Page 20 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

Chapter Ten

Hart Street, Covent Garden

Office of the Order

“Mr Daventry told me about your appointment to the Order, my lord.” Mrs Gunning, the stout and somewhat cheerful housekeeper, beckoned them into the hall of the elegant townhouse that served as Daventry’s business premises. “There’s no need to show the card again. I’ve a good eye for faces.”

Bentley placed his hand on Clara’s back, guiding her over the threshold and stealing an excuse to touch her. When he wasn’t reeling from the knowledge of her father’s accidental assault, he was aching to feel her lips on his again.

“This way,” Mrs Gunning said, bustling ahead of them. “Mr Daventry’s not here, but you’ll be wanting access to the case files in his study, I expect.”

Bentley came to an abrupt halt. “Not here? Can you send word and have him meet us? It’s a matter of great importance.”

Mrs Gunning looked him keenly in the eyes. “I’m afraid not. He specifically requested not to be disturbed until tomorrow. I can make you a nine o’clock appointment. I’m sure he won’t mind if I squeeze it into his busy schedule.”

His mind skipped to the enamel box hidden under Gibbs’ seat. A treasure worth more than most working men earned in a lifetime. “This concerns the murder at the seance. Miss Dalton and I have found evidence that changes everything.”

“And I’m sure Mr Daventry will welcome the news.”

“We’re happy to remain here and await his response,” Bentley said firmly. “He may change his mind when he learns of this new development.”

The housekeeper cast him a sympathetic smile. “A threat to the King wouldn’t drag him here tonight, my lord.”

“What could be more important than assisting the King?”

“It’s Mrs Daventry’s birthday. Dinner in a private room at The Albion and a visit to Haymarket to see Giuditta Pasta perform in Norma .” She paused before offering a warning. “I don’t suggest interrupting his evening, but I can summon an experienced agent if the matter cannot wait.”

Not wanting to leave the jewels and notebook with anyone other than Daventry, he said, “Fine. We’ll take the morning appointment.”

“I’ll see that he gets the message, my lord.” Mrs Gunning looked at Clara, unaffected by her eye patch. “Shall I fetch tea? Is there anything else you need while you’re here? A law book or a pistol?”

Clara smiled. “No. Thank you, Mrs Gunning. We will see you in the morning, bright and early.”

They returned to the carriage and paused on the pavement. The desire to suggest a nighttime escapade was on the tip of Bentley’s tongue, but Clara quickly put paid to the notion.

“Perhaps it’s just as well Mr Daventry is unreachable. I’m to attend the performance of Norma myself tonight. Giuditta Pasta is the talk of London.”

Bentley blinked, the news landing like a jab to his windpipe.

Who the devil was taking her to the opera?

“The broadsheets claim she does more than just sing. They say she lives every note.” Disappointment warred with jealousy, neither wishing to relinquish control.

“You never mentioned a trip to the theatre.”

Furrows creased her brow. “Lord Rothley made the arrangements with my brother. When you were both tasked with taking turns playing my protector.”

“I don’t recall Rothley mentioning it either.”

Was Rothley helping her with her list as well?

“I imagine he thought you’d appreciate time for yourself.”

He didn’t want time for himself.

He wanted a distraction, to feel the burn of Clara’s lips, to lose himself in her soft sighs. To laugh without caution. To cry without shame. To become the man he wished he could always be, if only for a few precious hours.

“Lord and Lady Berridge are joining us,” she quickly added. “And I’ve always wanted to visit the King’s Theatre.”

I would have taken you.

I would take you anywhere.

Bentley managed a polite smile. “I’m confident you’ll have a splendid evening.” He opened the door to the waiting carriage. “I’ll take you home. You’ll need time to dress, and Rothley is notoriously punctual.”

The ride to Bedford Square passed in silence, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the distant cries of street hawkers.

Clara gazed out the window, her gloved fingers twisting in her lap.

Bentley watched her reflection in the glass, torn between the urge to pull her close and knowing he should keep his distance.

When the carriage finally rolled to a stop, he cleared his throat. “I’ll call for you at eight-thirty tomorrow morning for our appointment with Daventry.”

Clara offered a grateful smile. “I’ll be waiting.” She hesitated. “And what will you do tonight? Have you made plans?”

“I’ll drink brandy and sit in a shadowed corner, flintlock in one hand, the dratted treasure trove in my lap.”

“Is there a way I might help? The responsibility is mine too.”

Stay with me.

The hours are never dull when we’re together.

Let me make love to you, Clara, every stroke slow and deep.

