Page 10 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)
She didn’t care to hear from her husband or other children, just the son whose memory she clung to like a lifeline in a storm.
“Before Miss Nightshade died on stage, she told me I was destined to live a miserable existence if I didn’t act now.” The answer brought a sudden clarity, a way to free himself and spare his mother further pain. “She said I must marry for love or rue the day. A wise man would take her advice.”
Mrs Woodall nearly toppled from her chair in shock.
She gaped at Bentley, then at her pretty daughter, who sat poised like a preened pet, confident his words changed nothing.
Across the table, his own mother’s expression hardened, the same look she wore whenever she wielded Marcus’ memory like a blade, knowing it would cut him where he was weakest.
“Only a weak man would be swayed by the theatrics of a performer claiming to speak with the dead,” Miss Woodall said, too dismissively. “I’m certain his lordship will honour the promise our families made, regardless of these silly otherworldly whispers.”
His mother turned sharply. “You may mock what you do not understand, Sarah, but I will not have the line between worlds spoken about with such disdain.”
Keen to escape, Inspector Mercer cleared his throat. “We should leave for the station-house, my lord. Your statement will be required to support the claims made by the suspect.”
Anger flared. “She’s not a suspect.”
“She?” His mother’s voice quivered with poorly concealed alarm. “You went with a companion? Who is she? Perhaps you went in a group. Was it Mr Gentry and his wife?”
He ignored the barrage of questions and Miss Woodall’s flinty stare. Rising from his chair, he faced the inspector. “I trust you’ll release her this morning, Inspector, or there’ll be the devil to pay. I’ll not rest until her name is cleared and the real murderer is brought to justice.”
He saw his mother flinch at his words, but he couldn’t soften them. Miss Woodall’s glare burned into him, but he welcomed it. Better their discomfort than Clara’s ruin.
Vine Street Police Office
Piccadilly
Clara sat stiffly in Inspector Mercer’s office, flanked by the Marquess of Rothley and her friend Miss Olivia Woolf. The air was thick with the scent of damp clothes, stale pipe smoke, and an old meat pie abandoned on the desk.
The marquess checked his pocket watch and grumbled, “How much longer are we expected to wait here? It’s not like the man is searching for the Ark of the Covenant.”
Beyond the door, the station bustled with the tramp of heavy boots, the scrape of chairs on wood, and the occasional barked command. Then came the sounds of a scuffle: thudding blows, vile curses and drunken slurs, a surge of violence that made Clara flinch.
She stared at the inspector’s empty chair, willing herself to block out the noise, but it stirred unwanted memories. The argument outside her father’s study. The moment he burst in to reveal her mother had died in a fall. Thrown from her mare by the river near Cocklebury.
Everything changed that day.
She endured her father’s raging grief for six years before the flick of a riding crop left her blind in her left eye. And though she mourned her mother’s passing, she always believed it was a terrible accident until those dreadful words left Lavinia’s lips last night.
Agnes died with stained hands.
Stained by silence, not blood.
That’s why someone killed her.
It was nonsense. A means of scaring the audience.
Yet Clara spent sleepless hours imagining a fiend spooking the horse and grappling with the reins.
Turning her mind to more pleasant memories brought little comfort.
Although the viscount tried to delight her with a visit to the magical Lantern Ring, he’d left her yearning for something beyond her reach.
A pretty, titled lady might dare to hope. But a wise woman did not reach for the stars when her life was cast in shadow.
“Perhaps you should see what’s keeping the inspector,” Clara said, thankful the marquess happened to be leaving the bookshop in Clerkenwell just as Olivia entered the street, her note from Clara still in hand. What were the odds?
“I imagine the inspector is delayed in George Street.”
Clara straightened. “George Street? He left the police office?”
The inspector told her to wait while he fetched the incriminating document, the one that saw her hauled to the station-house and almost got her furious housekeeper arrested.
She glanced at the closed door. Signora Conti was ordered to wait in the entrance hall after calling the inspector an English donkey. Clara had no doubt the housekeeper was still there, cursing in Italian and praying to Saint Catherine for patience.
“I believe the inspector is visiting the other witness,” the marquess said with a wry expression. “Lord Rutland is your alibi, is he not? You were alone together until the early hours.”
Affronted at the implication they were anything more than friends, she snapped, “We were both at the seance if that’s your meaning.”
