Page 17 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

Clara nodded, feeling more at ease now they were back to playing intrepid enquiry agents, not two clumsy people who had accidentally fallen onto each other’s mouths.

“To Tarrington’s warehouse on Wapping Wall, Gibbs,” Bentley said, opening the carriage door. “With the emporium temporarily closed, he’ll be surveying his latest shipment of oddities.”

He extended his hand to her.

She hesitated, reminding herself it was only a hand. Yet as their palms met, she almost wished it felt like a cold kipper, anything but warm, strong, and dangerously self-assured.

As the carriage pulled away, silence settled between them.

She watched the streets blur past, feigning interest in barrow boys and shouting hawkers. But Bentley’s gaze seared her skin, every nerve alive to it, until she felt flushed from crown to heel. Still she refused to turn, terrified of what he might read in her face.

“So, according to Mrs Morven, Scarth was off his food,” he said at last, easing the tension in the air. “He never ate the day of the seance.”

She faced him, suddenly aware of how small the space was between them. “Yes, he never said why, but maybe he feared he was the one about to be poisoned.”

“Aconitine,” he said, “from the monkshood or wolfsbane plant, probably dried, ground and prepared in a tincture.”

He must have visited the coroner’s office or met with Mr Daventry.

“The coroner said three drops in a wine glass would be fatal,” she replied, wondering if he’d followed her there.

He gave a slow nod. “Dissolves without colour or scent. Aconitine’s kiss is soft as velvet, and just as deadly.” He paused, his gaze dropping to her lips. “A kiss is a powerful thing, Miss Dalton. It can save a life or ruin one.”

He’d certainly kissed her like a man with ruin on his mind.

Part of her craved the danger.

“Thankfully, we’re discussing poison, not kisses.” She kept her tone even, hoping it masked the chaos beneath. “The latter is irrelevant.”

“Any good enquiry agent knows poison is a lover’s weapon.” He dragged a hand slowly down his thigh, his gaze lingering on hers like an unspoken invitation. “Kissing is very relevant.”

“Poison might also be the weapon of someone obsessed with arcane rituals. Since we’re about to question Lord Tarrington, we ought to begin with that theory. His obsession started because he couldn’t cope with the grief of losing his wife.”

“Or perhaps he decided to take a lover, and Miss Nightshade threatened to reveal the truth. He is old enough to be her father.”

“Only a man would suggest such a thing.”

He gave a knowing grin. “We must keep our minds open to all possibilities. Secrets … desires … they rouse deep emotions.”

One taste of you isn’t enough, Clara.

The words echoed in her mind, memorable yet maddening.

She glanced out the window. “I wouldn’t know.”

“I’m not so sure.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Your emotions overcame you two nights ago atop the Abbey tower. Why else would you kiss me as if nothing else mattered?”

Nothing else had mattered. Nothing but the ache of being wanted, by him.

She gave him a questioning frown. “Kiss you? Atop the Tower? Oh yes. I had almost forgotten.” Her voice was steady, but her blood quickened. She hadn’t forgotten. Not for a moment.

The viscount didn’t look downhearted. He suddenly laughed, the joyous sound deepening until water filled his eyes.

He wiped the tears away with his fingers. “God help me, Miss Dalton, you may be the death of me yet.”

She gave a small, superior sniff. “Then I shall endeavour to make it quick and painless, my lord.”

“I was hoping you’d make it exquisitely slow.”

Oh, the teasing devil.

She met his gaze and touched her lips, watching as his eyes followed the movement. “It’s rather warm out. Let’s hope it stays dry today.”

“I prefer wet days myself.”

Clara fell silent, cursing Signora Conti for underestimating the viscount. All she could think about now was the taste of his lips, warm and faintly spiced.

As if sensing the need for restraint, he returned to the subject of the case. “Before we question suspects, we must consider three key elements.”

She welcomed the return to business. “Which are?”

“Motive, means, and opportunity. Tarrington certainly had the means and the opportunity. We just need to focus on the motive.”

Much like their encounter on the Abbey tower. The viscount had taken the opportunity without hesitation. But what had been his motive?

“Everyone at the emporium had the means and the opportunity.” She reached into her reticule and drew out the map she’d sketched of the room, complete with the names of those present. “Anyone could have poisoned the wine. We were all too mesmerised by Miss Nightshade to notice anything important.”

She remembered Miss Nightshade’s voice changing, her eyes rolling white, her body trembling as if something had taken control of her. Whether real or just a performance, it had chilled Clara to the bone.

They spent the rest of the journey to Wapping Wall looking at the map and trying to recall every word spoken that night.

The carriage slowed to a halt beside the river.

Bentley helped her down to the cobbles. The brief brush of his hand was innocent, yet it burned through her glove, stirring a memory of Westminster Abbey and everything she was trying to forget.

The warmth of the morning sun was already lifting the scent of tar and salt into the air.

The docks bustled with the clatter of barrow wheels, shrieking gulls, and the steady thud of crates being hauled from barges to shore.

Burly men, shirtsleeves rolled to their elbows, shouted to one another over the din.

A few cast curious glances their way, unused to well-dressed visitors arriving in carriages.

Bentley approached and asked for directions to Lord Tarrington’s warehouse. One dockworker jerked his chin towards a narrow alley tucked between a lodging house and a rundown tavern.

“Best say a prayer if you plan to step inside. Some say the only thing he’s tradin’ is the devil’s curses.”

They followed the alley to a grimy brick building with dirty windows and a timber door hanging open. Inside, it was dim and cluttered with peculiar objects from foreign shores, grotesque masks that might haunt a child’s dreams, carved idols, and glass cases filled with pinned insects.

