Page 3 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)
Chapter Two
George Street, Mayfair
The Viscountess of Rutland’s Residence
The dining room was quiet except for the hollow chime of silver cutlery against the porcelain plates, and the sigh that said Bentley’s mother had something to say and was waiting to pick the right moment.
He swallowed a tender piece of veal, eyes straying to the mantel clock. Seven. An hour until his secret rendezvous with Miss Dalton. The only spark in weeks smothered by duty and dull routine.
Yet even that promise couldn’t dislodge the dread coiling tight in his chest.
Across the walnut table, his mother ate at a snail’s pace, her movements unhurried, her gaze occasionally drifting towards him.
She knew he had plans elsewhere, plans she meant to ruin.
Her tactics were quiet but effective, honed by years of subtle persuasion.
Still, nothing short of force would keep him from meeting his adventuress tonight.
Despite a desire to finish his meal, he hurried things along by setting down his cutlery and dabbing his mouth with his napkin.
His mother glanced up from the carefully arranged food on her plate. “Is the veal not to your liking? I shall tell Mrs Redley to go lighter with the lemon sauce in future. It can be a little harsh on the palate when one’s not quite themselves.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the veal,” Bentley said, and the lemon sauce wasn’t souring anyone’s appetite. “I simply find it hard to eat at the speed of a morsel an hour.”
In her day, Vivienne Sommersby was a diamond of the first water, admired for her vivacity and zest for life. But forty years of heartache had left a woman confined by her fears, her spirit dulled and her world narrowed to the bars of an invisible cage.
“Are you unwell, Mother?”
“Unwell?” She brushed a wisp of grey hair from her brow as if it were an arduous task she had been avoiding. “Not at all. I prefer to take things slowly in my dotage. Even my meals.”
“Dotage? You’re barely sixty.”
“What pleasures are left, other than seeing my beloved son marry?”
An awkward pause ensued.
The silence pressed down on him, as heavy as her expectations.
“Did Madame Véline call today?” he asked before sipping his wine, though he wanted to toss back the claret in one swift gulp.
His mother offered another weak smile, the kind that always tugged at his heartstrings. “Yes, she measured me for two new gowns, both in midnight blue silk.”
“We agreed you would choose something brighter.”
She hadn’t worn pastel shades since the death of Bentley’s older brother thirty-five years ago, a brother he had never met, though they toasted Marcus at Christmas, on birthdays, and every Sunday, along with the other two babes she had lost.
His mother winced. “A lady must dress to suit her age.”
Yet she had worn some form of half-mourning most of her adult life. The beautiful young woman whose portrait hung on the staircase wall beamed with happiness, a rare sight in reality.
“Sarah said darker colours suit my complexion,” she added, referring to her precious goddaughter, Miss Woodall, and Bentley’s soon-to-be fiancée unless someone spoke up to prevent the tragedy. “She came to visit while the modiste was here. You know she has such a great eye for detail.”
He knew very little about Sarah Woodall other than she was too opinionated and was a staunch supporter of radical reform, much to her family’s chagrin.
How were they supposed to create a life together when they could barely tolerate each other’s company? How would they raise children when Miss Woodall held such uncompromising views?
He shivered. The thought of bedding her chilled him to the marrow.
Reading his mind, his mother said gently, “Have faith, Bentley. Love is a fantasy. One that cannot survive the strain of real life. Emotions are a dreaded inconvenience in a marriage.”
A belief she drilled into him daily.
He decided to broach the sore topic again. “We’re not suited, Mother. We have nothing in common. I envisage years of abject misery ahead.”
“Nonsense. We agreed to unite our families the day Sarah was born.” She speared an asparagus tip, cutting it into neat pieces just to prolong his agony. “A vow sworn before God Himself, and respected ever since.”
“I was ten when Sarah was born. Forgive me if I cannot recall the conversation.” Yet he was being punished for his mother’s grief.
“Nothing matters more to me than your health and happiness, Bentley.” She sounded sincere, as if she meant every word. “I thought love could move mountains. I was wrong. I’ll not have you suffer the same way I did.”
Vivienne Sommersby had married for love. But that love had withered and died with the loss of three children. To her, affection was fragile. Duty endured. And she truly believed that was enough.
“You’ll be happy, Bentley. I’m certain of it. Marrying Sarah will bring light into our lives again after so many years overshadowed by sorrow. It will bring an end to the needless suffering.”
How could he disappoint the mother he loved?
