Page 2 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

“Tell me, Contessa. Has a man led you down a reckless path before?” He narrowed his gaze as though trying to decipher who she was beneath her poised exterior. “Perhaps what I offer is more intriguing than anything you’ve encountered.”

She didn’t doubt that for a second.

He could make a nun sit up and take notice.

“Dangerous paths are often the most tempting.” She knew that because her list of adventurous activities kept growing by the day. “But a harlequin speaks in riddles and dances in lies. I would be a fool to follow you.”

She stepped back, her intention to leave clear before she dropped into a curtsy. She didn’t bid him farewell, because Bentley Sommersby, sixth Viscount Rutland, could make ‘good night’ sound like a prelude to something sinful.

Clara headed for the French doors before King Henry returned with two flutes of champagne. This was meant to be an evening of revelry, not one spent avoiding the only guests who’d dared to approach her.

The viscount was right. Outside, the gentle breeze offered a welcome reprieve. Clara paused on the terrace, her hands curling around the stone balustrade as she took in the garden below, strung with a festoon of pretty lights.

Perhaps she should return to The Grange, the country house her brother had bought when all she’d wanted was to disappear.

Running away was easier than facing the world.

But the desire to live pulsed in her veins like a second heartbeat.

It whispered to her in these quiet moments, urging her to reclaim the life fear had stolen.

Why should she bear the punishment for her father’s crime?

Since when did a Dalton shy away from a challenge?

Who wanted a life of obscurity anyway?

Clara reached inside her bodice and retrieved the folded list, the edges crinkled from the countless times she’d read it in secret. A soft chuckle escaped her as she skimmed the page.

“Ride in Mr Green’s air balloon,” she whispered, the thought sending a thrill shooting down her spine as she weighed the risk. “Race in a curricle. Attend a seance.”

Each task was a rebellion. A testament that a person was defined by the strength in their heart, not the hardships they endured.

She inhaled the cool night air, the taste of freedom already sweet on her lips. The only question now was: Which adventure should she tackle first?

Perhaps a night spent alone with an Egyptian sarcophagus at the British Museum, though some whispered of a cursed priestess whose spirit still wept within the gilded coffin.

As if the priestess herself had reached through time to deter her, a sudden gust of wind snatched the list from her grasp and sent it fluttering into the night.

She turned to chase the paper, but it danced across the terrace to taunt her, until a figure stepped from the shadows and caught the wayward note in his hand.

It was the harlequin—the viscount—the mischief maker and a man of many masks. “I do hope you weren’t too attached to this,” he said, his tone light as he held the list just out of her reach. “It’s a case of finders keepers, I’m afraid.”

“Give me back my letter,” she said, sharper than she’d intended. “The harlequin is meant to offer light relief, not steal a lady’s private correspondence.”

The viscount brought the paper to his nose and inhaled deeply. “It smells of wildflowers in the height of summer. The scent is unique, Contessa . A scent I would know anywhere.”

Clara’s heart skipped a beat. He spoke like he knew who she was. “Then you must know my aunt,” she said, naming an imagined relative. “She often sprays her letters with a blend of lavender and rosemary.”

“No.” He shook his head. “This has the distinct smell of a woman who craves adventure. A woman who means to ignore every rule, every boundary.”

Sweet Mary! He did recognise her.

“Either way, it is not yours to keep,” she said, her voice tight with the tension she struggled to contain. He really was the most annoying devil.

His grin widened, the playful gleam in his eyes impossible to miss. “Yes, but now I’m plagued with a burning curiosity. What does your fictitious aunt have to say that’s so important?”

Panic flared. “Nothing that concerns you.” She tried to snatch the paper, but he held it higher. “Besides, aren’t harlequins supposed to be mute?”

“And I shall be when I find somewhere quiet to study it in detail.”

Before she could kick him in the shin and wrest it from his grasp, the viscount descended the steps and strode into the garden.

“Come back here,” she said through gritted teeth. When he failed to respond, she chased after him in hot pursuit. Trust a harlequin to turn theft into a theatrical act.

She found him waiting beside a carved oak bench, turning the list lazily between his elegant fingers, as if it were nothing more than a handbill for a play he’d seen a thousand times.

“What game are you playing, my lord?”

“My lord? Not Signore ? What happened to your Italian accent, Contessa?” His arrogant gaze skimmed her mask like he could see the truth quite plainly.

She folded her arms. “It went the way of your manners. Misplaced somewhere between the masquerade and the moonlight.”

He glanced up at the night sky, as if the stars had aligned for their encounter. “Sit, Contessa . Or shall we dispense with formality, and I’ll simply call you Clara?”

Damn the man. He had ruined everything.

She arched a brow. “ Miss Dalton , if you please. Now return my letter so I may get back to dancing with King Henry.”

“I’m not sure dancing is your forte.”

“Then we’ll drink champagne. I would rather keep company with a king than a buffoon.” She showed him her gloved palm and curled her fingers in silent demand. “Hand me the letter and?—”

“A buffoon because I’m the only man you find entertaining?” He gestured for her to sit, as if she were a pupil and he held the prize.

“A buffoon for coming here tonight when you’re to announce your betrothal in two weeks.

Unless trifling with old acquaintances is how you prepare for married life.

” She brushed her skirts and settled on the bench, choosing compliance for now.

“Should you not be in a fine hotel with your mistress, taking advantage of what little freedom you have left?”

Or kneeling in a church pew, praying for salvation.

“I no longer have a mistress, as you’re well aware.”

