Page 19 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

Heat surged through his veins, burning into a fury so fierce it threatened to consume him. If the man were alive, he would wake to find Bentley looming over his bed, knife pressed to his throat, close enough to draw blood.

No wonder she cried herself to sleep.

No wonder she clung to her list of daring adventures.

And here he’d been complaining about dutiful expectations.

Shame settled in his chest. His grievances felt like a child’s tantrum in comparison.

He brushed a tear from her cheek. “I’m sorry you suffered for someone else’s weakness. I’m sorry you felt you had to keep it a secret. We can return to the carriage and discuss it properly there.”

She shook her head. “No. Not now. Please.”

“Then whenever you’re ready, I’m here to listen.” He swallowed past the lump in his throat, thinking of all the petty grievances he’d aired. “And I swear I’ll never grumble about my own trivial problems again.”

Her hand shot up, cupping his cheek with sudden urgency. “Don’t do that.” Her gaze locked with his. “Don’t weigh pain on scales. There’s no comparison here. Hurt is hurt no matter how it’s measured.”

The warmth of her palm seeped into his skin.

She wasn’t pushing him away.

She was letting him in.

For a moment, they simply stood there, his breath caught somewhere between restraint and longing. Then, without warning, she rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his.

It was a kiss born of sorrow and gratitude and something sweeter. It stole the breath from his lungs and tied his stomach into knots.

When she pulled away, his heart was thundering.

And still, she didn’t step back. “Your lips have the power to dispel ghosts.”

“Perhaps you’d like me to quieten the spirits again, Clara.”

He bent slowly, watching her, giving her a chance to retreat.

She didn’t.

Their mouths met in a kiss softer than before, but no less consuming. Her lips parted beneath his with a sigh that poured heat into his blood. The glide of her mouth was silk and sin, a quiet invitation that tugged on every thread of his restraint.

He deepened it, savouring the tender press of her body, the way her fingers curled in his coat. Every part of him hardened. Every part of him burned. She tasted of salt and sweetness, grief and need, and he drank her in as though her kiss might cleanse him, possess him, undo him.

It wasn’t a kiss of wild hunger, but something more profound.

And when he finally drew back, he did so reluctantly, his chest rising hard against hers, his hands hot where they held her waist.

Clara lingered for a heartbeat, then stepped back. “We should search Lavinia’s rooms before Mr Lewis wonders what’s kept us.”

He dragged his hand through his hair and thought of morbid things to settle his pulse.

“I doubt we’ll find anything useful in here,” he said, scanning the bare walls, not the outline of her full breasts in the fitted pelisse, not the plump, pillow-like lips he wanted to devour again. “But we ought to try.”

They searched the bedchamber in silence, the thrum of desire lessening with every drawer opened and garment inspected and returned to its place.

Finding nothing hidden between the bed sheets or beneath the mattress, they moved to the sitting room.

It was just as sparse.

A single armchair sat angled towards the hearth, though the grate held only a scatter of grey ash. A small writing desk stood beneath the window, its surface bare except for an old oil lamp.

They searched again, beneath cushions, inside drawers, under the faded rug, but found nothing. It was like no one lived there, a room inhabited by cobwebs and dust motes.

Bentley exhaled heavily. “Whatever secrets Miss Nightshade had, there’s no sign of them here.”

Clara ran her fingers along the edge of the writing desk. “The sergeant said they removed unsent letters, replies to a few desperate souls hoping she could provide the answers they sought.”

He watched her lift the inkwell, then tap a fingernail along the underside of the desk. “They’re still waiting for confirmation the journal found at the emporium was hers.”

“What happened to the letters she received?” Clara said.

He glanced at the ash in the grate. “Like everything about her life, she disposed of them.”

“Yet Mrs Morven has kept every playbill featuring her name. The stack of letters from adoring fans fills a worn valise. I heard her telling her birds that reputation is everything.”

“You’re suggesting Miss Nightshade had something to hide.”

Clara shrugged. “Someone had a reason to murder her, though heaven knows why they sought to blame me.”

A rising need to protect her made him invent another scenario. “Perhaps it’s a coincidence, and she meant to destroy all the pages in her journal but left yours by mistake.”

“Why would it be deliberate? That’s a question that keeps echoing in my mind.” She braced her hands on her hips and scanned the room. “Lavinia could have an apartment elsewhere. It would explain the lack of personal effects and the utter sense of emptiness.”

“Or a house outside London. It would account for her frequent trips out of town.” Bentley grumbled silently. Scarth would know, but it seems the man had a reason to hide. More so, since he’d probably stolen something of Lavinia’s the night of the seance.

Clara’s gaze swept the place once more, slower this time. Then she frowned. “Do you hear that?”

He stilled. “Hear what?”

“The mantel clock hasn’t chimed since we’ve been here. There’s no incessant ticking.”

Bentley looked at the small brass clock perched on the mantelpiece. Its hands were frozen just past the hour. “I doubt Lewis thinks winding the clock is a priority.”

“Where’s the key? Most people keep them on the mantel.”

“Probably hanging on the hook behind.”

Keen to find out, Clara went to examine the timepiece.

“There’s an inscription on the back.” She stared at it, giving a curious tilt of her head before reading it aloud. “ Life is fleeting. Live while the hour allows .”

Bentley’s jaw tightened.

A slow anger stirred.

