Page 28 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

“Not all of it. They say a problem shared is a problem halved. Standing here with you, I can believe that’s true.”

She glanced at the lifeless body. “She was so young. Regardless of what she wrote about me in that newspaper, we must find her killer, Bentley.”

He straightened. “On my oath, we will. But every minute counts now. I’ll check the rooms then alert the constable. Lock the door behind me and don’t open it until I return. Can you do that, Clara?”

“Of course.”

“I suspect the killer took what he came for. Nevertheless, search the least obvious places. Perhaps Miss Picklescott was writing about Nightshade and stumbled on something damning.”

While he left to check the adjoining rooms, she knelt on the floor and scanned the strewn pages. Some were blank. Some contained scribbled notes about local gossip, but one page caught her eye.

It mentioned the Factory Bill, warning that mill owners claimed they’d be ruined if forced to shorten hours or improve conditions and hinting that some reformists might be secretly spying for industrial opponents.

She told Bentley about it when he returned. “If what she said is true, plenty of powerful men might have a motive to silence her.”

“People are certainly passionate about political matters.” He glanced at the body. “There’s no one here. Lock the door behind me. I’ll alert Gibbs and have him fetch help. I’ll be a few minutes.”

She nodded and followed him to the door, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for the key. “Miss Picklescott must have trusted her attacker and believed he posed no threat. The key is in the door, and there’s no sign of forced entry.”

“Killers rarely announce themselves.” He touched her gently on the arm. “See if you can find anything relating to Lavinia Nightshade. I’ll check the door is locked once you’ve turned the key.”

Despite his warning, she jumped when he rattled the door. With Bentley’s retreating footsteps came the cold realisation that she was alone with a dead woman.

She kept her gaze from the dark, crusted blood on the rug and moved to the small bedchamber, thinking of the most illogical place one might search for a clue.

The furniture was modest: an old wardrobe with one door hanging slightly ajar and clothes spilling from its shelves, a narrow bed with its blankets rumpled as if disturbed, and a single washstand.

None seemed to hold secrets. Yet on the dressing table sat an ornate silver brush, matching comb and mirror.

The elaborate set looked out of place among the peeling wallpaper and chipped china basin.

Clara frowned. Why would Miss Picklescott own something so fine?

Perhaps it was another gift from a blackmail victim.

She lifted the brush, its unexpected weight sending a ripple of curiosity through her.

A thief hadn’t killed her. The set was genuine silver, not plated, and the only object worth stealing.

She wasn’t sure why, but she twisted the filigree handle, shocked when it came loose to reveal a hollow core.

Inside was a tightly wound roll of paper, no bigger than a finger. Using a hairpin from the pot, she eased the paper out, careful not to damage the edges.

Her pulse quickened as she unfurled the note and read the message scrawled inside.

The Factory Bill and the Price of Progress!

Lord Westmere and Sir Jonathan Quill bribing inspectors to undercount child workers. Records of mangled fingers and crushed limbs suppressed. Mr Farleigh at the Home Office paid to look away.

Find more evidence before printing.

The names alone explained why Miss Picklescott had hidden it. Could someone desperate to halt the Factory Bill have killed her?

Guided by instinct, Clara reached for the mirror. She twisted its handle and found another scroll hidden inside. She froze as one name leapt from the page.

Secrets of Society’s Ladies

The Tragedy at Rosefield Seminary Exposed!

Miss Charlotte Forbes, pupil of Rosefield Seminary, perished under suspicious circumstances shortly after rumours spread of her illicit affair with a tutor.

Visit the seminary in Cheltenham.

Discover why Nightshade thought she could blackmail Miss Dalton.

Clara read it three times, fear and confusion knotting in her chest. Two murders, and clues at both scenes pointing to her. But why? Clearly, the victims thought she knew about the incident at the Rosefield Seminary.

Through the fog of worry, she tried to think.

Her mother had attended a seminary in Cheltenham, but that was the extent of Clara’s knowledge.

Why would a tragedy from forty years ago resurface now?

And how on earth did Miss Picklescott know what was written in a notebook hidden under Miss Nightshade’s floorboards?

A sharp knock on the apartment door startled her.

“Miss Dalton?” Bentley called, rapping again. “Open the door. I’m here with two constables.”

