Page 22 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

Chapter Eleven

The King’s Theatre

Charles Street, Haymarket

Clara had worn red.

A rich red, the silk catching the glow of the chandeliers as she moved through the foyer of the King’s Theatre.

The gown’s fitted bodice hugged her waist, encouraging her to keep a straight posture.

Sadly, the choker of pearls at her throat, on loan from the Countess of Berridge, did little to detract from her crimson eye patch.

The velvet accessory concealed her left eye in a look both daring and defiant. Still, the hordes stared. She gripped her slender fan like a lame man might cling to a crutch, though it did nothing to steady her trembling knees.

“We’ll move to the private retiring room attached to my box,” the Marquess of Rothley said, noting the sting of a hundred curious glances darting Clara’s way. “Far from prying eyes.”

“Agreed. As I own the vowels of half the men here,” the Earl of Berridge began drily, “I’d rather not risk anyone slipping poison into my claret.” He turned to Clara, studying her with his dark, compelling gaze. “They say Lavinia Nightshade died much the same way.”

“The investigation is still ongoing.” Yet her mind wandered, not to suspects or motives, but to Bentley and the warmth of his mouth rather than the words whispered at the seance.

She pictured him now, alone with his brandy, dreaming up ever bolder challenges for his private list. He had caressed her scar, kissed her wildly as the wind whipped their hair; days later, he had kissed her again, with such slow, exquisite intent that every part of her still ached.

Lately, she thought more about his list than her own, almost desperate to know what he wanted to do to her next.

“We’ll visit the ladies’ retiring room and join you upstairs.” The countess threaded her arm through Clara’s, giving her a gentle but insistent tug. “We’ll be ten minutes, no more.”

The earl was quick to offer a word of caution. “If any of these imbeciles dare approach you, begging for clemency, remind them they’ll be dealing with me.”

The countess arched a perfect brow. “Only a man with a death wish would cross you, my darling.”

They moved along the crowded corridor, each step an effort, as if wading through treacle while the press of bodies closed in.

Snatches of conversation rose around her, words honed with spite and edged with curiosity.

Her name fell from painted lips. A fan snapped shut.

A head tilted for a better look. Eyes lingered on her mask as though it were not velvet, but the devil’s horns themselves.

She kept her chin high, refusing to quicken her pace, though her fingers tightened around her fan until the sticks bit into her palm.

“Ignore them,” the countess said loud enough for everyone to hear. “The ton likes to jump to conclusions and believe everything written in sordid publications is as good as gospel.”

Clara’s heart stuttered as the truth began to take shape. “Someone mentioned me in the broadsheets?” She prayed not by name.

“No, in that scandalous rag The Satirist . A constable at Vine Street must have sold information. The article … and I use the term loosely, claimed that a woman wearing an eye patch was taken in for questioning over the death of Lavinia Nightshade.”

The chill of fear chased down her spine, but she met the next curious gaze without flinching. “That explains the blatant stares and whispered accusations.”

“Yes. You’ve certainly attracted more attention than usual tonight.”

A female attendant in black held the retiring room door wide, and the scent of rosewater drifted into the hall.

Clara entered with measured grace, though her pulse urged her to run.

The lamplight softened the gilt mirrors and polished walnut, yet the warmth brought no comfort.

Ladies powdered their cheeks and adjusted their skirts, pausing long enough to let their eyes flick over her mask before turning away.

The scandal sheet might not be on their lips, but its shadow was in the room all the same.

The countess neither reached for a bourdaloue nor vanished behind the elegant screens. She was far more interested in asking Clara a personal question. “I understand Lord Rutland made one of your wishes come true.”

Clara’s pulse leapt. Her mind didn’t rush to the breathless climb up the Abbey’s narrow staircase, but to the passionate kiss on the rooftop.

“I’m told Mr Gibbs noted a midnight visit to Westminster Abbey in his report,” the countess continued, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

Clara drew her aside. “It wasn’t planned. We were questioning a suspect nearby, and it seemed foolish to waste the opportunity.”

Yet she recalled little about the view, only the warmth of Bentley’s mouth and hands. Only the hours spent awake in bed afterwards, the thrum of desire refusing to dissipate.

That hunger lingered still, a steady hum beneath the surface.

