Page 27 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)
Chapter Fourteen
The carriage clattered over uneven cobblestones as they left Covent Garden’s market stalls and bustle behind. Fresh from Mr Daventry’s office and armed with a list of tasks, they’d agreed to visit Miss Picklescott, prompted by the revealing comment written in Miss Nightshade’s book.
Writes a scandalous column under the name of Thomas Brightwell.
Clara stole another glance at Bentley as he scanned the entries, annoyed with himself for missing a vital clue.
“It never occurred to me there’d be a concealed pocket glued to the backboard,” he grumbled. “That alone confirms Nightshade was up to no good.”
He slid his fingers inside the paper gap, dipping deeper into the folds.
The memory of their scandalous encounter last night burned through her like an exquisite ache.
The press of his mouth, the need in his voice, the arousing things he did and said, were impossible to ignore as she sat opposite him, aware of every shift of his body and every brush of their knees.
She wanted to cry. To release the tide of emotion that had been building in her chest since they’d kissed atop the tower. It seemed to swell with every passing second, every moment they spent alone together.
But the letter from his mother sat in her reticule like a stone chained to her heart.
Every wise word on the page made sense. She should remember her place.
She should remember that a scandal would be damaging.
Not as damaging as a bullet in Bentley’s chest, but if it ever came to a duel, she would throw herself into its path without hesitation.
Yet she wanted him.
With a desperation that made it hard to breathe.
It was selfish, she knew. But had she not earned the right to seize life with both hands? Should she not relish this fleeting moment of happiness? If she could?—
She jolted, panic rising. Had she silently admitted she’d die for him? Heavens. What did that mean?
“Are you unwell, Clara?” The low rumble of Bentley’s voice stirred the fine hairs on her skin.
“You’ve been quiet all morning. Are you thinking about my mother’s letter?
” His gaze moved languidly to her lips, her throat, her breasts.
“Or how you came apart with me nestled between your soft thighs last night?”
Heat flooded her cheeks. She swallowed, trying to summon her usual confidence. “Both. Which is precisely the problem.”
“Ignore the letter,” he said with a determination that surprised her. “I’m a grown man and make my own decisions. I made a promise to you. A promise I intend to keep.”
“A promise to help me complete my list?”
“A promise to make you smile, not leave you looking glum. I thought we were making memories to last a lifetime. Heaven knows we both need them.”
Those glorious memories played in her mind like a forbidden song, drowning out all reason: the magical Lantern Ring, the wild kiss with the wind rustling her hair, another so slow and tender it left her weak to her bones.
The laughter. The tears. Her world shattering into a million pieces, all because of his skilled mouth.
“Other people are determined to complicate things,” she admitted.
“No one’s opinion matters to me but yours.”
He always said the right thing. Thoughtful words that softened a woman’s heart and weakened her resolve.
“If only we could be reckless without hurting anyone.”
His smile reached his eyes, eyes so blue she could drown in them. “Oh, we can be reckless. We owe no one an explanation. We continue as we have done, carving moments we’ll always treasure.”
This man’s allure was too powerful to resist.
She’d need a will of iron to keep her distance.
“I’m not worried for myself,” she said, masking feelings she dared not reveal. If he realised how deeply she cared, he might make leaving London impossible.
“And you’re my only consideration, Clara. I don’t want to make life more difficult for you.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Life seems surprisingly easy when we’re making mischief.”
“Then let’s not permit other people to interfere.” He offered his hand, the gesture hinting they were equals, a silent nod to her quest for independence.
She shook it, but he didn’t let go right away. His thumb brushed lazily across her knuckles, warmth seeping into her skin until her pulse stumbled. The simple contact was enough to summon the memory of his mouth on hers, the way her breath mingled with his until the world had fallen away.
What a hypocrite she was. She spoke of freedom as if she prized it above all else, yet in truth she longed for him more than her next breath. Perhaps that simply made her … human.
He quirked a brow. “A curricle race along Rotten Row tonight? Once you’ve mastered the basics, we’ll look at improving your technique.”
It was a sensible suggestion, all things considered, yet temptation whispered louder. “Let’s follow Signora Conti’s advice instead.”
His lips curled into a smile that promised trouble. “Practice falling onto each other’s mouths as often as possible?”
