Page 25 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

Chapter Thirteen

The next morning, Bentley sat in his parked carriage a short distance from Clara’s home in Bedford Square, reading the early note he had received from his mother. Birds sang and sunlight spilled across the rooftops, yet the promise of a glorious day was dulled by the sorrowful words on the page.

It was a demand, not an apology. A desperate insistence that if he refused to marry Sarah Woodall, disaster would strike. Worse still, illness would stalk the house in the dead of night like the reaper come to claim its next victim.

“Our family isn’t cursed, Mother,” he muttered, weary of hearing the same complaints. “Everyone suffers misfortune to some degree.” Was life not about learning from tragedy?

Yet his mother was adamant the Lord had forsaken her. That she was being punished for her sins, and that her suffering would only ease if he married Sarah and restored a bond that should never have been broken.

“What nonsense is this?” Bentley scratched his head. The most troubling part was that she truly believed another calamity was imminent.

On the bright side, at least she hadn’t mentioned Marcus.

The toll of St George’s bells, marking the hour, had him shoving the letter into his pocket and focusing on calling for his new mistress.

He chuckled as he rapped on the carriage roof, Clara’s parting words from last night replaying in his mind, revealing the complicated nature of their relationship.

We’ll get the truth out of Lord Tarrington tomorrow if it kills us. And I believe Porretta’s Bathhouse rents private bathing rooms. As time is precious, we should visit tonight.

The woman was a devil in silk. It was a wonder he hadn’t rubbed his palms raw, given how many times he’d thought about her in bed last night.

But Rothley’s warning still echoed in his ears like a distant death knell. Friends or not, Daniel Dalton would likely kill him if he dared lay a hand on Clara.

Bentley clearly had a death wish. Despite the risk, he couldn’t stay away. When they kissed, the world no longer seemed cold and barren. There was something gentle yet untamed about her spirit. Something he couldn’t live without.

But in his desperate quest for freedom, he’d crossed a boundary. One he couldn’t cross again without making Clara his wife.

Even knowing she would never agree, he found himself smiling … until Clara stepped out of the house and into his carriage, and he knew instinctively something was wrong.

She sat across from him, adjusting the delicate folds of her lavender skirt. A light spencer jacket did nothing to soften the tight set of her shoulders. In a cool, measured voice, she said, “Good morning, my lord. I trust you slept well.”

He wasted no time on pleasantries. “No. I kept thinking about you coming against my mouth and barely slept a wink. And what happened to calling me Bentley? As my mistress, you’re supposed to spend the journey astride my lap, yet you’ve deliberately worn a new dress.”

A faint blush touched her cheeks. “I’ve had time to reflect. What happened last night cannot happen again,” she said, trampling over every erotic dream he’d had since dawn. “I wish I could claim I was drunk on champagne, but the truth is I let excitement overtake my better judgement.”

“Bollocks.”

“Bentley!”

“Forgive me. But we’re close enough that I can speak honestly—and honestly, I’d rather say ‘bollocks’ than call you a liar, Clara.”

She tried to appear haughty, but such a dour expression didn’t suit her. “A liar deliberately misleads. I’ve simply had a change of heart.”

“Now I know you’re lying.”

“Why? Because, unlike other women, I’m not falling at your feet?”

He fell back as though struck. “Shall I tell you how I know something’s wrong? You haven’t looked me in the eyes since you stepped into this carriage. And you’re speaking to me like I’m a stranger, not the man who’s had his mouth between your thighs.”

“Must you be so crude?”

“You’re the one who asked to be my mistress. I could remind you of all the things you said to me, but your facade is cracking. I only know true peace with you, Clara. Don’t lie and pretend you don’t feel the same.”

She bowed her head, still avoiding his gaze. “You have more to lose than I do. Don’t make this decision any harder than it already is. Some things … some things just aren’t worth the risk.”

A nagging suspicion took root. Had his mother written to her? “Risk to whom? You’re leaving London and have sworn never to marry. We’re already courting scandal by working as agents of the Order. And we were seen together at a seance.”

“But you’re expected to marry.” She pressed a gloved hand to her mouth as if the notion unsettled her. “You’re the last of your bloodline. More than that, my brother trusts you. If he doesn’t shoot you, he’ll force us to wed.”

He sat with that thought. Marriage was preferable to death—unless they were speaking about Miss Woodall. Then he’d rather have every bone broken on the rack.

