Page 32 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)
Chapter Seventeen
Clara woke to the smell of cooked ham drifting up from the kitchens and the distant clatter of carriages beyond the chamber window.
The room was dark, the heavy curtains keeping the morning light at bay. She lay beneath the covers, warm from sleep, half-expecting Signora Conti to burst in humming a playful Neapolitan love song.
But the memory of last night stole through her in a rush of heat. Bentley’s hot mouth on her skin, his body pressing her down into the mattress, how glorious it felt as he moved inside her, stretching her, filling the emptiness.
Seeking him, she pushed up onto her elbows, hair tumbling over her bare shoulders, the ache in her limbs proving it hadn’t been a dream.
But the space beside her was empty, the sheets already cool.
A chill seeped into her bones.
The most exhilarating night of her life was over. Soon, Daniel would return, and there would be no more stolen opportunities, no more secret hours where she could pretend Bentley belonged to no one but her.
Fear doused the glow in her chest. Making love to Bentley Sommersby was not something she could cross off her list. It was something she would crave again and again, until the memory of him was stitched into the fabric of her soul.
With a heaviness in her heart, she slipped from the bed, shivering as her bare feet met the polished floorboards, and dressed in yesterday’s gown.
At the mirror, she fastened her hair loosely and tied the patch back into place.
She would pretend to be a woman who defied convention, not one who had fallen hopelessly in love.
Taking a few tentative steps into the corridor, she paused. A soft, tinkling melody drifted through the house, delicate and wistful, a tune meant to lull a child to sleep.
Drawn by the sound, she followed it along the landing until she reached a half-open door. Sunlight caught the worn paint of wooden toys and a cradle carved with faded cherubs.
Bentley stood inside, dressed in his shirtsleeves, his broad shoulders slumped, his fingers curled around the cradle’s edge as the musical box wound to silence.
She entered the nursery, the boards creaking softly beneath her feet, hoping he welcomed the intrusion. “Bentley?”
He turned, and she faltered, struck by the change in his expression. All the warmth and tenderness she’d seen in his eyes last night was gone, replaced by a heavy sorrow. Was it regret? Would he spend forever haunted by the memory of their reckless actions? Was guilt one burden too many?
“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I heard the music and …”
He reached for her, clasping her hands. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to wake you.
You looked so peaceful when you were sleeping.
” His thumb brushed the back of hers, a gentler kind of intimacy than last night, when he’d held her wrists above her head, claiming her like a captive.
“It’s just the lullaby reminds me why Nightshade was right. ”
“Right?” She glanced around the nursery, noticing the musty smell. Some things were faded with time while others looked almost new. “About living a miserable existence?”
He exhaled slowly. “I’ve spent a lifetime shouldering a burden that was never mine, wading through the wreckage left behind.”
She wanted to run a soothing hand over his shoulder, be the one who quieted his storms. To kiss away the weight he carried so the light in his eyes never dimmed.
“Some people find the strength to steer through their troubles,” she said, knowing she was not that strong. “Others find themselves adrift. There’s no right or wrong. How can there be when we’re all on different journeys?”
The words sounded wise, though part of her was stranded in that moment when the crop struck her face. Part of her still grieved the loss of that vivacious woman.
He brushed an errant lock of hair from her brow. “Last night was everything I knew it would be. I’m not the same man I was yesterday. You rouse a determination in me that?—”
A loud knock echoed through the house, sharp and jarring against the hush of the nursery. They froze, the fragile intimacy between them splintering.
Bentley’s grip on her hand tightened. “I’ll wager that’s Mercer come to haul one of us to gaol, or Daventry with the clue we need to end this fiasco.”
Another possibility crept into her mind. “It could be my brother. We can expect him any day now.” To end the illusion. To make them face stark realities.
Before either could move, a woman’s elegant voice rang through the hallway. “Lay another place at the breakfast table, Hockton, and summon my son.”
“Saints have mercy,” Bentley said between gritted teeth. “It’s my mother.” He turned to her, cupping her cheek, panic flashing in his eyes. “Stay here. I’ll inform her I have a ten o’clock appointment and see her out. Hockton will be discreet.”
“There’s no need. I’ll leave through the servants’ entrance.”
