Page 12 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)
Chapter Six
The Spread Eagle Inn
Tothill Street, Westminster
Clara sat in Mr Daventry’s elegant carriage, gripping the edge of the black leather seat, as the last light faded and dusk crept through the busy yard of the Spread Eagle Inn.
She kept her gaze fixed on the window, nerves strung as tight as a bowstring, scouring the shadows and waiting for her mysterious colleague to appear.
She had spent the day weighing Mr Daventry’s offer, caught between her ambitions and the looming threat of arrest. Ultimately, she had little choice but to accept the temporary post at The Order.
“Has your agent worked for you long?” she asked as two burly coachmen shared a joke a few feet from her window. “I fear he may find my inexperience a hindrance.”
Wearing a confident smile, Mr Daventry was quick to reassure her. “He’s fairly new himself, but he knows London well and has excellent connections.”
Clara tried to picture the fellow, but whenever she imagined someone strong, capable, and quick-witted, only one man sprang to mind. A certain viscount. He tried to call on her twice today, but her mind had been too muddled to cope with thoughts of him.
“He doesn’t object to working with a woman?”
“I only employ forward-thinking men, Miss Dalton. And we cannot leave your fate in the hands of those imbeciles who work at Vine Street.”
“Is that why you suggested we inspect Mr Scarth’s lodging house at night? To avoid meeting Sergeant Brown and his men?”
“Brown is a decent sort, as is the inspector. But decency doesn’t always go hand in hand with logic.” He checked his pocket watch by the glow of the carriage lamp. “Your life is at stake. We cannot afford to wait while they chase after shadows.”
The grim certainty in his voice sent a cold shiver down her spine. “At stake because I’m the easiest person to blame?”
“No,” he said with unnerving gravity. “Because someone left your notes in the journal. That makes it personal, Miss Dalton. And we need to know why.”
Personal?
Who would bear a grudge against her? She had spent most of her life in Chippenham, the last two years hidden away in Henley because she couldn’t bear to live in a house heavy with sorrow.
Unease crawled over her nape. “Perhaps I should write to my brother. He will be furious I’ve kept him in the dark and will blame himself for my unfortunate predicament.”
A memory burst into her mind.
Waking in her brother’s arms, the metallic scent of blood thick in her nose, a searing pain pulsing behind her left eye. Daniel, wetting her lips with laudanum from a glass dropper, whispering sorry over and over.
“Lord Rothley thinks we should wait a few days, and I tend to agree. We need to lure the villain out, not have him hide away when reinforcements arrive. Besides, your brother’s friends will watch over you while we gather evidence.”
Her thoughts immediately turned to the viscount. How would he react when he discovered she’d accepted a perilous position at The Order, working alone alongside a dangerous man without a chaperone?
A sliver of guilt pricked at her. The viscount wouldn’t be there to help her tick off the daring adventures on her list. There would be no time for frivolity. Yet there was nothing more glorious than seeing his blue eyes alight with mischief.
Mr Daventry suddenly sat forward, his gaze shifting to the taproom door. “I believe my agent has just arrived. He’s waiting for you inside and will see you safely home once you’ve searched the lodging house.”
Her heart skipped a beat. This was the most scandalous thing she had ever done. “Does he know about my injury?” she asked, dreading the brief look of horror on a stranger’s face.
“Trust me, Miss Dalton. It won’t matter.”
He was wrong. It always mattered. A whisper behind a fan could haunt a woman for years. Daring to live anyway felt like a victory.
Clara gathered herself as Mr Daventry alighted.
He promptly offered his hand, helping her to the ground. “If you discover anything regarding Miss Nightshade’s murder, report to my office in Hart Street. My housekeeper can reach me if it’s urgent.”
She nodded silently, her mind already racing.
“Good night, Miss Dalton.”
“Good night, sir.”
Aware he was watching her, Clara pushed open the taproom door and stepped inside.
The air reeked of stale beer, wet dogs, and the sour scent of unwashed bodies packed too close.
Boisterous laughter rang out above the din as rough-coated men jostled one another, though some fell silent when they caught sight of her dark cloak and eye patch.
She ignored the stares and scanned the crowd for Mr Daventry’s agent. Someone tall and broad, perhaps a retired runner or a debt-ridden aristocrat.
That’s when she spotted Lord Rutland at a crude wooden table near the hearth. A buxom serving wench leaned close to take his order, yet his gaze stayed fixed on Clara, not the woman’s ample wares.
