Page 16 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)
Chapter Eight
Bedford Square, Mayfair
Two days later.
The toast had gone cold. So had the tea.
Clara sat at the breakfast table, morning light filtering through the window and glinting off the silver spoon in her untouched marmalade. But her thoughts were far from food.
All she could think about was the kiss.
It lasted mere seconds yet shattered her defences, leaving behind the deep pulse of desire and the shock of feeling truly alive.
No moment in her life had ever compared to the one she’d shared with Viscount Rutland on the parapet of the Abbey tower.
It wasn’t just his hot mouth on hers or the press of his hard body, but the way he made her feel.
Desired. Wanted. As if she were the only woman he craved.
Damn the rakish devil.
He was intent on ruining everything.
She wouldn’t be in this predicament if it weren’t for him. Nor would she have ticked two activities off her list. Maybe three now, since she had never kissed a man, let alone with such reckless abandon.
A sudden wave of heat had her fanning herself with the napkin.
Thankfully, she’d managed to avoid him yesterday, citing a megrim, though in truth she couldn’t face him. Not until she’d silenced every wanton thought rattling about in her head.
Her gaze fell on the kippers, congealing unpleasantly on their plate.
Kippers. That’s what she’d think about next time she saw him. Rotten kippers. Bones and all.
She stirred her cold tea and tried to focus on the investigation.
She had returned alone to Westminster, hoping to coax more answers from Mrs Morven. The woman had plonked her in a red chair and proceeded to sing a mournful aria to her parrots.
When it ended, Clara offered a rapturous applause.
Her reward? One morsel of information: Mr Scarth had been off his food for days, barely touching anything the night of the seance.
Was he afraid he might be poisoned?
Her visit to the coroner confirmed poison was the cause of death. Aconitine. Soluble in alcohol. Deadly even in the smallest dose. One mouthful, and the heart could seize in seconds.
Clara pushed the tea away.
All the villain had to do was poison her, too, leave a fake note confessing to murder, and the case would be closed. With half the Vine Street constables already convinced of her guilt, who would question it?
The creak of the dining room door captured Clara’s attention.
Signora Conti entered, glanced at the table, and let out a sharp sigh. “ Madonna mia , you have not eaten a thing. You will waste away like a sickly sparrow.”
Clara offered a faint smile but said nothing. She daren’t mention her sudden fear of poisoning because the housekeeper would have them on the first stage to Chippenham. Had she secretly summoned Daniel? Was her brother already charging towards London like the devil was at his heels?
Signora Conti narrowed her eyes. “Is it the food, or have thoughts of a handsome viscount stolen your appetite?”
Clara bristled. The woman was like an all-knowing seer. “What makes you think he has anything to do with it? I have more important things to consider, like keeping myself out of Newgate.”
Signora Conti merely raised a knowing brow, as if she’d seen the same flustered expression a hundred times before. “So you do not deny he is handsome? Even the scullery maid stares when he comes to dinner. She is usually so shy, she startles like a rabbit when you say her name.”
Handsome was too plain a word for Bentley’s flawless features.
“Few men rival Lord Rutland.” Clara forced a smile. “There. Or would you like to wring another confession from my stubborn lips?”
In the footman’s absence, Signora Conti moved to the teapot and tilted her head.
“More tea? Or shall we sit and speak of foolish hearts instead?” She poured without waiting for an answer.
“Is that why you pretended to be ill yesterday? You were talking to yourself last night, cara mia . You said only a fool kisses a man she means to avoid.”
Clara blinked, startled by the woman’s boldness. Her first instinct was to scold her for eavesdropping, except she hadn’t exactly been quiet when airing her frustration. And Signora Conti’s candour, while maddening, was oddly comforting.
“It was an accident,” Clara muttered, reaching for her teacup.
“Ah.” Signora settled into the adjacent chair. “You tripped and fell onto his mouth?” She gave a wistful sigh. “I had many such accidents in my youth. Once, I fell into Vincent De Cento when he sang to me in the moonlight. Men, they know how to make a lady clumsy.”
“Lord Rutland asked to touch my scar.” It had been her undoing. That, and the deep look of longing in his eyes as if she were something precious. Not broken. Not disfigured.
Signora Conti’s eyes widened. “You removed your patch for him?”
“Only for a moment.” A moment seared into her memory, impossible to forget. “Now I don’t know what to say when I see him.”
The housekeeper tutted softly. “You say nothing about what happened. It will kill him because it will be all he has thought about too.”