They entered, careful not to knock over a hanging totem or disturb the rows of dusty crates. At the far end, Lord Tarrington stood inspecting an ancient dagger with a jagged edge. Its surface shimmered with an oily sheen, the metal etched with odd symbols.

“Lord Tarrington,” Bentley called.

The man didn’t move. Didn’t turn. He stared at the weapon, as if caught in a strange spell.

Against her better judgement, Clara sidled closer to the viscount, briefly touching his coat sleeve, the hairs on her nape prickling to attention. “Lord Tarrington,” she said, hoping the sound of a woman’s voice might break the trance.

Slowly, the lord turned his head. His eyes were glassy and unfocused before he blinked and clarity returned. “Rutland. Miss Dalton. I was just admiring this ancient artefact from Persia. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We came to offer our personal condolences,” Bentley said, his voice sincere. “Miss Nightshade was a rare talent amongst her kind. It must be a terrible loss.”

The lord stared at the dagger in his hand, holding it as if it were a weapon of vengeance, then laid it in the crate, nestled it in the straw, and secured the lid.

“A loss in the sense that I won’t see her again until I depart this world.

A loss because her life was stolen while she was in her prime. ”

A sad stillness settled, but a sudden bang from somewhere in the warehouse tore a smile from the grieving lord’s lips.

“No doubt that was Lavinia,” Lord Tarrington added, brushing a hand through his midnight hair. “Reminding us one is never truly … gone.”

Clara saw an opening to discuss the case. “Let’s hope she conveys a message that might help us find her killer. Until then, we’re all walking under a cloud of suspicion.”

The lord stiffened. “If you’ve come to accuse me of murder, save your breath. I’ve lost thousands from cancelled performances, had people hounding me day and night, convinced she’s alive and begging for her to hold a private seance.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Bentley said.

“With the emporium closed, there’s nowhere else to hide.”

Bentley glanced at the door. “Do you not hire a guard to protect the artefacts? There must be valuable items stored here.”

The lord’s mouth curled into a sly grin. “No one dares enter for fear they’ll leave cursed. Tales of evil spirits suit my purpose.”

“I expect that’s why people think you killed Miss Nightshade,” Clara said. “They’ll sleep easier in their beds if the killer has an obvious affliction. It’s why I’m a suspect myself.”

Bentley stepped forward. “The coroner is convinced you gave Lavinia poisoned wine.”

The lord’s face crumpled. “Do you think I would have made her drink if I’d known the outcome? Her death has ruined me.”

“Perhaps that was the killer’s intention,” Bentley said calmly. “To ruin you. To put an end to these heathen practices.”

“If you think communing with the departed is heathen, why purchase a ticket? Miss Nightshade conveyed messages from Margaret, godly messages that were deeply personal.”

“Margaret?” Clara asked.

“My wife.” Lord Tarrington’s hand came to his chest, fingers pressing hard as if to hold in the ache. Such raw devotion was rare among the ton . “She’s the reason I sponsored Lavinia.”

“Do you know anyone who might have a reason to kill Lavinia?” she asked, wondering how Miss Nightshade knew Mr Scarth. “It seems odd that her assistant has disappeared and was heard arguing with someone shortly before the performance.”

“It’s not odd. The man probably knows he’s the next target. And I believe he argued with that older fellow.” The lord mumbled under his breath. “Weymouth. Yes, that’s his name. A comment Scarth made roused his temper, though you’ll have to ask him about that.”

Clara recalled the names on her map. Mr Weymouth had sat beside Bentley, a declared non-believer with little patience for theatrics.

So why attend a seance at all?

“Something else was amiss that night,” Lord Tarrington continued, keen to cast the blame elsewhere. “Lavinia seemed rattled and asked for wine before she took to the stage. It was shortly after her disagreement with Scarth over Mr Murray. He was a late addition to the guest list.”

Mr Murray was the red-haired gentleman whose sister Bethany drowned many years ago, the only patron so distraught he drank the last drop of his wine.

“Guest list?” Bentley questioned, sounding annoyed. “We paid a king’s ransom for the tickets. Why would another sale bother Scarth?”

The lord’s cheeks flushed and he stuttered a little before saying, “Murray didn’t purchase a ticket. He was Lavinia’s guest.”

Clara stiffened at the revelation. “She knew him?”

So much for ghostly whispers. Miss Nightshade had clearly used their acquaintance to deceive the audience.

“Yes,” Lord Tarrington admitted. “Though I’m not sure in what capacity. She rarely spoke about her past.”

“Might they have been romantically involved?”

A muscle in the lord’s cheek twitched. “Not to my knowledge, though Lavinia was a private person, often troubled. Hearing voices would have the sanest man carted to Bedlam.”

A stocky dockworker appeared in the doorway, a large crate balanced on his handcart. “Where do you want this one, governor?”

The lord turned to Bentley and offered a brief nod of apology. “Excuse me. I must see to the delivery and ensure nothing has been damaged in transit.”

Clara cleared her throat. “Before we leave, my lord, might I ask a question?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “What do you think has happened to Mr Scarth?”

“The obvious, Miss Dalton,” he said coldly. “Scarth poisoned the wine. He must have had an accomplice in the crowd. Someone who’s likely vanished as well, perhaps fled to France.”

Clara wasn’t convinced. “There’s a flaw in your logic, my lord. Mr Scarth didn’t know Lavinia would drink the guests’ wine or that she would choke on stage.” It couldn’t have been planned.

Lord Tarrington looked at her as though she were simple. “He most certainly did. Lavinia choked on stage during every performance.”