Page 18 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)
Chapter Nine
They had spent hours chasing a ghost.
Mr Murray did not live at the address he’d given the constable. The landlady on Watling Street had never heard of him, nor had the neighbouring tenants. Despite a description—tall, slender, with wiry red hair and a habit of dissolving into tears—no one had seen a man of that likeness come or go.
Standing beside Clara on the pavement, Bentley sighed as the bells of St Mary-le-Bow tolled three. “We could call on Mr Weymouth instead, though I suspect his quarrel with Scarth was based on his disbelief.”
Clara offered another suggestion. “Miss Nightshade lived on Dowgate Hill, a short walk from here. Perhaps we might find an address book there.”
Sergeant Brown and his men had searched the rooms, removing nothing except for a few letters Miss Nightshade had written but not posted. Still, seeing her home might help them understand more about the woman with the unusual gift.
“Let’s hope the landlord on Dowgate Hill is accommodating,” he said, eager to make progress so he could suggest ticking another adventure off her list tonight.
Based on Clara’s reluctance to speak of their kiss, he’d have more chance of catching a star in a bottle than luring her into an escapade. But guarded as she was today, he knew the passionate woman wasn’t far beneath the surface.
The memory of her mouth on his fired his blood. Like a drug, he craved another taste. Kissing her had been everything he’d imagined: soft and fierce, hesitant and hungry. A collision of longing and restraint that had haunted him every hour since.
He just wished she’d stop hiding behind what she’d lost and see the woman she’d become.
The accident hadn’t broken her. It had forged her into someone stronger.
Fiercer than the girl he remembered from those long-ago afternoons in her family’s drawing room.
If only she knew how hard it was to maintain his distance.
Dowgate Hill sloped down towards the river, the air tinged with smoke from the nearby dye works.
Shops and lodging houses lined the street, most with crooked windows and flaking paint.
Gibbs insisted on accompanying them and sat atop his box, book in hand, casting suspicious glances at the odd passersby.
Opposite the ancient hall of the Dyers’ Company stood a narrow brown-brick house, its doorway recessed beneath a crumbling stone arch.
Mr Lewis, a reedy man with thinning hair, opened the door at the second knock. He owned the house but lived on the ground floor, explaining he worked as an accountant for a cloth merchant.
He adjusted his spectacles and studied Bentley’s calling card from the Order. “I brought the account ledgers home, in case the sergeant called with further questions,” he said, welcoming them inside and murmuring an apology for his ink-stained fingers.
They remained in the hall while Lewis wept and spoke of his shock at the tragic turn of events. “No one deserves to suffer like that, least of all Lavinia. Despite what people said, she had a good heart and pure soul.”
The comment piqued Bentley’s curiosity. “People can be cruel, particularly when it concerns a contentious subject like the afterlife.”
Lewis seemed to wrestle with his own conscience before saying, “One lady had a hard time believing. She found out where Lavinia lived and loitered outside the Dyers’ Hall for hours, staring at the house.”
Bentley frowned, disturbed by the image of the woman’s silent vigil. “Did she ever knock on the door?”
“No. Never.”
Perhaps she suspected Lavinia was a fraud, a theory Bentley had no intention of voicing aloud, not to a man who seemed to idolise his tenant.
“Grief makes people do strange things.” He spoke from bitter experience. His mother mourned the man he refused to become—the obedient son, the dutiful heir. “Would you recognise her if you saw her again?”
Lewis shook his head. “She always appeared after nightfall, shrouded in a dark cloak and keeping to the shadows.”
Clara stiffened, her fingers tightening around the drawstrings of her reticule. “Did you mention this to Sergeant Brown?”
“No. He made it clear he thought communing with the dead was nonsense, and it’s not like the woman made serious threats.”
After a solemn pause, Clara asked, “How long had Miss Nightshade rented the rooms? Lord Tarrington has only been her patron for a few months.”
“Almost two years, though she travels out of town, often for weeks on end.” Lewis glanced at the empty staircase as if half-expecting to see her there. “You go ahead. I can’t bear to spend another minute in her room. Hopefully, Lord Tarrington will send someone to collect her belongings.”
Clara offered him a sympathetic smile. “When did you last see her assistant, Mr Scarth?”
“Silas? He always called the day before a performance, but he’s not visited since the night of the seance.”
Bentley straightened. “The night of the seance? Can you recall what time?”