Panic rose in her throat as she stared at the paper in her hand, torn between slipping it into her reticule or handing it over as evidence. Taking it might protect her for a time, but lies had a nasty way of surfacing at the worst possible moment.

Clutching both slips of paper, she hurried to open the door.

Bentley entered, flanked by two constables in dark blue coats and tall stovepipe hats. “Gibbs has gone to alert Daventry and Inspector Mercer. Did you find anything that might help us catch the killer?” As if sensing her distress, he clasped her elbow and drew her aside. “What is it, Clara?”

She handed him the slips of paper. “I found these hidden in the bedchamber. I think the murders might be connected.”

While the constables circled the room, hands clasped behind their backs, studying the body and the scattered pages, Bentley read the small scrolls.

“My mother attended a finishing school in Cheltenham.” His voice was calm, yet the tightness around his eyes belied his unease. “I must ask her the name.”

“So did my mother, though I doubt they were at school together. Daniel might know.” Though she had no wish to meet him on the road to ask.

Bentley glanced behind them before leaning closer. “You should have hidden these in your reticule. The mention of your name makes the evidence against you more compelling.”

“I have nothing to hide.”

Except for her feelings for him. The aching truth that no danger or scandal could stop her from wanting to know how it might feel to be loved by him completely.

The next three hours passed in a flurry of activity. Inspector Mercer questioned each of them in turn, his tone clipped, his notes brisk. Mr Daventry remained calm throughout, quietly observing the scene alongside the coroner, who arrived shortly after to examine the body.

By the time the constables began clearing the room, the shadows in the house had lengthened, and Clara felt as if she had aged a year.

“Do you have an alibi for last night, Miss Dalton?” the inspector asked, though Mr Daventry was quick to intervene.

“She attended the performance of Norma at the King’s Theatre as the Marquess of Rothley’s guest. I know because I was there.”

“I left during the interval,” she admitted, then looked the inspector in the eye and blatantly lied. “Lord Rutland received word that Mr Murray might be found at the docks.”

Lord Rutland had lured her out of the theatre with a note that left no doubt of his intent. It spoke not of quests or adventures, only of the reckless need to live boldly. She had known the moment she read it that the night would end in a blaze of passion.

And tonight would be no different.

“You must see how this looks,” the inspector said coldly. “The woman who questioned your connection to Miss Nightshade ends up murdered.”

“Do you think Miss Dalton would be stupid enough to hand you a note that implicates her?” Bentley countered. “She could have destroyed it, and you’d be none the wiser.”

Mr Daventry glanced towards the bedchamber.

“I doubt the killer knew about the notes hidden inside the silver handles. There’s nothing else here to link my agent to this crime.

Might I suggest you return with me to Hart Street, Inspector?

We’ll review the evidence Miss Dalton uncovered about Miss Nightshade’s criminal activity. ”

The inspector gave a reluctant nod. “Until the killer is apprehended, I suggest Miss Dalton finds herself a chaperone. A lady of good standing who can vouch for her whereabouts.”

Clara fought to keep her expression neutral, though the thought slid through her like ice. How was she to sustain a secret affair with Bentley if she was under constant observation?

“The Countess of Berridge will happily oblige,” Mr Daventry said. Then, turning to Clara, “I suggest you make the arrangements. We’ll reconvene at the office in the morning. With luck, we may catch Mr Murray before he boards the stage to Manchester.”

As they left the apartment, a list of tasks flitted through her mind. Have her friend Olivia research the Rosefield Seminary, every scandal and suspicious death. Speak to the countess. Have Gibbs watch the property at night. Something told her the killer might return.

But none of those accounted for the sudden rise in her pulse. Freedom was slipping away as fast as sand in an hourglass. Time with Bentley was vanishing just as quickly, and no amount of wishing could slow its pace.

“Shall we visit the countess at The Burnished Jade?” Bentley said, helping her into the carriage as Gibbs stood by, awaiting instruction. “Or shall I take you home, Clara? You look weary. These accusations have taken their toll.”

“Home, please.”

She wasn’t weary, just restless, needy, and longing to feel things she shouldn’t. Desire. Lust. Love. She wanted all three. With the man who’d touched the deepest part of her soul and taken permanent residence.

As soon as he settled into the vehicle and closed the door, every nerve in her body sprang to life. Her gaolers were closing in, shackles in hand. There was no time to dally.

“Draw the blinds, Bentley.”