“Then return my letter and leave me in peace. Find someone else to laugh at your tricks. I doubt we’ll see each other again once you’re married.”

The finality of those words settled like a stone in her chest. She had tried not to like him, but he was amusing, and he never mentioned her ugly scar.

Under different circumstances, they might have been friends.

What she couldn’t understand was why a man as wealthy as a king would marry a woman he found undesirable.

“Of course we’ll see each other again,” he said with some confusion. “I dine at your brother’s house every Friday. I presumed we were all attending the private regatta in Richmond next month.”

Attend a regatta with the viscount and his wife?

Had the man lost his marbles?

But then, he had always treated her as a family friend.

“I’m returning to Henley soon,” she said. To live a quiet, sensible life in the country. “I’ve no plans to visit town again.” Or seek thrills as a pastime.

He stared at her for a moment, silent behind the mask, then glanced down at the paper in his hand. “When you’ve accomplished the tasks on this list, you’ll have memories to last a lifetime.”

Her heart lurched. “You read it?”

“I took a peek while luring you to a secluded corner of the garden.” He grinned, his teeth biting lightly into his lower lip, a roguish glint in his eyes. “If you need help to arrange them, I’d be happy to lend a hand.”

Heavens! He must think her a fool, a child dipping her toe in the pond before hurrying back to the safety of her governess.

“I don’t need your help.” Not when she deliberately avoided his company. “Perhaps you should focus on falling in love with the wife you don’t want, instead of worrying about me.”

He didn’t scoff or jest about love being a dream for the misguided. The corners of his mouth turned downward. “I’m a practical man, Miss Dalton. I don’t waste my time on unachievable goals.”

“Is that why you’re marrying Miss Woodall? For practical reasons?”

She found it ironic that those with wealth and title wore the heaviest shackles.

“No. For reasons I would rather not explain.”

It seemed she would never understand him. “Then return my list so we might bring an end to this discussion.”

He didn’t. The infuriating man unfolded the paper and picked one to read aloud. “A curricle race? Interesting. I purchased a new curricle only last week. High-sprung, razor-lined, and black enough to swallow the daylight. I could let you race it on Rotten Row.”

“On the R-Row?” she stuttered, excitement stealing her breath. But beneath the thrill, a flicker of suspicion stirred. “Why would you do that?”

“Perhaps I understand what it’s like to have unfulfilled desires, Miss Dalton. Perhaps I find your daring attitude admirable.”

The compliment slipped past her resolve.

The offer was certainly tempting. Where else would she find a man willing to let her take command of his prized vehicle?

Still, she stood by her earlier statement. “You know how to spark a lady’s interest, my lord, but it wouldn’t be fitting to entertain a man whose attention ought to be elsewhere.”

“Did your brother not tell you he asked me to act as chaperone when he returns to Thorncroft in the morning?”

Clara straightened. “No, he did not.”

He had mentioned Lord Rothley taking her to the theatre with other friends, one of whom would grant her private entrance to the museum, allowing her to spend the night beside an Egyptian sarcophagus.

“I’ve been instructed to keep a close eye on you. It strikes me it’s easier if I help you complete the tasks on your list. I’m sure all can be achieved before I’m forced to sell my soul in the name of family obligation.”

She was about to protest, but he raised a silencing hand.

“Why did you create this list, Clara?” Although he stood at a respectable distance, he used her given name like they were on intimate terms. “If it’s because you crave excitement before you face a daunting future, know I seek the same.”

The honest remark rendered her mute. He gave the impression he was a man who had everything: wealth, charm, and position. Yet here he stood, quietly admitting his life was as dull as hers.

It shouldn’t matter.

But it did.

“Some people must do what’s expected of them,” he said, a strange vulnerability to his voice. “The memories I make in these two weeks of freedom must last me a lifetime. I want them to mean something. Can you understand that?”

Of course she could.

In that, their goals were aligned.

“What you say makes perfect sense, but helping me will probably add to your troubles. Someone is bound to see us together.” Not that a stain on her reputation would prove a problem.

He glanced at the list. “We can take the countess with us in Green’s balloon.

The others we can do at night, under cover of darkness.

” He stepped closer, his scent invading her senses, intimate in all the wrong ways.

“You agree it would be better to share these experiences with a friend? And we have been acquainted for many years.”

The flicker of hope in his eyes weakened her stance. This man, who had everything, wanted her friendship and to share amusing memories. She would be a hypocrite to deny him when her own family had supported her plans. What harm could it do? Completing her list was the priority.

“I fear I may come to regret my decision.” She was certain this would be the greatest mistake of her life. “But we will choose one task. Once it’s completed we will speak of another.” Then she would persuade him that a second outing was most unwise.

His mouth curled into a grin as he handed back the note. “Trust me, you’ll have no regrets. I know it was presumptuous, but I bought two tickets to see Lavinia Nightshade tomorrow night. I can collect you at eight. In a hackney cab if that pleases you.”

“Lavinia Nightshade?” Clara slipped the list into her bodice, relieved to have it back in her possession. “ The Lavinia Nightshade?”

Tickets to see the woman famed for communing with the dead were rare. It would undoubtedly be a night to remember.

He looked insufferably pleased with himself. “Indeed. We will be among a select number attending her private seance in Soho.”

A shiver of anticipation coursed through her. The thought of summoning spirits stirred more than idle curiosity. What if her father returned from the grave to deliver an angry message? Then there was the viscount himself, whose presence always left her a little unmoored.

Sensing her anxiety, the viscount gave a reassuring smile. “There’s nothing to fear. What could possibly go wrong in a room full of ghosts?”