Page 14 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

Chapter Seven

“ Bravo! Bravo! Stay for an encore! ” the parrots squawked as Bentley led Clara through the gaudy hallway as they prepared to leave.

He leaned closer and whispered, “I know I excel at questioning witnesses, but the birds’ praise is somewhat excessive.”

Clara hid her chuckle behind a polite cough. “Perhaps like me, they’re easily impressed.”

He almost scoffed. “I suggest you peruse your list again. A camel ride and a balloon flight don’t exactly speak of modest expectations.”

“Why aim low when life offers chances to soar? If I only have a short time to do as I please, I intend to dream big.”

And yet it was the little things that made her smile: a shared joke, the glow of fifty lit lanterns, sipping sherry from the same flask. He used to think dreams were fanciful. Yet he’d begun to yearn for foolish things. Impossible things.

“Then I suggest we make the most of every opportunity and cross another adventure off your list. We are a stone’s throw from Westminster Abbey.”

She gasped in surprise. “Climb the steps to the tower at midnight? But it’s only ten o’clock. And how will we gain entrance?”

He smiled, gratified by her eagerness. “Leave that to me. And we can spend time at the top. As long as we’re there when the bells toll twelve, that should suffice.”

Her lips parted as though to refuse, her fading smile hinting at an inner battle. “We should go straight home.”

“You don’t want to go home.”

“No. I want to gaze upon the city at night. To hear the quiet hum, see the glow of candlelight in the darkness. To know that one can find beauty in anything, if one knows where to look.”

They stopped at Mrs Morven’s front door, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Clara. He wanted to see that spark of wonder light her face, to hear her panting with elation and laughing loudly, because he’d heard her crying too many times to count.

The parrots, attuned to their audience, squawked, “ Steal a kiss! Take a bow! ”

And the moment was gone.

Bentley glanced back just as Mrs Morven clapped her hands and scolded, “That’s quite enough from the gallery. Honestly, I don’t know who’s teaching them to be so impolite.”

The comment reminded Bentley that someone else had come looking for Silas Scarth. “You mentioned you caught a man snooping,” he said as Mrs Morven opened the door to see them out. “Can you describe him?”

She hummed as she thought. “Tallish. Thick whiskers. Said he was a friend of Silas’ though I’d never seen him before. Walked like he was used to marching, and asked too many questions.”

“Did he give a name?”

Mrs Morven snorted. “Mr Smith. Which is as good as saying he was the King of Siam.”

“You have my card,” Bentley said. “If Scarth returns, contact us at the office of The Order. I fear his life may depend on it.”

Mrs Morven sobered at that, her painted features tightening just a touch. She gave a single, deliberate nod. Then, as if brushing off a chill, she closed the door with a quiet click and called, “Back to work, my beauties!” before breaking into a full-throated aria.

Noticing their approach, Gibbs straightened atop his box and gathered up the reins. Would Daventry’s man have something to say when Bentley told him they weren’t ready to depart?

“We’ll take a hackney cab home, Gibbs,” Bentley said, hoping the man needed no further details for his nightly report. “You may retire for the evening.”

Gibbs stared from beneath his heavy brow. “I’ve orders to see you both home, my lord. I won’t be leaving Westminster without you.”

Clara stepped forward. “Good evening, Mr Gibbs.”

“Just Gibbs will suffice.”

Through a watery smile, she said, “I suppose you prefer straight talking to charm and persuasion.”

“Charm is just a polished lie, Miss Dalton. Still, no amount of straight talking will convince me to abandon you in Westminster.”

“Then you won’t take pity on a woman wearing an eye patch?”

Gibbs grunted. “Pity’s a wasted breath. I’ve seen enough injuries to know it’s no mark of weakness.”

“Excellent. We’re visiting the Abbey. You may wait for us there.”

“Climb inside and I’ll take you.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” she countered.

“Because Daventry doesn’t hire fools or villains, ma’am.”

“Then, as we share the same employer, we understand each other perfectly.”

“Seems like we do.”

Before Bentley could offer his hand, Clara climbed into the carriage unaided. The intimate moment in Mrs Morven’s hallway had passed. He said nothing, yet recognised the familiar weight of her armour settling back into place.

As the carriage jolted into motion, he waited until the clatter of wheels found its rhythm before speaking. “What do you make of Scarth’s note about Miss Picklescott?”

Clara glanced out the window, not at him. “As yet, we don’t know Mr Scarth wrote it. He may have stolen the journal from Miss Nightshade. That’s why he hid it under the mattress.”