Yet strangely, the notion of marrying Clara didn’t feel like a punishment. It was something he’d never dared imagine. She was too headstrong, too independent, too determined to hide from the world because she believed no man could love a woman with scars.

He’d always believed what burned between them was simple desire. But whatever bound him to Clara was not so easily defined.

“Show me the letter you received from my mother.” His voice carried the quiet authority of his station, not the wavering of a man at war with his feelings. “You have it in your reticule because you wouldn’t risk leaving it at home for Signora Conti to read.”

She tightened her grip on the beaded bag, confirming his suspicion. “It’s better I don’t. A fragile mind clutches at any hope of stability. Her thoughts are obviously clouded by grief and the terrible?—”

“Don’t do that. Don’t make excuses for her.”

She glanced out the window, noting they were still stationary. “We’ll be late for our appointment with Mr Daventry if we don’t leave now. And Gibbs is far from patient.”

Gibbs knew when a man needed a private moment and when he should focus on the job at hand. A sharp rap on the roof sent the carriage lurching into motion.

Bentley exhaled slowly as the vehicle picked up speed. “Let me guess what my mother wrote.” He kept his voice low, knowing the words would hurt her. “A blind girl belongs in the countryside.”

Clara flinched but gave a solemn nod.

“Except you’re not blind. And you’re certainly not a girl. You’re a capable woman, and braver than most men I know.”

That earned him a watery smile. “You see what others don’t.”

“My mother said I need a bride untarnished by scandal.”

“A woman embroiled in a murder case is not the kind of company you should keep.”

His temper flared, but he kept his composure. “Yet I love creating scandals with you.”

She gave an odd little laugh. “Somehow, we make even the darkest days a little brighter. But a man of your station should not?—”

“That’s for me to decide.” He noticed her shoulders relax slightly. “Any other pearls of wisdom my mother saw fit to share?”

“Only that if I was fond of you at all, I should remember that my brother might beat you bloody and toss you to the crows.”

Bentley gave a wry smile. “Threats are a poor substitute for reason.”

“Signora Conti said threats are the last refuge of the desperate.”

He pictured the wise housekeeper giving Clara a motherly hug. “Was it Signora Conti who advised you to keep your distance?”

“Oh no. She said I should fall onto your mouth as often as possible.”

He laughed. “Then it’s settled.”

“Settled?”

“Only a fool would argue with an Italian woman. And I have every intention of following her advice.”

Daventry was in excellent spirits. He lounged in a drawing room grand enough to rival any in Mayfair, a secret smile playing on his lips as he jotted notes into a leather portfolio.

His gaze drifted to the black enamel box on the low table, its lid thrown open to reveal jewels and gold coins gleaming like captured sunlight.

“I assume you’ve read through Nightshade’s notebook.” Daventry raised his eyes to meet theirs. “Is there mention of those who attended the seance that night?”

Bentley felt a flicker of shame for his lack of attention, though he had studied the list while waiting for Clara outside the King’s Theatre. “None of the people at the seance are listed in the notebook.”

“Perhaps Miss Nightshade died before she could find a reason to blackmail the audience,” Clara said, taking a long sip of tea.

Daventry set aside the portfolio and lifted a pair of diamond earrings from the box, turning them in the light. “I imagine Nightshade would call it salvation, not blackmail. The cost of clearing one’s conscience. The price of entering the Kingdom of Heaven unblemished.”

“I doubt the murderer saw it that way,” Bentley said.

“No, I suspect not.” Daventry returned the earrings to the box. “No secret compartments? No hidden drawers?”

“None that we found,” Clara replied, though was quick to remind him, “We are amateurs, sir, mere assistants, really.”

“Yet you found a vital clue Sergeant Brown missed,” Daventry said. “And something made you leave halfway through Giuditta Pasta’s performance. Keen insight led you to find two suspects fighting outside The Prospect of Whitby.”

Bentley inwardly groaned. A desire for excitement had led them to the tavern, but he said, “I look forward to hearing Tarrington’s explanation when he arrives.”

They had followed Tarrington’s carriage as it turned off Wapping Wall, only to lose it in the twisting alleys of Shadwell.

“ If he arrives,” Daventry stressed. “He may already be bound for Dover.”

“If he’s innocent, he’ll be eager to explain his actions.”

“Arrogant men often think they can get away with murder. Of course, it helps if they have a title.” Daventry paused, his expression distant as though sifting through details in his mind.