The names people whispered behind her back were cruel enough. If Lady Rutland discovered her here, she wouldn’t just be the scarred woman suspected of murder. She would be the scarred harlot who’d spent the night in a viscount’s bed.
“Like hell you will,” he said, resolute. “I’ll send her away. Then we must have a frank discussion, Clara.”
The nursery door burst open before she could reply.
Lady Rutland stood framed in the doorway, a picture of elegance, though her white-knuckled grip on the handle betrayed the storm brewing in her eyes.
“Bentley? For shame!” Her voice cracked as she caught sight of their dishabille. “You would conduct your liaisons here, in the nursery, of all places? You would dishonour this room and the sacred memories it holds?”
Clara felt the matron’s disapproval. The walls seemed to close in, the space shrinking until Bentley’s hand settled on the small of her back, reminding her she wasn’t alone.
“We will discuss this downstairs. You’re welcome to stay for breakfast, Mother, provided you have nothing but kind things to say.”
“Discuss it?” Lady Rutland’s gaze flicked from the crib to Clara’s eye patch. “You fools. Have you not suffered enough without inviting the devil to your door? Have you no decency? Have you truly fallen so low?”
“Be careful, Mother,” came his razor-sharp warning.
Clara shifted beside him. “Perhaps I should go?—”
“You’re a guest in my home,” he interjected. “I invited you here. You won’t be the one to leave.”
Lady Rutland looked aghast. “What about Sarah? The poor girl has spent her entire life devoted to you and the pact you made. She’s earned her place at your side.”
“The pact you made,” he countered. “I’m not in love with Sarah.”
“Love?” A bitter laugh escaped her. “If life were about love, we’d all be doomed. I ignored every warning and paid the price.” Her gaze flicked to Clara’s marred eye. “That mark. Tell me you’re not foolish enough to believe it was an accident?”
“Forgive me, my lady, but you weren’t there the night I was injured.” Clara fought to suppress her anger, anger at her father, at this woman’s cold judgement, at how easily her pain was dismissed. “You have no right to make assumptions.”
But the matron did not waver. “Assumptions? Do you think chance brought you here, Miss Dalton? I assure you, it’s the devil’s doing.”
“That’s enough, Mother!” Bentley’s words cracked like musket fire, sharp with a fury Clara had never heard from him before. “Grief has broken you. You’ve always been stubborn, but never cruel.”
Clara refused to let the quarrel spiral further. Steeling herself, she reached up and loosened the ribbon at her temple. The velvet patch fell away, exposing the scar she usually kept hidden.
“This is not the work of the devil, but of a man struggling with grief.” Her anger faltered, softened by a wave of sympathy. “We’ve all suffered, my lady. But compassion and kindness are the weapons of the brave.”
The frustration in Lady Rutland’s face eased as she looked at the scar slicing Clara’s brow. Tears welled. “My dear girl. You have borne a grave injustice. I’m only thankful your mother was spared the guilt. Thankful she never lost a child.”
The comment caught Clara by surprise.
It was an odd thing to say.
Almost as if the women shared the same burden.
Guided by little more than intuition, Clara said, “You speak of what happened at the Rosefield Seminary?”
It was a stab in the dark. A clue that made no sense.
Lady Rutland’s eyes widened. “Dear Lord. Agnes told you? Your mother clutched her Bible and swore never to breathe a word.”
Clara seized on a sudden certainty that explained why she was being questioned for two murders. “You attended the seminary with my mother.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes, and I’ve paid for it every day since.” Lady Rutland looked at the crib, her sudden sadness palpable. “We’ve all suffered because of the curse that stupid girl placed upon us. None of us took it seriously.”
Clara searched her mind, desperate to recall the name of the pupil who perished. “I know Miss Forbes was involved in a scandal. That she died tragically at the Rosefield Seminary.”
Lady Rutland flinched as if pricked by a pin, her face turning chalk white as she clapped her hands over her ears. “Heavens above. Do not mention her name here. I’ll not lose the only child I have left.”
Jaw tight, Bentley said, “Mother, if you know something that can end this madness, you’ll tell me now.”