He frowned, trying to read her mood. She could almost hear his silent questions. Is she tired? Is the sun too bright? Is this an invitation?

The confident, logical man, who was wild and reckless beneath his suave facade, was about to find out. He was still fiddling with the blind when she gathered her silk skirts and straddled him.

Her sex was throbbing before she claimed his mouth. Her pulse pounded as she knocked his hat aside, slid her fingers into his hair, and kissed him like a woman with nothing left to lose.

He kissed her back. No hesitation. No restraint.

Just heat and hunger, his mouth devouring hers, his hands dragging her close, crushing her to him as though he meant to brand her into his skin.

She gasped, and he caught the sound between his teeth, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, wild and wanting.

Don’t stop, Bentley.

Never stop loving me.

She felt him harden beneath her, his manhood pressing against her, teasing her sex. Greedy and desperate, she rocked against him, seeking friction, seeking him.

“Don’t tease me like this, Clara,” he growled against her lips. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

She did. She could feel every taut inch of him, the tension in his thighs, the restraint burning through his fingers as he fought against instinct.

She wanted to unravel him. To feel him surrender.

“I do know.” Her fingers tightened in his hair, her thighs trembling around his hips. “I want you to release yourself.”

A sound escaped him, part groan, part laugh, but there was no amusement in it. Only agony. “I refuse to have you like this. Not in a damn carriage. Not while you’re acting on impulse.”

Her heart twisted. Still, she moved against him, slow and deliberate, her silk skirts rustling, desire scorching every inch of her.

“I just want to feel you against me,” she whispered. “While I still can.” Before Daniel arrived. Before she rotted in Newgate for a crime she hadn’t committed. Before she met Miss Picklescott’s fate. “The most intimate part of you pressed to the most intimate part of me.”

He growled in protest, but his body betrayed him. His hand slid beneath her skirts, his fingers grazing her folds with maddening precision.

She gasped, meeting every stroke.

Half-breathless, he fumbled with the fall of his trousers, unfastening the buttons with trembling urgency. “This is dangerous, Clara. You’re so wet, so damn ready for me. I’d need to be a saint not to have you.”

His fingers slipped through her slickness, every brush sending another bolt of need coiling low in her belly.

“Consider this a prelude,” she managed, so hot she could barely breathe. “An appetiser, something we’ll look forward to continuing tonight.”

He muttered a curse. “Tonight, I mean to drive into you so deeply you’ll feel all of me, every damn inch. Do you hear?”

“I want that too.” All of him. The arrogant viscount. The passionate lover. The tears. The laughter. Everything.

“Raise yourself a little.”

She obeyed, lifting just enough for him to slide into place beneath her. Her breath hitched as the thick crown of his manhood pressed against her, teasing her entrance.

“Bentley!”

“You want a prelude, Clara. Let me give you one.”

“Yes.” She clung to his shoulders, every inch of her ablaze.

He entered her, just enough to stretch her. Just enough to make her gasp. Not enough to ease the ache.

“You’ll be the death of me, woman,” he growled.

“I’m not sure I’ll survive this either.”

Her heart would never recover. She would live to remember this. Remember him.

“Oh, Bentley.”

But this wasn’t lust. Lust was fleeting, temporary, shallow. And she wanted to hold on to him forever. It wasn’t love in its noblest form, where people made great sacrifices. She didn’t have the strength to walk away.

But if love was messy … If it was a tangle of fear and longing, of selfishness and surrender, then she was in love.

He jerked his hips, reminding her how hard he was, how far he was willing to go. No matter the risk, he couldn’t stop either.

And he didn’t stop. He didn’t stop kissing her or drawing his hard manhood over her aching bud. He kept the momentum, the teasing friction until she shattered with a gasp, her body shuddering against his.

“Sweet mercy,” he cried, his breath ragged, his hips jerking as his release followed.

She felt the damp heat of it on her thigh, the tremble in his limbs as he locked his arms around her like he might never let go.

Then he looked at her, the virile lover giving way to the uncertain man, and she saw her own fears reflected there.

What did the future look like? Neither of them knew.

Their breath mingled in the narrow space between their mouths. The fire ebbed, but the glow remained.

The need to speak honestly, to define what their lovemaking meant, had her cupping his cheek. “Whatever happens to us, Bentley, I want you to know this was perfect.”