guidance to the girl, is it not?”

Dash groaned a second time as the marchioness handed him the hat.

“We’re in agreement, then. Splendid,” she replied, clapping her hands together. “Tell me, where is my chamber?”

Dash stared at the bonnet in his hands. “The west wing. Bell will accompany you.”

“And Miss Barnes? Will she be housed in the east wing—with you?” Lady Mowbray inquired innocently.

Dash gripped the hat in a death hold and cleared his throat. “Bessie …” he said warningly.

“Really, my boy. It’s merely that the east wing affords a superior view of the city.”