Clara recalled what Mr Daventry had said about an agent being the finest performer on stage. “What if he mentions it?” The moment he uttered the word kiss , her resolve would surely crumble.
Signora Conti gave a knowing grin. “Then you shrug, look baffled and say, ‘Oh yes, I had almost forgotten’.”
“That’s all?”
“You touch your lips gently, like they are still swollen and a little bruised, then you mention the weather.”
It sounded simple. Odd. But quite simple.
“Very well.” Besides, nothing mattered more than uncovering the truth about what happened at the emporium. If she hoped to question Lord Tarrington and get past his butler, she needed someone with the viscount’s influence. “Any plan is better than no plan.”
Signora Conti gave a satisfied nod. “Good, because Lord Rutland is parked in the mews, waiting for you to finish your breakfast. A groom came with a note.”
Clara straightened. “You read my note?”
“Of course not. It was addressed to me.” She stood and gave Clara’s shoulder a gentle pat. “Take your toast with you. Even rebels need to keep up their strength.”
Clara fastened the final button of her blue pelisse, then straightened the matching bonnet, pausing only to check her eye patch was firmly in place. A glance in the hall mirror revealed a composed woman with a determined gleam in her good eye, exactly the impression she meant to give.
Heaven forbid Lord Rutland thought she was courting another kiss.
With the velvet patch, she looked less like a lovesick maiden and more like the captain of a pirate vessel who’d keelhaul the next man who looked at her lips.
Excellent. The disguise would do nicely.
Outside, the early summer air warmed her cheeks as she strode towards the waiting carriage in Gower Mews. Gibbs sat atop the box, hunched over his leather-bound book, lips barely moving as he read. He didn’t look up.
But Lord Rutland did.
He lounged against the carriage door, a burgundy coat moulded to every line of muscle. A slow, appreciative smile curled his lips as she approached. Heat pricked her neck. She prayed the bonnet’s brim hid the flush, though the gleam in his eyes said it did not.
“No longer nursing a megrim, Miss Dalton?”
“How kind of you to ask, my lord. No, I’m perfectly well.”
But why Miss Dalton, not Clara?
Was he regretting their romantic interlude, too?
She should have been relieved, not found herself longing for him to push back her bonnet and send her world spinning again.
Kippers!
“One of those troublesome headaches that vanished as suddenly as it came?” he asked with teasing suspicion.
“No. Why do you say that?”
“Had I arrived at Mrs Morven’s half an hour earlier yesterday, we might have listened to her heartfelt rendition of Casta Diva together.” He gave a mock shudder. “Though I’m told it’s best endured with cotton in one’s ears and a great deal of brandy.”
Clara bit back an unladylike curse. Either Mrs Morven had a loose tongue or the parrots had squawked, “ Clap again, Clara ”.
“I must have just missed you,” she said, taking Signora Conti’s advice and affecting a blasé air. “A pity, as we could have shared the agony.”
“Missed me or avoided me?” he shot back.
She gave a soft shrug. “Would it wound your pride terribly if I said I hadn’t given you a thought?”
It was the greatest lie she had ever told.
The man had taken up residence in her mind.
“It would if I believed it.”
Gibbs slammed his book shut and called from his box, “Are we planning to move from the mews today, or do you hope to catch a criminal by exchanging pointless barbs?”
Clara turned to the coachman. “An excellent point, Gibbs. Your patience is saintly. We shall try not to tax it further.”
“As long as there’s no lingering about at ungodly hours. I don’t see why you can’t kiss in the carriage like normal folk. A quick turn around the park is ample in my opinion.”
Clara stiffened. A single, damning word—kiss—had the power to summon every forbidden image she’d spent two days trying to banish. Was nowhere safe? Could she not ride in a carriage now without picturing a rampant coupling on the leather-sprung seats?
She kept a vacant look. “You’re speaking in riddles, Gibbs. One must question what sort of book you’re reading.”
“ How to Spot a Liar from Ten Yards , ma’am.”
Bentley laughed. “Blame me, Gibbs. Miss Dalton’s lies are so amusing, I’m inclined to encourage them.”
Feeling distinctly outnumbered, she said, “Perhaps Gibbs is right. We should abandon these foolish shenanigans and focus on the case.”
“Where do you suggest we start?” Bentley asked.
“We ought to begin with Lord Tarrington, though it’s probably best we don’t mention we’re working for The Order.” The peer might think they were keen to blame him for Miss Nightshade’s murder.
Bentley agreed. “I suggest we pretend we’re looking for Scarth because we suspect he’s the villain and we’re trying to clear our names.”