Lewis shrugged a shoulder. “Around six o’clock. He came because Lavinia had forgotten her notes. It wasn’t unusual for her to receive messages days before a seance.”
Had Scarth come for the notes, to rummage in Lavinia’s chamber, or for another nefarious reason? “How long was he here?”
“Ten minutes or so.”
“But he left with the notes?” Clara sought to clarify.
“I don’t know. I was in the yard, feeding the cat.”
Perhaps tired of their questions, Lewis stepped aside, gesturing to the stairs. “Both rooms are hers. Nothing’s been touched since the sergeant left.”
“We’ll make sure to leave them as we found them.”
Bentley led the way up the narrow flight, the steps creaking beneath his boots. The air turned colder as he reached the top, like stepping into the waiting room at the morgue.
Clara followed close behind, the whisper of her skirts brushing the silence, her nearness a maddening reminder of how little space separated them.
When they reached the landing, he offered a half-smile to lighten the mood. “Shall we begin in the bedchamber?”
She paused, her gaze flicking to his mouth before she quickly looked away. Was she remembering their kiss? God knew he was … the press of her lips, the breathless heat between them, the way her fingers gripped his coat lapels, lingered with unforgiving clarity.
“Only if we’re searching for clues, my lord. Not trouble.”
“Whenever we’re together there’s trouble, Miss Dalton.” He leaned a fraction closer. “Though I’m not certain which of us causes it.”
She met his gaze. “Didn’t Miss Nightshade say misery follows you? Seems we have our answer.”
“Nightshade overlooked one important detail. Misery or not … I’m happiest when I’m causing trouble with you.”
Clara froze before pressing her hand over her heart as if to calm its frantic beat. “We should focus on the reason we’re here. You have a talent for distraction.”
Bentley inclined his head, accepting her retreat, though the soft tremble in her voice proved promising. He stepped into the bedchamber, the air stale, the silence almost disturbing.
The bedchamber was surprisingly stark.
No trinkets. No portraits. Not even a rug warming the floorboards. Just a narrow bed, a plain wardrobe, and a single candle stub on the windowsill.
Bentley noticed a valise on the floor and crouched to peer inside. “For a woman who works with the dead, she certainly lived like one. It looks like she was ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”
“Or she was hiding from her past.”
“Or trying to forget it,” he said.
He thought of the nursery at home, the room his mother begged him not to decorate. The fading wallpaper with painted swans. The tired rocking horse by the hearth. A locked shrine to a son trapped there. The irony was that despite inheriting the viscountcy, Bentley was still the spare.
Clara opened the wardrobe doors and looked inside. “I understand the feeling of wanting to disappear. And of ridding oneself of painful reminders.”
He hesitated. “Is that why you left Thorncroft after the accident?”
“Yes,” she said quietly, though didn’t look at him.
“You mustn’t blame yourself for what happened.
Even well-trained horses get spooked at fences.
” When she hung her head, he crossed the room and gently turned her to face him.
“Was the horse lame? Did he not survive? Is that why you can’t bear to talk about the accident?
You can tell me, Clara. Do you blame the horse for throwing?—”
“I lied.” The words burst out. “I didn’t fall off the horse.”
She slapped a hand over her mouth as tears spilled down her cheeks like water breaching a dam.
While he stood battling confusion, she fell into him, her knees buckling beneath a burden she had carried for too long.
“It’s all right.” He caught her, wrapping his arms around her, holding her tightly. “You don’t need to tell me. Keep your secrets if they’re easier to bear.”
She shook her head against his chest, a muffled sound escaping her lips, half sob, half protest. Her bonnet, slightly askew, pressed awkwardly against his chin, but he didn’t care.
“I’ve kept the truth buried for so long,” she whispered. “To speak the words aloud makes it real, and I cannot live with that memory.”
He eased back just enough to look at her, but not enough to let her go. “It’s real either way, Clara, but you’re not facing it alone.”
For a moment she said nothing, just clung to his coat as one would a mast, the only thing keeping her afloat while her tears threatened to drown her.
Then she spoke the words he’d never thought to hear.
Shocking words that landed like a low blow to the gut.
She looked up, her eye red-rimmed, her steady gaze failing to mask the pain. “My father did this to me.”
He recoiled, almost stumbled back. “Your father? Why on earth?—”
“It was an accident. I—I tried to stop him hitting Daniel, but as he swung back with the riding crop, he … he hit me instead.”
The image searing his mind was a thing of nightmares.