Her heart stuttered. Heat flooded her chest, as it always did before she remembered to be cross with him. Except she was never cross with him, only with her father and the tragic event that had stolen her sight.
When anger burns fiercely, wounds never heal.
You must try to let go of the past, Clara.
How, when she saw the evidence in her reflection every day?
Lord Rutland rose from his seat, waiting as she approached. “I don’t recall dinner in a rowdy coaching inn being on your list of intrepid quests, Miss Dalton.”
“I don’t recall spying on young women being at the top of yours, my lord,” she shot back. “Yet here you are, appearing like a ghost in the darkness when I least expect it.”
His mouth curled into a confident grin. “What were you expecting? A rugged fellow with skilled hands? Someone more accustomed to shadows and secrets than polished drawing rooms?”
“I was not expecting you.” Yet a breath of relief escaped before she could stop it. “Are you intent on ruining my clandestine affair?”
“I am your clandestine affair.”
She pretended to sound amused, not plagued by an image of them doing something wicked. “Am I supposed to believe you’ve sullied your manicured hands and taken work with Mr Daventry?”
He gestured for her to sit, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Daventry made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. And these manicured hands, Miss Dalton, are far more capable than they appear.”
She arched a brow as she took the seat opposite him. “So you knew we’d be working together before you arrived at the Spread Eagle tonight?”
“Daventry thought it best we find answers ourselves but suggested we do so in a professional capacity.”
The wench returned with a carafe of wine and two glass tumblers. She didn’t spare Clara a glance and focused her attention on the gentleman with the fine coat and the heavier purse.
“Why did you refuse to see me today?” he asked bluntly, dismissing the wench and pouring the wine himself. “I called twice.”
She reached for her wine and took a slow sip, buying herself a moment. “Because I needed time to think, and you enjoy being my one and only distraction.”
Her thoughts drifted to them, cramped in a carriage with her brother on the long journey to Chippenham a few weeks ago. For endless miles, their thighs brushed with every sway of the wheels and dip in the road.
She had stared out the window, feigning indifference, while her heart drummed a restless rhythm, her skin tingling with awareness of a man she had no business thinking about at all.
And yet here he was again.
And her heart hadn’t learned a thing.
His low chuckle stirred the hair on her nape. “Then it seems I’m more dangerous than I appear. A devil in a tailored coat and silk cravat.”
A devil with handsome looks and an easy tongue.
“So dangerous, you purchased tickets to a murder where I’m the prime suspect.” She took another drink of wine and addressed the reason they were sitting in a tavern in Westminster. “What prompted you to buy two tickets for the seance?”
He gave a half-shrug. “Visiting a seance was on your list.”
“You didn’t read my list until the masquerade ball. You already had the tickets then.” She wasn’t a trained constable, but even she could see the flaw in his tale.
“I overheard you talking about it to Miss Woolf the night of the recital,” he confessed. “Miss Woolf has an interest in the macabre and mentioned Miss Nightshade.”
Clara vaguely recalled the conversation. “Is that how you knew I was The Crimson Contessa?” Had he been stalking the ballroom, waiting for the right moment to pounce?
He laughed. “Only you would wear a mask completely covering your left eye. And I would know the gentle sway of your hips anywhere.”
The last comment sent a flush creeping up her neck. She didn’t want to imagine his gaze roaming over her body. Yet a traitorous part of her wanted him to keep looking.
“If we’re to work together,” she said, keeping her tone even despite her quickening pulse, “you must stop treating this like a game. Mr Daventry expects professionalism.”
“Aren’t enquiry agents meant to be observant?”
“You were not an enquiry agent then.”
“Touché,” he said, clinking his glass with hers. “I’ll rephrase my question. Aren’t men meant to observe the sway of a woman’s hips?”
“Why would you want to observe mine?”
Perhaps it was best she didn’t know.
He leaned in a fraction, whispering, “Because some things are worth remembering. Maybe it’s a memory I’ve added to my own private list.”
The scoundrel was teasing her, as he always did, but she was determined to call his bluff. “And what else do you hope to remember when you’re past your prime?”
His smile deepened. “That would be telling, but let’s make a bargain. I’ll reveal something on my list every time we tick one off yours.”
Oh, this man knew how to pique her interest.
“Sadly, I can no longer afford the luxury of gallivanting about town.” A sharp pang of regret gnawed at her. She didn’t want her lasting memories shadowed by murder. “We should dispense with talk of daring pursuits and focus on the case.”