Bentley considered the point. Plausible, yes, but something still nagged at him. “Or Scarth was tasked with providing the material for the seance. That would explain the names and family details Mrs Morven recalled seeing.”

The prospect seemed to startle her, a sliver of fear darkening her face. “You mean he manipulated us? Made us believe he heard secret whispers from our deceased relatives?”

“It’s not difficult to read people.” Strangers, at least. Clara Dalton was different, like a letter deliberately smudged, every line blurred. Yet when her fingers lingered on the Celtic clasp, it told him something. “You wear the brooch often. I’d wager it was a gift from someone you loved.”

“It could have been a gift from a gentleman.”

The thought hit like a blow to the gut. The idea of her smiling for another man unsettled him more than it should.

“If I’d bought you a gift, Miss Dalton, it would have been something more fitting. A pearl choker, perhaps.”

“A choker? Why?”

“Because it would rest at your throat,” he said, imagining his fingers brushing the delicate skin at her nape as he fastened it, pausing just long enough to inhale the sweet scent of her hair. “Drawing the eye to where a man might wish to lay his lips.”

Her breath came faster, the rise and fall of her chest betraying more than surprise. The air between them thickened with unspoken need.

He had never known a silence like it. Not in courtship. Not in the throes of passion. He’d long ago mastered the art of detachment, trained himself to observe without engaging emotion. Cool. Calm. Casual.

But this—this was different.

“I suppose all men think alike,” she said, her censure plain. “You speak for all those who’ve bought gifts for a mistress.”

Oh, he wouldn’t permit her to ruin the moment with a barbed defence. He would not be the one to surrender. It was time Clara Dalton knew there was a warrior beneath his elegant facade.

“No,” he said, his gaze moving from her throat to her mouth. “I speak as a man who’s wondered what your skin tastes like, Clara.”

More than wondered.

He’d started having waking dreams about it.

She swallowed hard, her throat working tirelessly. “What do you imagine it tastes like?” she asked, the question soft and unintentionally provocative.

“Like summer,” he confessed, heat coiling low, desire pulsing through every nerve. “Like freedom. Like the first bite of something forbidden. Something so sweet, nothing else could ever compare.”

He had said too much.

Crossed a line he’d promised he never would. He wasn’t bound to Miss Woodall, a fact he would reinforce without apology tomorrow, but Clara had set her sights far beyond London. A future that didn’t include any man, least of all him.

The carriage drew to a halt, sparing him further reflection.

Westminster Abbey rose before them, its towers stark against the night sky, the air thick with the rank stench of the river. Its ancient walls pressed in around the dead, heavy with the burden of buried kings, whispered vows, and sins that lit candles couldn’t erase.

Clara opened the carriage door herself and stepped down quickly, as if the smouldering tension between them had grown suffocating.

Bentley followed. The night air was cool against his skin, yet it did little to calm the heat simmering in his blood. “We’ll be two hours, Gibbs.”

Gibbs gave a grunt of acknowledgement and reached into his greatcoat, removing a small book that looked dainty in his meaty paws. “I’ll be here, beneath the gas lamp,” he said, settling back like a man few people would dare disturb.

Bentley led Clara across the quiet square and into Dean’s Yard, approaching the south side of the Abbey. Gaslight flickered against the ancient stone, catching the tracery of arched windows and the worn faces of saints carved centuries ago.

“Still certain this is a good idea?” he asked Clara.

He half-expected her to change her mind. And yet, he’d come to know one thing with certainty. Nothing made her feel more alive than the thrill of a daring pursuit.

“I’ve always wanted to climb the tower,” she said, her composure restored. “But how do you plan to get past the ancient doors?”

“Through the Cloister Gate.” He gestured towards the arched passage between the old walls. “I arranged it today after Daventry mentioned Scarth lived nearby. Just because we’re investigating Miss Nightshade’s murder doesn’t mean we must forgo our own ambitions.”

She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “Our ambitions? You went to a great deal of effort for something that matters only to me?”

He shrugged. “I’m doing it as much for myself as for you.”

It wasn’t a lie. Though he had no desire to climb a hundred narrow steps or admire the city cloaked in shadow, he wanted to be the man who helped her chase her dreams.

He wasn’t entirely sure why it mattered. Perhaps it was something Miss Nightshade had said. Or perhaps, like Clara, he was learning to listen to his heart.

She glanced at him, then at the high tower. “Well, if we’re both seeking solace elsewhere, we may as well do it together.”