Free The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel by Stefanie Sloane

patience, which was a start.
    He opened his eyes, staring impatiently at the flickering light from the candles. It was only the first day, he reminded himself.
    Despite his appearance and place in society, the perception by the ton that he was one step above a dunce allowed him to be disregarded and thus, nearly invisible. This made him all the more valuable as an agent.
    But Miss Barnes had
seen
him in the alcove. She’d unearthed a piece of Dash so intrinsically tied to his soul that he’d shuddered at his own vulnerability. And in turn, she’d blossomed before his eyes, only to close up once more for reasons only she understood. The encounter had left him breathless. Confused. And worse, distracted.
    He held his forefinger above the candle’s flame, lowering it, then raising it higher as the heat intensified.
    “Do be careful with that candle, Carrington,” a familiar voice commanded simply. “I’d hate for you to compromise your skills with a lock.”
    Dash looked up. Henry Prescott, Viscount Carmichael, had entered the shadowed room. Arms crossed, the older man leaned one shoulder against the wall, clearly at ease. “Please, Carmichael, I could take the crown jewels with my teeth,” he answered with a dismissive shrug, abandoning the casual game with the flame.
    “True enough, but I’d rather you not,” the Corinthian handler answered, moving toward a well-worn leather chair. He settled his tall, wiry frame into the seat, his gaze fixed on Dash with unnerving intensity.
    Dash gathered the sheaf of papers in front of him and smoothly slid them to the far corner of the desktop.“What brings you to the records room so late? How many guineas did Williams fleece you for this evening?”
    “I lost one time, Carrington. And the man cheated, I’m sure of it,” Carmichael answered, his shrewd blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “And you? Not poring over the Afton papers again, are you?” he asked, though he certainly didn’t have to. Carmichael was subtle in everything, but clear. He was disappointed and Dash knew it.
    Dash slumped back comfortably and rested his elbows on the chair arms. “Well, unlike you, I made a small fortune off of Williams this evening. And when that became tedious, I wandered down here out of sheer boredom. Better this than to return home to Miss Barnes and the marchioness. They’ve overtaken the place, I tell you. Next thing I know, my room will be filled with tasseled silk pillows, fashion magazines, and Sèvres vases full of sweet-smelling flowers.”
    Carmichael smiled. “Lady Mowbray?”
    “Precisely.”
    His superior shuddered slightly. “Well, that makes sense. But this Miss Barnes? Surely she’s no match for your charm?”
    “Harcourt’s daughter. Do you know her?” Dash asked, hopeful that Carmichael’s interest was piqued.
    The other man frowned as he considered the name. “I haven’t seen Harcourt in years. And I don’t remember a thing about the daughter. Her mother died giving birth to her, I believe. But that’s all I can recall.”
    “You’re not the only one,” Dash replied. “The chit spent very little time in town—just enough, from what I understand, for one miserable season. The poor thing didn’t take at all. Then she returned to her father’s estate in Dorset, never to be heard from again. Until now.”
    Carmichael nodded. “And how did she find her wayto your home? Seems a strange destination for the woman.”
    “Her presence is due to my father, I’m afraid. Willed his library to Harcourt,” Dash answered flatly. “Not that I’ve any use for the books—read them already. But just how long do you suppose it will take a lady to pack up hundreds of rare and valuable volumes? One week? Perhaps two? Please tell me less than three.”
    “Having a lady in your home is quite dreadful, then?” Carmichael asked, his subtle sarcasm not lost on Dash.
    “Quite,” he said with emphasis. “And she’s a bluestocking to boot.”
    “Ah,”