The countess tilted her head, studying Clara with a perceptive gleam. “As a man burdened by obligation, I imagine Lord Rutland craved a moment of freedom too.”

Clara let out a soft, humourless laugh. “Freedoms he’s explored many times. I once hid in his study with my brother while he gave his mistress her congé.”

There had been no tender words that night, only Bentley’s cool dismissal of a casual arrangement. She should have felt disgust. Instead, jealousy had twisted through her like a serpent, along with a deep, unwavering sadness that she would never know the joy of sharing his bed.

The countess’ lips curved in a faint smile. “Perhaps. But I’ve learned that a man’s heart is not always reflected in his manner, and even the most unlikely men can change.”

An unwelcome warmth bloomed in Clara’s chest. No matter how hard she tried to fight it, her thoughts always returned to Bentley and the reckless hope that he might one day be hers.

But marriage was a dream she had long abandoned.

Men did not wed women with scars like hers, not when they had titles to protect and heirs to produce.

So she found herself weighing another possibility: a brief, secret affair.

A chance to know his touch, to quiet the yearning that consumed her, before slipping away to the country for good.

She was still weighing the somewhat practical solution during the first act of Norma . Giuditta Pasta possessed the voice of an angel, but Clara’s attention drifted. Across the theatre, she noticed Mr Daventry seated in his box, his skilled fingers idly stroking his wife’s nape.

Beside her, the Earl of Berridge held his wife’s hand in his lap, his thumb moving in slow, tender circles. The quiet intimacy was intoxicating, making her almost lightheaded and longing for a connection that seemed forever out of reach.

Except perhaps it wasn’t.

As the curtain fell on the first act of Norma and applause thundered through the house, an assistant appeared at the entrance to the box, a silver salver balanced on one gloved hand.

He bowed to the marquess. “A message for Miss Dalton, my lord. I was directed to your box.”

Clara stared at the folded note, her throat tight. “I’m Miss Dalton.”

The assistant stepped closer, extending the salver. “The gentleman requires no reply, madam.”

Clara lifted the crisp cream paper, her fingers trembling as she broke the dark red seal.

Life is fleeting. Live while the hour allows.

—B

It was the same inscription they’d found on the back of Miss Nightshade’s elegant mantel clock. A wise warning from the dearly departed, perhaps. But Bentley had signed the note as a lover might, with the ease of a man who saw himself as more than a friend.

“Something related to the case?” the marquess asked.

“Just evidence from Miss Nightshade’s room.” It wasn’t evidence, nor a ghostly warning. It was an invitation to abandon caution, to seek a distraction, to surrender to more stolen kisses.

Ever curious, the marquess said, “A clue to who might have killed the famed medium in front of witnesses?”

“A quote that seemed out of place,” she replied, recalling the stark surroundings. The brass clock was an unusual extravagance that had surely been a gift. “Something that needs further investigation.”

She was not thinking of clocks, but the desire to discover the physical pleasures a woman might share with a man she trusted.

They took refreshments in the private parlour, a room of oak panelling and plush leather seats. The earl and countess sampled the house’s burgundy while Clara sipped lemonade, barely noting the taste.

She was too busy compiling a new list in her mind. Crossing off visiting a gentleman’s club in disguise and replacing it with the feel of Bentley’s hand gliding across her bare thigh.

The marquess, mistaking her distant stare for lingering fear, offered reassurance. “Despite what that rag of a newspaper implies, you’ll never see the inside of Vine Street police office again, Miss Dalton.”

She summoned a faint smile. “I’m sure the papers will find a new scandal to amuse themselves with tomorrow.”

They returned to their seats as the lights dimmed and the orchestra began tuning for the second act. But before the curtain rose, the attendant reappeared at the entrance to the box, another letter resting on his silver salver.

She felt the burn of her companions’ gazes as she broke the seal and read the missive.

Numbers 4 and 5 await.

If you’ve courage enough to live while the hour allows …

join me outside after the performance.

—B

Her breath caught; her pulse quickened.

“Another note from …” The marquess glanced at Mr Daventry in the opposite box, busy whispering something into his wife’s ear. “An agent of the Order?”

“Yes. Forgive me.” Though she knew she ought to stay firmly in her seat, she was already rising. “Duty calls, I’m afraid.”

