Page 29 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)
Chapter Fifteen
Life was simple if one walked with their eyes open and reason engaged. All the mental to-ing and fro-ing was unnecessary if a man cast aside his doubts and accepted the hard truth.
He was in love with Clara Dalton.
The signs had always been there, clear milestones he had ridden past without a second glance. The first sleepless night at her family home, when all he could think about was her unpinning her raven hair, jealous of the nightgown that brushed her bare skin.
“I’ll teach you to play piquet, Miss Dalton.”
The spark of excitement in her eyes was like an elixir for his tortured soul. She’d laughed and sulked, batted his hand and accused him of cheating, while he sat wishing he could bottle the warmth she stirred inside him and keep it for an eternity.
And so it went on for nearly four years. Charades at Christmas. A stolen visit to the music room to play a bawdy tune on the pianoforte. Partners in a treasure hunt, though he had already found the prize. When Clara Dalton smiled, he no longer felt dead inside.
If only her father had felt the same. Bentley rarely visited when the ill-tempered Gerald Dalton was at home. Now he wished he had, for he might have prevented the tragedy that followed.
She was sent away to recover from the accident , a quiet exile no one mentioned. Details were vague. Her brother drank and brawled as though possessed by the devil, and two years passed before Bentley saw her again.
A sudden burst of applause snapped Bentley back to the present, from the memory of first seeing Clara’s blind eye. It had taken every effort not to fall to his knees. Not for the scar, but for the light that died inside her, the brilliance that dimmed.
In the music room of The Burnished Jade, Miss Pennywell curtsied to the crowd and stepped down from the makeshift stage.
Rothley nudged him from the adjacent seat as Miss Woolf was called to perform in The Jade’s weekly programme. “Here she is. The highlight of the evening. I’m curious to hear what the lady has planned for tonight.”
“Why don’t you ask her to ride out with you?
Then you may question her to your heart’s content.
” Bentley thought of the years he’d spent blind to his growing feelings and did not wish the same sad fate for his friend.
“There’s clearly something about her you find intriguing.
” And Rothley rarely looked at a woman twice.
“Yes, she’s a damn enigma. I haven’t the faintest notion what she’s thinking or feeling. Usually I can see the game and know the rules. With her, I haven’t even found the board.” He gave a nonchalant wave. “Once I uncover her secret, I daresay any attraction will fade.”
Miss Woolf stepped onto the small platform without fanfare, her copper-red curls pinned with pearls, her figure swathed in dark green silk. She gave no curtsy. No coy smile. Just a faint nod to the room as she addressed the crowd.
“This is a short, untitled piece written by a … friend.”
Rothley stirred beside him. “Friend? The woman is out to steal my sanity.”
When Miss Woolf spoke, the world sat up and listened. With quiet confidence, she selected each word carefully as if chosen from a well-worn drawer of memories.
“I dreamt I told the truth,
But no one believed me.
I wore red and they called it mourning.
I laughed and they asked who had died.”
The haunting cadence held everyone spellbound.
Rothley leaned forward, fixated on the woman in green.
“So I learned to be silent,
To carry secrets in my glove,
And speak in riddles,
So no one could say I lied.”
When she finished, there was a beat of silence before the room erupted into applause. Beside him, Bentley heard Rothley exhale.
“ She wrote that, not a fictitious friend.” Rothley stared like the lady was an inconvenient obsession. “Perhaps she knows lies are the bane of my existence.”
Eager to prod the viper, Bentley said, “Perhaps a lover wrote it. With her mind and beauty, I imagine every literary man in London wants her for his muse.”
A muscle in Rothley’s cheek twitched. “You should speak to the countess. Warn her of the dangers of her proteges consorting with such men.”
“Why me? I have my own troubles.” Bentley glanced at Clara, seated beside the Countess of Berridge on the front row, acutely aware he was enjoying every moment of his unfortunate predicament. “Perhaps Miss Woolf is in love and is willing to overlook the danger.”
Bentley chuckled inwardly.
Few men were more dangerous than Rothley.
“Intelligent women don’t fall in love,” Rothley countered.
“Maybe she’s searching for a protector.”
“Hmm. I find that easier to believe.” Rothley paused before adding coolly, “Speaking of protection, I wrote to Dalton. He’ll want to know his sister is named in an article about a murdered medium.”
Bentley’s jaw tightened. “Of course. I’m sure he’ll rush back to town to take command.”
“As any decent brother would.”
