Page 11 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice tight, his eyes scanning hers with fierce concern. “They had no right to bring you here, not without a shred of evidence. Someone will answer for it, I swear.”

“It’s merely procedure.” She managed a smile. “By all accounts, they have evidence against me, though it must be fabricated. I never left your side last night.”

“If you’re guilty, so am I,” he growled.

“Mr Daventry seemed confident this was all a terrible mistake,” Olivia interjected. “Is it true his agents often help those who can’t afford to hire them?”

The marquess was quick to answer. “If you need help, Miss Woolf, you only need ask.”

She dismissed him abruptly. “I was enquiring for a friend.”

Mr Daventry returned with the inspector and Signora Conti.

The Italian housekeeper entered the office in a flurry of agitation, brown eyes bright with indignation, tugging her coat tightly across her chest. “ Che vergogna. Trattare una donna così! ” she mumbled.

“I agree. It is a damned disgrace,” the viscount said, moving to stand behind Clara’s chair as if to shield her from the next blow.

The marquess rose and offered Signora Conti his seat.

She hesitated, then sat with a brusque nod of thanks.

Mr Daventry addressed her in Italian. “ Fidatevi di me per fare la cosa giusta. Ma vi prego, tenete a freno la lingua. ”

Clara understood a little of what he’d said. Something about trusting him to do his job and minding her errant tongue.

Mr Daventry turned to the matter at hand. “It appears Miss Nightshade kept a journal, which was found at the emporium. Inspector Mercer has someone comparing the handwriting with letters found in her apartment.”

The inspector nodded. “Most of the pages were torn out, except for the blank sheets and the one that mentioned you, Miss Dalton.”

“Me?” Her pulse fluttered in her throat. She had never met Lavinia Nightshade. Why would the famed medium write about her? “What did it say?”

Inspector Mercer removed the folded sheet from his coat pocket before looking at those packed into his office. “Perhaps you’d rather we spoke about this privately.”

Her heart thumped in her chest. “I have nothing to hide, Inspector.” Except for the truth about her accident, but Lavinia couldn’t know about that. “These men are my brother’s friends and are like family.”

The man peeled open the folds. “Do you know why Miss Nightshade recorded details of your family history?”

Every muscle in Clara’s body stiffened.

“Probably because she was pretending to speak to the dead,” the viscount snapped. “I suspect she had a record of every person in attendance. I gave our names when I purchased the tickets from the clerk at The Arcane Emporium.”

“When was this?” Clara said, surprised he had given her name when she’d only agreed to accompany him the night before. The lord was far too presumptuous.

“A week ago.”

The inspector cleared his throat. “Miss Nightshade wrote: Convince Miss Dalton her mother is present. Frighten her and reveal that her mother hid a terrible secret .”

“Surely that supports the theory Lavinia Nightshade was a fraud,” Clara said. “The warning was so vague, I can scarcely recall it.”

That was a lie. The panic in the medium’s voice had sent a cold ripple down her spine. The suggestion that someone killed her mother was ludicrous. Yet thoughts of her father crowded her mind. Could he have done something unlawful, something to explain his explosive rage?

“Miss Nightshade said strange things to everyone in the audience,” Lord Rutland said. “She accused us all of being sinners.”

“I’m told you accused her of being a charlatan.”

“I believe she was.”

“The medium wrote that Miss Dalton seemed fragile when they met at the museum three days ago.” The inspector handed Mr Daventry the evidence for him to peruse. “Do you recall what you spoke about?”

Clara frowned. “Fragile? I met Miss Nightshade for the first time last night.” Had the medium assumed that being broken on the outside meant the cracks ran deep? Was Clara’s inner sorrow as plain as a branding mark?

Mr Daventry and the inspector shared a curious look.

“You were at the museum?” Inspector Mercer asked.

“At the British Museum, yes.” Conducting research for her list. “I passed pleasantries with a few people but went alone.”

Though she had promised to remain silent, Signora Conti said, “You want the truth. Look for the ripped pages. They will lead you to the real devil. Miss Dalton, she has suffered enough.”

Inspector Mercer’s gaze drifted to Clara’s blue eye patch. “You’re free to return home for the time being, Miss Dalton. Mr Daventry has agreed to act as surety while we gather more evidence.”