He gave a crooked smile. “Hearing Giuditta Pasta sing should top your list. Don’t worry about me. I once had to fight bare-knuckle in a dockside tavern when Rothley challenged half the room. I’ll survive one night with a box of secrets.”

“As long as you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” He thought of her dressed for the opera, her luscious lips stretched into a radiant smile. What kind of man would he be to deny her that pleasure? “Enjoy your evening.”

He stepped to the pavement and helped her alight.

She didn’t release his hand right away. “Goodnight, Bentley.”

He swallowed hard. “Goodnight, Clara.”

As soon as Bentley saw his butler’s mouth twist into an apologetic line, he knew his evening was about to take a sudden turn for the worse.

Cook hadn’t burned the caramel custard. His valet hadn’t sliced his finger while sharpening the open razor. The maid hadn’t emptied the coal bucket onto the new Persian rug.

If only he were that lucky.

No, his mother was upstairs, visiting the old nursery.

“I told her ladyship you weren’t expected home for hours, my lord, but she insisted on staying for dinner.”

Bentley bit back a curse. “How long has she been here?”

Hockton winced. “Half an hour, my lord. She went straight to the nursery and hasn’t appeared since.”

Saints have mercy!

“Is she alone?”

Hockton paled, shifting like a schoolboy who’d lied to the headmaster. “Mrs Woodall is walking in the garden, admiring the roses with her daughter. Her ladyship asked to have three extra places set for dinner.”

Anger simmered.

Whose damn house was this?

Bentley thrust the black enamel chest into his butler’s arms. “Put this in the study and lock the door. No one is to enter. I’ll be dining alone. Send to the mews for the Woodalls’ carriage.”

Hockton panted as he gripped the heavy box. “Forgive me, my lord. It’s a difficult situation. I served her ladyship in this house for over twenty years. Even after all this time, her grief leaves me at a loss for words.”

He gripped the butler’s shoulder, sharing his frustration. “It’s an impossible situation. I’m often left dumbfounded, too, but it cannot be allowed to continue.”

They had been tiptoeing around his mother’s sorrow for years, enabling her subtle manipulation. Hell, he’d agreed to marry a woman he disliked to prove he was worthy of his title.

Why had he remained silent?

Fear. Fear of feeling inadequate. Fear of causing someone else unbearable pain. He’d sooner take every blow himself than hurt someone he loved.

But something had shifted.

Now he needed to navigate uncharted territory. It was time for the capable, logical man to take his own damned advice.

He drew in a breath and squared his shoulders, deciding to tackle the Woodalls first. “Say nothing to my mother. Remain at your post, ready to escort the Woodalls out.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Bentley moved past the butler and began his march along the hall, pausing only to remind Hockton where his true loyalties lay. “The Woodalls are not welcome here again. If my mother calls when I’m out, she will remain in the drawing room until my return. Is that understood?”

He didn’t wait for Hockton’s reply but left the house, stepping out onto the terrace. The early evening air was cool, though his blood burned hot in his veins.

He slipped quietly down the steps and halted just short of the rose bower, where the low murmur of voices drifted on the evening breeze.

“You’ll have to change the décor in the main chamber,” Mrs Woodall said as though her daughter were already mistress of the house.

Miss Woodall gave a delicate sniff. “Yes, the green is utterly garish. And I shall have the panelling on the stairs painted. The whole house has a depressive air that’s dreadfully unappealing.”

“Hockton will have to go, of course.”

“Yes, his doddering is most inelegant.”

Bentley stepped forward, boots crunching on the gravel.

Both women turned at once.

Mrs Woodall beamed at him as though nothing in the world could be more delightful. “My dear Lord Rutland! We were just admiring your splendid roses. So much healthier than ours at home.”

He inclined his head coolly. “Yes, they thrive on careful tending rather than being uprooted merely for failing to please the eye.”

Mrs Woodall coughed delicately. “Quite.”

He suppressed a sharper retort. “It astonishes me how those concerned with the plight of the working class could dismiss a loyal butler over something as trivial as trembling hands.”

Miss Woodall turned as prickly as a thorn bush. “I’m sure Hockton has an excellent pension and will be comfortable in his dotage. But if we’re to secure the country’s future, we must dispense with old habits.”

“A practice you may employ in your own household, Miss Woodall. Hockton may draw his last breath here if he so wishes.”

Mrs Woodall scrambled to ease the tension. “Sarah meant no disrespect. Her desire to serve her future husband makes her a little overzealous in her suggestions.”