Clara softened her tone. “Perhaps we should continue this discussion downstairs, over tea.” Somewhere that didn’t rouse upsetting memories or reopen wounds time had failed to heal.
The tension followed them down to breakfast, lingering like an unwelcome guest at the table. They sat in uneasy silence while the footman poured the tea. Steam curled from china cups no one touched. None of them had an appetite.
At last Bentley dismissed the servants. He waited for the soft click of the door before speaking. “Miss Nightshade was a fraud. She planned to blackmail Miss Dalton over the tragedy at Rosefield, convinced she knew the secrets buried there.”
“A journalist planned to write a story about Miss Forbes,” Clara added. “But she was murdered before she could print a word.”
“Murdered?” Lady Rutland’s hand trembled as she drew her lace handkerchief and dabbed her brow. “Good heavens, I might be next. Do you see the danger you’ve brought us by refusing to marry Sarah? If you had honoured the pact, we might all have been spared.”
Bentley slammed his hand on the table, his patience evidently frayed. “What has this got to do with Sarah Woodall?”
Lady Rutland blenched as silver clattered against china. “Because while we all suffered, her mother remained untouched.”
“Untouched? Untouched by what?”
“The curse, of course.” Lady Rutland’s gaze darted about the room as though Miss Forbes’ spirit clung to the wallpaper. “The pact was the only way of saving you.”
Clara recalled something Miss Nightshade said while trying to frighten her. That Agnes died with stained hands. Stained by silence, not blood. “My mother bore some of the guilt for Miss Forbes’ death.”
“Not just Agnes. Mimi and I, too,” Lady Rutland said, her voice breaking. “I suspect that’s what drove Lord Tarrington to open that museum and fill it with dark relics. After what befell his poor wife, perhaps he’s as desperate as I am to break the spell.”
Bentley tutted. “You’re speaking in riddles. Who is Mimi, and why would Tarrington care about omens?”
His mother gave a frustrated groan. “Amelia Tarrington. The lord’s aunt. She shared our dormitory at the seminary.”
Trying to piece the fragments together, Clara asked, “My mother shared a room with you, Miss Tarrington, and Miss Forbes?”
“Yes.”
“And Mrs Woodall was at the seminary too?”
“Yes, though she went by her maiden name then. She’s the only one whose life isn’t blighted by tragedy.”
Bentley raked a hand down his face, his disbelief plain. “You think you’re to blame for Marcus’ death? You thought if I married Sarah, I would somehow be saved?”
“Well, yes. Why did you think I was so insistent?”
Bentley’s voice softened, the sharpness ebbing. “And you’ve carried this burden alone for forty years?”
“Not entirely alone. I told your father once, but he dismissed it as nonsense. The ramblings of a grieving fool.”
A heavy silence settled in the room. Clara watched Bentley shake his head as if at war with himself.
For all his anger, compassion won out. He rose and took his mother’s trembling hand, urging her gently from the chair.
“You should have told me.” He drew her into his arms, and at last the proud woman crumpled, sobs muffled against her son’s shoulder.
Clara looked on, moved by his strength and capacity to forgive. She prayed her brother granted him the same grace.
After composing herself, Lady Rutland sat down and told the story of Miss Forbes, how word of her affair with a tutor spread through the seminary.
Shamed and cast out, she’d taken poison, leaving behind a letter blaming the women in her dormitory for exposing her.
Only Mrs Woodall had written to the girl’s family, insisting the rumours were lies.
She alone escaped mention in the malediction.
“You need to tell us everything you can about Miss Forbes,” Bentley said, returning to his seat.
“Charlotte was a private person, and it was so long ago.” Lady Rutland pressed her lips together, as if speaking the name aloud might summon famine, fire, and every ill omen imaginable.
Bentley’s slow exhale belied his frustration. “Never mind. One of Daventry’s agents can visit the seminary and access the records. The murders must be related to what happened there years ago.”
Something troubled Clara.
How had Miss Nightshade learnt of the incident? Had Lord Tarrington spoken of it when he asked her to commune with the dead? Had his aunt told him of the so-called curse, hinting his wife’s fate was part of something darker? Did he fear Miss Nightshade might expose it and tarnish her memory?
If so, Lord Tarrington had a motive for murder.