Bentley looked away before his thoughts betrayed him. The burn in his chest had nothing to do with duty and everything to do with Clara Dalton, and the unshakeable truth he could never give her up.
Everything we touch is doomed to fail.
His mother’s words echoed in his mind. Yet the real battle wasn’t with fate, but with his parent and his closest friend. Mere skirmishes compared to the challenge of convincing Clara their relationship had a future.
“Well? Do I need to inspect your duelling pistols?” Rothley said with dry amusement. “Shall I scout a convenient location or start accepting invitations, should I find myself short of friends?”
Bentley heard the not-so-subtle warning. “I’d suggest having your tailor fit you for a new black coat, but you’ve worn mourning like a uniform for the last decade.”
Rothley didn’t curse or scoff at the veiled confession. “Lust has stolen your brain and left a turnip in its place. And you ask why I avoid romantic entanglements. They’re more trouble than they’re worth.”
Instead of offering the usual witty retort, Bentley spoke from the heart. “I let guilt and the need to play the dutiful son come before happiness. But I love Clara. I have for some time.”
“Then marry her and be done with it.”
“She’ll think I’m asking out of obligation.” Clara would mistake love for pity, passion for guilt. “Once she’s completed her list, she’s leaving London.”
Clara didn’t want to be rescued, or to feel like a burden he couldn’t ignore. If he proposed now, she’d believe it was because of her scar, her past, the trouble shadowing her every step, not because he couldn’t imagine a life without her.
“I was mistaken,” Rothley said as he rose. “Even a turnip isn’t as mindless. Follow the advice you gave Gentry and make it impossible for her to say no. Give her a reason to stay.”
He strode ahead to join the queue of guests filtering into the hall and drawing room. Bentley followed, accepting a glass of claret from a footman and stealing a glance at the longcase clock.
A few hours in a private room at Porretta’s awaited. Now he had to provide the excuse they needed to leave.
They joined Clara, the Countess of Berridge, and Miss Woolf on one of the elegant damask sofas beneath the soft glow of the crystal chandelier. Clara glanced up, a secret smile tugging at her lips, and his doubts nearly vanished.
Eager for answers, Rothley said, “I didn’t realise you kept company with a poet, Miss Woolf.”
“That surprises me, my lord,” she said smoothly. “Considering you spent two hours in the bookshop opposite my lodging house this week. Did Mr Potter not mention I attend his literary meetings on the first Thursday of every month?”
“No, nor did he mention local talent when I asked about promising poets. I cannot abide untruths, which is why I’m curious. What inspired your friend to write a poem about mistrust?”
“What else but pain?” she said, meeting his gaze. “When lies are used like weapons and the truth is ignored, sometimes a poem is the only safe place one might speak freely.”
While Rothley stared as though he wanted to seize the woman’s shoulders and shake the truth from her, Clara turned to Bentley, her subtle nod a clear signal it was time to make their escape.
Bentley cleared his throat. “Did Miss Dalton mention our outing this evening? As we’re the only ones able to identify Mr Murray, we’ve agreed to visit The Swan and observe the passengers departing on hired coaches to Manchester.”
The countess arched a brow, her lips twitching as she struggled to suppress a smile. “Can you not stay for the second part of the programme?”
“Sadly, duty calls.” Though making love to Clara would be his life’s greatest pleasure, not a tiresome chore.
“I trust you’ll return Clara to The Jade. My husband has business at the club tonight, and we’ve agreed to remain here in Aldgate.”
She gestured towards the window, and the handful of wastrels loitering near the entrance to the infamous gaming hell across the street.
“I’ll have her home before midnight.” Bentley gave a reassuring nod. “Should we find Murray and encounter a delay, I’ll send a note with a penny boy.”
Clara rose and offered the countess a grateful smile. “Thank you for a lovely evening, and for agreeing to let me stay tonight.”
Bentley stood too, bowing politely before placing a hand at the small of Clara’s back. Warmth seeped through the fine silk, sharpening his anticipation.
They crossed the hall, muffled laughter fading behind them as they stepped into the cool night air. Beyond the waiting hackneys, his carriage stood apart, lanterns glowing like watchful eyes.
“We’re not taking Gibbs?” she asked, noting his slender coachman perched atop the box, not the man who spent his spare time reading Roman and Greek philosophy.
“I’d rather not see our outing immortalised in his next report,” Bentley murmured, handing her up and stepping in after her. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about visiting Porretta’s.”