“Yes, while taking to the waters at Porretta’s. Can you secure a private bathing chamber for tonight?”
A roguish glint lit his eyes as he stroked his jaw. His gaze slid over her, promising far more than bathing. “Consider it done.”
Clara’s senses leapt to life. The warm mineral waters would be nothing compared to the heat they made together.
Miss Picklescott lived alone above the print shop on the brow of Snow Hill, a slope notorious for causing more accidents than all the City streets combined.
Indeed, Bentley had just come to the aid of a wagon driver, wedging a block of wood beneath the wheel to stop the vehicle from sliding backwards and crashing into the carts and carriages below.
He brushed dust from his trousers and hands, looking distinctly unimpressed. “The fool should have parked his wagon on Farringdon Street and lugged the sack up the hill. Gibbs had the right idea.”
“It was good of you to stop and help.”
Few viscounts would take the trouble. Then again, few viscounts would take a job working for the Order.
Bentley gave a rueful smile. “Lavinia Nightshade claimed I’d live a miserable existence. Helping a fellow avoid catastrophe is one way to prove her wrong.”
Clara tilted her head, struck by sudden insight. “It was an odd thing for Lavinia to say unless she knew of your reluctance to marry Miss Woodall. Why else would a man with wealth and title be miserable?”
“Perhaps she discovered I’m the only surviving sibling and leapt to the obvious conclusion.”
“Or Mr Scarth wrote about it in his journal.”
Before they left the Order’s office, Mr Daventry confirmed the journal found at the murder scene belonged to Miss Nightshade’s assistant, not the medium herself.
But why had Mr Scarth gone to the trouble of ripping out pages? Why not simply take the journal with him when he left during the show? Unless he was kidnapped by the murderer who hoped to blame Clara for Miss Nightshade’s death.
“I fear we’re missing something important,” she said.
Bentley offered his arm and guided her towards the communal door leading to the upper apartments above the print shop. “Other than interview everyone Nightshade blackmailed, what more can we do?”
She mounted the stone staircase. “I think we should focus on the reason all the pages were missing from the journal except the one naming me. It may have something to do with Rosefield and why Miss Nightshade thought I’d be easy to blackmail.”
If the medium had any talent, she might have threatened to reveal how Clara had lost the sight in her eye. She would have paid a hundred pounds to keep that secret buried.
Rosefield.
Something about it seemed familiar, lost in a fog of half-remembered things. It could be the name of a person or place.
They climbed the last few steps, arriving at a narrow landing outside a plain wooden door marked with the number 3.
Bentley paused, lowering his voice. “Remember, we have the advantage here. If people know a woman is writing the column in The Satirist , Miss Picklescott will lose her post.”
“I shall be more than happy to give her a few home truths,” Clara replied curtly, and perhaps threaten to pen a scandalous article of her own. “Doubtless she’s the reason I was treated like a leper at the theatre.”
Bentley firmed his jaw. “I’ll deal with every ingrate who looked at you with anything but admiration.”
“I’m not sure there are enough hours in the day.”
“Trust me. One word in the right ear and—” As he knocked, the door creaked open and a whiff of something dreadful wafted through the gap.
Her nape prickled. “We should fetch a constable before entering. Look, there’s blood on the jamb.”
He studied the burgundy streak. “What if she’s hurt? We cannot afford to delay. I’ll answer to the constable if need be. Stay close.”
Those last two words struck a chord. She realised, with a sharp twist of longing, that staying close to him had quietly climbed to the top of her list.
They stepped cautiously inside. The small apartment was in chaos: dirty plates and glasses littered the floor near a worn desk, pages of writing scattered everywhere like fallen leaves.
Both desk drawers were pulled out and upended.
An ink pot lay on its side, a dark stain spreading across the papers like black blood.
Then Clara gasped.
Miss Picklescott was sprawled on the rug near the fireplace, her cold eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling. A halo of crimson circled her dark hair and stained the edges of her white cotton nightgown. The brass poker lay beside her, the tip crusted with dried blood.
A sob caught in Clara’s throat.
Bentley wrapped his strong arms around her, holding her against his chest. Seconds passed in silence, the sight too gruesome to contemplate. He drew back and brushed away a tear before it rolled off her nose.
She released a heavy sigh. “This is all a terrible nightmare.”