Clara released the breath she had been holding since the inspector knocked on her door this morning. “Will Mr Daventry be overseeing the investigation?” She would sleep easier knowing that were the case.

The inspector bristled. “We’ve agreed to work together to resolve the matter quickly. I ask that you remain in town until our enquiries are complete.”

“How long will that be?” She needed to leave London before Lord Rutland’s betrothal ball. She hoped never to see him again after that. Hoped these strange feelings dwindled and died.

Mr Daventry answered. “There were twelve people there that night, including Tarrington and Silas Scarth, who, as you know, is missing. But I’m confident we’ll have the villain in custody within the fortnight, if not sooner.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Lord Rutland said.

Clara felt the quiet pressure of his hands on the rail of her chair, the nearness unsettling, like a sudden thrum beneath her skin.

Inspector Mercer shook his head slowly. “Best leave this to the police, my lord. As you’re both suspects and witnesses, I wouldn’t want it said we’re biased. No. We’ll call on you when the time’s right.”

Everyone but the inspector left the office and gathered outside on the pavement. The midday sun shone brightly, but Clara’s thoughts were dark, tangled in the mystery that seemed to revolve around her.

Why was hers the only name left in Miss Nightshade’s journal?

Was someone trying to make her the scapegoat?

Lord Rutland turned to her. “I came with the inspector, but Rothley has agreed to take us all home.”

She sensed he wanted to speak privately, but she had enough troubles without battling her growing attraction to him. She had agreed to one outing, one that ended in disaster. There would be no more.

What about The Lantern Ring? her heart whispered.

Those stolen hours had been magical. A dream she would revisit when the chill of loneliness crept into her bones. But the memory was dangerous. A temptation she dared not feed when her future demanded cold resolve.

Thankfully, Mr Daventry insisted on escorting Clara, Olivia, and Signora Conti home, and they gratefully accepted. After brief farewells, the marquess and the viscount watched in silence as the carriage pulled away.

“There’s no need to take Miss Woolf home,” Clara informed him. “She’s spending the afternoon with me in Bedford Square.”

Mr Daventry nodded and exchanged the usual pleasantries, then gestured for Clara to remain in the carriage when they reached the house.

Once they were alone, his tone shifted. “I know what the inspector said, but it wouldn’t hurt to make a few discreet enquiries yourself.” He passed her a folded piece of paper. “Mr Scarth’s last known abode and the names of everyone in attendance last night.”

She looked at him, shock giving way to fear, then something close to excitement. “You want me to investigate Miss Nightshade’s death?” Such a task would focus her mind, settle these strange emotions.

“I’m sure you would rather not sit idly while someone tries to frame you for murder,” he added. “Why not seek answers and report your findings to me?”

“Will it not be dangerous?” she asked, though mentally added the task to her list of daring adventures. “And I assumed, based on the serious nature of the crime, you would send for my brother.”

“The marquess agreed there was little point dragging your brother back to town when his friends can handle matters. If they charge you, that would be a different affair.”

“Charge me?” She struggled to swallow. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“No, but the devious nature of this crime suggests you’ll face obstacles ahead.” Mr Daventry studied her through dark, intelligent eyes. “Tell me, Miss Dalton, will you be content to rusticate in the country and live as a spinster?”

Clara met his gaze. “It’s not a question of whether I will be happy, sir. It’s a matter of limited options.”

He was quick to suggest an alternative. “I’ve employed female enquiry agents before, Miss Dalton. Solve this case, and you could work for me. At the very least, it gives you another option to consider.”

She fell silent. The idea of being useful had immense appeal, yet it meant staying in London, and that posed a problem.

“Perhaps I could decide on my future after I’ve proved my innocence.” The work might overshadow her need to put some distance between herself and a certain viscount.

“Of course. However, there is one stipulation.”

She should have known there was a catch. The agent was skilled in mental warfare, an expert in luring the unsuspecting into a trap.

“Yes?”

“During this trial period, you would be required to work alongside a male colleague. Safety is a priority. I would feel better knowing you’re not alone in the field.”

Clara managed a nod, though her stomach knotted. A male colleague. Of course. Someone scarred and half-blind couldn’t possibly cope alone. The practical part of her understood the reasoning, but the sting of doubt she fought daily was harder to ignore.

“Is it an agent I know? Mr Sloane or Mr D’Angelo?”

“No. A recent addition. But I’m confident you’ll find him agreeable.”