Her thoughts flashed to the moment the viscount said goodnight, the echo of romantic music still humming in her mind, the ache for something she could not define.
He’d lingered at the door, a silent beat stretching between them.
Something about the way he looked at her made her feel like a desirable woman, not someone who should jerk away in shame.
She would refuse to let him accompany her again.
It was a kindness she couldn’t afford to mistake for more.
There was a fine line between generosity and pity.
“Only at the seance?” the marquess queried. “It was three this morning when your housekeeper sent word confirming you were home.”
“Are you spying on me, my lord?”
“Yes. I promised your brother no harm would befall you while he was away in Chippenham.” He glanced Olivia’s way. “And I can be relied upon should any unexpected difficulty arise.”
“I know you’d move mountains to help a friend in need,” Clara said, catching the subtle way the marquess angled his body towards Olivia, wordlessly inviting her trust. “Why else would you be here?”
Lord Rothley’s protectiveness was steady, dependable. It lacked the dangerous pull she sometimes felt in Bentley’s company, a truth she scarcely dared admit.
“A trouble shared is a trouble halved,” he said. “And a man in my position can get results where common decency fails.”
“Good, then I pray you put an end to this farce,” Clara said. “Regardless of the evidence the inspector believes he has found, I did not murder Miss Nightshade.”
“I wouldn’t trust the constables to conduct a thorough investigation,” Olivia added, her tone edged with cynicism. “They accused me of leaving my door unlocked, though the splintered wood around the lock proved otherwise.”
The marquess leaned forward, his dark eyes sharpening, but the office door flew open before he could speak. The mood shifted at once. It wasn’t the inspector who strode in but a man whose quiet authority seemed to command the space without effort.
Mr Daventry, head of The Order—a select band of elite enquiry agents and a friend of the Marquess of Rothley—tossed his leather portfolio onto the desk and dropped into the inspector’s worn chair.
As no introduction was necessary, the handsome agent with dark, brooding looks said, “I spoke to the Home Secretary and had him assign me to the case. Tarrington is the obvious suspect, but he’s doing everything possible to deflect the blame.”
“And I suppose a woman with an eye patch made of crow feathers is the obvious choice of villain,” Clara added.
Mr Daventry’s expression softened. “The truth hides behind the most polished faces, Miss Dalton. It’s why people are quick to point at the unusual. But I wouldn’t be here if I thought you were guilty of murder.”
“Thank you,” Clara said, feeling somewhat reassured. “Inspector Mercer alluded to a document found at the crime scene, one that must surely incriminate me.”
“While we await his return, perhaps you can tell me exactly what happened last night.” He relaxed back and steepled his fingers. “Leave nothing out.”
“There’s not much to tell,” she said, though her mind betrayed her with images from The Lantern Ring: people dancing, the glint in the viscount’s eyes as he drank from the flask where her mouth had been moments before. “We went to a seance, and the medium died on stage.”
“Do you believe Miss Nightshade communed with spirits?”
Clara hesitated. “She certainly seemed to know things. Trivial things about the lives of people in the audience.”
Lord Rothley gave a short laugh while casting a covert glance at Olivia. “It’s surprising what one can learn simply by speaking to a person’s neighbours.”
Olivia looked at the marquess with mild interest. “Perhaps Miss Nightshade spent years perfecting her craft. Reading people can reveal a great deal. Wounded men, for example, often prefer to speak plainly rather than risk being deceived again.”
The marquess shifted in his seat.
“Wounded men make excellent enquiry agents,” Mr Daventry said. “They see what others miss. And when they give their heart, they guard it fiercely. For the right woman, they’d walk through fire.”
Clara looked down at her hands folded in her lap. It was a beautiful sentiment, but one she feared was not meant for her. That kind of devotion belonged to other women, women untouched by scandal and unmarred by scars.
Before Clara could dwell on it further, the door opened sharply and Inspector Mercer strode into the office, Lord Rutland close behind with a look that could shatter stone.
The inspector’s coat was creased from travel, his expression carefully neutral. “Daventry,” he said with a courteous nod, “a word outside, if I may.”
Mr Daventry rose. “By all means.”
When the men left, Lord Rutland crossed the room in three purposeful strides and crouched beside Clara’s chair. Heavens, he smelled divine. Who knew sandalwood could spark heat in someone’s blood?