Although the task she had in mind would not be a chore.

Even Giuditta Pasta couldn’t hold a candle to Bentley Sommersby.

Clara ignored the questioning looks from her companions and slipped from the box, the note burning in her palm like a brand. She barely noticed the swell of music as the curtain rose, her thoughts fixed on the promise hidden between the wax seals.

By the time she reached the theatre’s grand staircase, her skirts were lifted to her ankles, her heart pounding wildly as the orchestra eased into the opening strains of Dormono entrambi .

Giuditta Pasta’s mournful voice rose through the auditorium, the echoes of a mother’s grief chasing her down the deserted corridors.

“Miss Dalton! Wait!” the marquess called, his footsteps thudding dully against the carpeted steps. “A note from the Order doesn’t excuse you from explanations.”

“I’d explain, but you wouldn’t understand.”

“If you think I’ll permit you to walk these dangerous streets in the dark, you’re very much mistaken.” He swore, quite eloquently. “Damn the devil! Slow down before you fall!”

But she couldn’t stop.

She wanted to put miles between herself and every wicked person who whispered and stared. She wanted someone to look at her the way Mr Daventry looked at his wife: like a rare diamond in a sea of shale. She wanted the company of a man who made her smile, not shrink away in shame.

A thankful breath escaped her when she reached the foyer. The imposing oak doors were in sight. The only man who didn’t see her as damaged was waiting to whisk her away on an adventure.

But the Marquess of Rothley stepped into her path, his broad frame blocking her exit. “Whether you approve or not, I’m tasked with ensuring your safety while you’re in London.”

She almost laughed at that. She’d been kissed twice by her handsome colleague, the man who’d made caressing her scar part of his list of forbidden pleasures. Heaven knows what other shocking things Bentley dreamed of doing.

“I haven’t been safe since I witnessed Miss Nightshade’s murder. I’ll never find peace until I discover who killed her.”

The marquess regarded her through intense, wolf-like eyes. “Then I’ll accompany you tonight. I have more than enough skill when it comes to catching villains.”

“There’s no need. Mr Daventry’s agent is waiting outside.” It wasn’t a lie. Bentley was tasked with heading this enquiry.

Under his breath, the marquess cursed and gave an arrogant snort. “A woman once made the mistake of deceiving me, Miss Dalton. Know I’ll not tolerate lies or half-truths. Rutland is the agent waiting for you, is he not?”

“Yes,” she replied, as though the answer were obvious. “We’re colleagues in the hunt for a devious criminal.”

Two kisses had blurred the boundaries, but life was complicated.

He stepped closer, his shadow spilling over her skirts. “You’re dipping your toe into dangerous waters. I’m advising you to step back from the shore and find a different pursuit.”

She met his intimidating glare. “As I said, you wouldn’t understand my reasoning. You’re in no danger of facing the gallows, nor do you know how it feels to be the object of everyone’s scorn.”

The marquess recoiled slightly, as if struck.

“I’ve been betrayed by those closest to me, accused of murder by the good people of the ton.

By all accounts, I bed a harem of women I keep chained in my cellar.

Yet the truth is, I dine alone each night.

I sleep alone. And my dark thoughts often threaten to consume me.

” He held her gaze, unflinching. “We’re more alike than you think, Miss Dalton. ”

She dared to look into his dark, forbidding eyes and glimpsed her own sorrow mirrored there. “Then you know what it is to feel dead inside. These escapades … they’re my only chance to feel alive. I beg you, don’t begrudge me that, my lord.”

Something softened in his predatory gaze. “You talk like a barrister angling for a verdict,” he said gruffly. “And damned if you’re not skilled enough to chip at the ice around my heart. You may leave with Rutland, but on one condition.”

She held her breath. “Name it.”

“I want to speak to him alone first.”

“I have your word you’ll let me leave with him afterwards?”

He squared his shoulders. “My word is my bond, Miss Dalton. I’ve never broken a vow yet.”

She gave a curt nod and let him escort her through the elegant foyer and out into the cool night air. Like a hawk hunting its prey, he scanned the row of carriages before honing in on his target.

“Your errant knight awaits,” he said with dry amusement. “Have a care, Miss Dalton. Even the noblest knight can be dangerous when the cause is close to his heart.”