He had wasted too many hours in the name of duty, let guilt steal time he could never reclaim.

“There’s a key inside, but not the key to wind the clock.” Clara’s statement dragged him from his brief reverie. “It looks like it might fit a jewellery box or necessaire.”

His interest piqued, he crossed the room and examined the key. “Whatever it opens must be here somewhere.”

“Or Miss Nightshade left it at the emporium the night of the murder. Perhaps that’s what Mr Scarth was looking for when he came here.”

They contemplated the possibilities.

Bentley went downstairs and asked Mr Lewis if Miss Nightshade had given him a box for safekeeping. “It could be a jewellery box or a place she kept letters.”

“She never gave me anything but the time of day,” Lewis said, shaking his head. “And she once said trust was a luxury she could ill afford.”

Bentley returned to the sitting room to find Clara on her hands and knees near the desk, inspecting the dusty floorboards.

An arousing image flooded his mind, one that made his blood stir and his conscience bristle. He cleared his throat and forced his gaze from the tempting curve of her hips. “What exactly are you doing?”

“I once hid a pocket knife beneath the boards in my bedchamber.” She ran her hand over the wood, focusing on her task while he fought the urge to stare. “It was a present from my mother.”

“Your mother gave you a pocket knife?” Not a lace handkerchief or a cameo brooch? “Why the unusual gift?”

“As a child, I liked to forage in the woods.”

“She gave a child a knife?” he said, shocked. His mother always gasped when he reached for a letter opener.

“No, I was sixteen. She told me to take it with me whenever I walked in the woods at Thorncroft.”

“Then why hide it beneath the floorboards?”

“Sometimes danger lurks in unlikely places.” Her voice cracked faintly. “And my father couldn’t bear reminders around the house. He stored all of my mother’s things in the attic.”

Bentley thought of his own mother, stirring her tea with Marcus’ christening spoon as if it brought sweetness to her day. It was easier to focus on that small ritual than to dwell on why Clara found it necessary to keep a knife.

“This board is loose,” she said, her excitement evident as her fingers probed the edges. “We need something thin to prise it open.”

He took the slender poker from the hearth. “Let me try.”

Clara shifted aside as he knelt beside her. With a careful prod beneath the corner of the board, he eased it up, revealing a narrow gap beneath.

Dust billowed before settling to reveal an object wrapped in coarse hessian, its shape suggesting a box.

He passed Clara the poker, then reached into the gap. “It’s much heavier than it looks.”

“I wonder what’s inside.”

Bentley met her gaze. “We’re about to find out.”

They stayed crouched on the floor while he carefully unwrapped the black enamel box, revealing its glossy surface beneath the rough cloth.

Clara opened it with the small key she’d found inside the brass clock and raised the lid.

It was like stumbling across a trove of pirate treasure. Gold coins and jewels filled every space: sovereign rings, a diamond brooch, sapphire earrings, an emerald pendant, each too fine to be mere paste.

“Good Lord!” Clara removed a ruby necklace and held it to the light. “If these gems are real, Miss Nightshade could afford to live in Mayfair.”

Bentley felt the curl of suspicion tighten in his chest. “They could be gifts from Tarrington, hidden beneath the boards for fear of thieves.”

“Or gifts from grateful patrons. Miss Nightshade did help people find lost heirlooms and misplaced wills.”

He arched a brow. “Or she gained these by deceptive means. Secrets are worth more than gold.”

Clara gave a reluctant nod. “I pray you’re wrong, but I’m inclined to agree. We may be looking at the motive for murder.”

“We need to take this to Daventry’s office.”

“Not the Vine Street station-house?”

“As temporary agents of the Order, we answer to Daventry, not Inspector Mercer.”

She bit down tentatively on her lip. “Should we not inform Mr Lewis that we’ve removed evidence? I would hate to be accused of murder and theft.”

Much like the night of the seance, a strange foreboding coiled in his gut. Something told him to tread carefully because the killer was already one step ahead. “Very well. We will have him sign to confirm what we’ve removed from the house.”

Bentley watched as Clara returned the ruby necklace to the box and reached for another piece. But she froze, her hand hovering above the edge of a small leather-bound book peeking out from beneath the pile of coins and jewels.

“It appears Lavinia kept a private journal.” He reached into the box and pulled the book free. Its cover was scuffed, the corners worn and edges frayed. “Perhaps it holds the vital clue we need.”

He flicked through the pages, though there were no secret confessions hidden inside, no notes about a grand love affair, nor any record of the medium’s dreams and aspirations.

There were columns resembling those in an accounting book, alongside a list of names, each accompanied by a brief note: had an affair, lied to police, gave a false alibi, hiding a debt, visited a bordello.

“There are over a hundred names here,” he said, showing Clara the pages. “Not all are from London. Some from Cheltenham. Stratford. Norwich …”

Clara leaned closer, her breath catching as she read over his shoulder. “And with sums of money or pieces of jewellery listed beside every entry.”

Bentley closed the book and met her gaze. “These aren’t clients. I fear they’re victims.”

Clara let out a shaky breath, relief flashing across her features. “Then there are other suspects. People who had a genuine motive to poison her. The book proves Miss Nightshade wasn’t just communing with the dead.”

“No,” he said, slipping the notebook into his coat, eager to leave and hand the information to Daventry. “Lavinia Nightshade was a notorious blackmailer.”