How could he deny her this last chance of happiness?
He couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried.
So he lived in the hope Miss Woodall would see reason. Because the only alternative was breaking the heart of a woman who’d suffered enough. More than that, he feared one more disappointment would destroy her spirit for good.
The hall clock suddenly chimed the quarter hour, its sharp notes like a summons to escape. Freedom lay beyond these prison walls. For the next fourteen days, he would chase every fleeting pleasure, cling to every stolen moment like it was his last, and do anything to forget his future was bleak.
He stood but refrained from asking his mother if she needed anything before he left for the evening. “I have a prior engagement. I’ll stay at home in Bruton Street tonight.”
While he would prefer to stay in Bruton Street every night, her bouts of melancholy worsened when she was left alone for too long.
He saw the quiet panic flicker across her face. “Are you meeting your friends at the club?” she asked, her tone casual though her eyes betrayed the worry she couldn’t hide.
“Yes, Gentry is home from his honeymoon,” he lied, knowing that if he mentioned Lavinia Nightshade, his mother would pace the floor until his return, hoping for proof of the afterlife. “But he’s back at the practice tomorrow.”
Believing all doctors were incompetent, she tutted. “I’ve always liked Mr Gentry, but it was lax of him to leave London. His patients must have been beside themselves with worry.”
“They were left in Dr Harper’s capable care.”
For the next five minutes, Vivienne Sommersby recounted the grave mistake made by the doctor who had misdiagnosed measles as hives, an error that had led to disaster. One he could recite verbatim.
He rounded the table and kissed his mother gently on the temple. A stab of guilt almost made him pull out a chair and ask for dessert, longing to see the whisper of a smile grace her lips.
Be selfish for once.
Time for frivolity is in short supply.
Indeed, he was dying himself inside. A slow decline that would likely last a decade. And he was tired of playing the dutiful son.
“I’ll visit in the morning, and we can enjoy breakfast together.”
Her eyes widened. “I could ask Sarah to join us. She adores Mrs Redley’s baked eggs and truffle cream.”
“If it pleases you.” He doubted Miss Woodall would come. “Though she usually requires a few days’ notice to make space in her diary.”
He kissed his mother’s forehead and left before she kept him at the dining table until midnight. He ran the half-mile to Bruton Street, guilt snapping at his heels but anticipation driving him harder.
Hockton, ever punctual and prepared, stood in the hall beside Bentley’s valet, who held out a new blue coat. “There’s a hackney waiting in the mews, my lord, ready to depart.” The butler sounded breathless, though he hadn’t sprinted through the streets or changed clothes in a corridor.
Bentley looked at the grand clock, cursing under his breath because he hated tardiness. Miss Dalton struck him as a woman who wouldn’t hesitate to turn a man away, no matter his title. Thankfully, he had the tickets for Lavinia Nightshade’s evening of ghostly charades.
He dressed in haste, not breathing properly again until the hackney rolled into Bedford Square twenty minutes later.
Miss Dalton appeared on the doorstep, the hood of her black cloak raised. Dressed in sombre colours fit for a seance, she glanced around the quiet square, then hurried to the waiting hackney.
Bentley opened the door but didn’t step down. The breach of etiquette made him feel like a wicked scoundrel embroiled in a clandestine affair.
“You’re late,” Miss Dalton said as she slipped into the seat beside him. “I feared you’d had second thoughts and forgotten to cancel.”
He almost smiled. Only Clara Dalton could turn a reprimand into something that made him feel oddly welcome.
Why would he cancel? He’d paid a king’s ransom for the tickets. And he never felt more alive than when trading barbs with her.
“And miss a chance to meet the famed medium?” he said, though he had no interest in Lavinia Nightshade. The woman squashed beside him made his heart thump faster, perhaps because she always challenged his opinion.
He noticed a flaw in his logic. Miss Woodall fought him at every turn, yet never once left him hungry for more. Clara Dalton, with her fire and daring, was an intriguing distraction.
“I must admit, I’ve thought about little else since you mentioned the tickets,” she said, gasping suddenly as the vehicle lurched.
She pitched forward, and his hand shot out, steadying her by the arm. An instinct he’d sworn to resist.
Her shoulder grazed against him, the brief contact sparking like struck flint, heat racing through him before he could will it away.
Keen to put distance between them, she edged closer to the window. “Where is this private seance? I wasn’t aware Miss Nightshade owned a residence in Soho.”