Page 33 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)
Chapter Eighteen
Bentley waited until Clara left the dining room to tidy her hair before turning to his mother. Disbelief clung to the silence, thick with old misunderstandings and steeped in sorrow.
As he drained the last of his tea and set the cup aside, he thought about the book Gibbs was reading. “Marcus Aurelius said the soul takes the colour of one’s thoughts. Your belief in this curse is as damaging as the curse itself, if there is such a thing. Please tell me you see that.”
His mother stared into her china cup as if the tea were a mirror to the past. “I have every reason to believe it is true. It sounds foolish, even to my ears, but when Marcus died—” Her voice cracked, the next words lost.
“It was easier to blame a curse than the doctor, or yourself,” he finished. How many times had he sat and listened as she dissected those crucial minutes?
Too many to count.
She looked up, her eyes heavy with regret. “If only I had fought for a second opinion, and that useless physician hadn’t come straight from his club. If only your father had been at home.”
“The world is full of if-onlys, Mother.” If only he’d fought to see Clara two years ago and rejected the idea of marrying Sarah. “I have more than a few of my own.”
“Regret clings like a malevolent spirit. It has haunted me most of my adult life. I’ve never wanted that for you.”
“Then you should have told me about Rosefield. Thoughts are often darker when left to fester in silence.” He glanced at Clara’s empty seat, wishing he’d been there to quieten the cruel lies she told herself when she looked at her reflection.
His mother followed his gaze. “Miss Dalton is nice enough,” she said, the words already pricking his temper, “but hardly suitable for someone of your station. If you’d only marry Sarah, I could see my final days out in peace.”
As a man known for his calm resolve, he did not disappoint. “How strange you speak of peace and a desire to change the past, yet seem intent on destroying the future.”
She frowned, somewhat puzzled.
Bentley clasped his hands on the table, ready to deliver an ultimatum, a statement he’d replayed many times in his mind. “We’ve reached the point where you must decide.”
“Decide?”
“I’ll never marry Sarah. She’s shallow, unkind, and?—”
“Will mellow in time. She’s desperate to impress you.”
“I hope to marry Miss Dalton. God willing, I’ll fill this house with children. Their mother will teach them that warriors are born from adversity. Their father will offer one piece of advice. Never let anyone tell you how to live.”
Tension rose, as thick as fog from the river.
His mother’s hand shook, the cup clattering against the saucer. “Children? With Agnes’ daughter? After everything you’ve just learned?”
“Yes. You can embrace this new beginning, or you can let resentment poison the rest of your days. The choice is yours.” He rose abruptly.
He had a killer to catch, and a burning need to kiss the woman he loved.
“I shall have Hockton send for your carriage. I suggest you return home and consider what else you have to lose.”
He didn’t wait for her reply but strode from the dining room, his boots striking the polished floor with purpose.
Waiting in the hall, Hockton bowed low and presented the salver. “A letter for you, my lord. It arrived a few moments ago, but I thought it unwise to disturb you.”
Bentley broke the wax, recognising the seal stamped with the scales of justice, the mark of The Order. “Send for Lady Rutland’s carriage. Tell Gibbs I need him ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”
“I’ll send a footman at once, my lord.”
Bentley read the note as he mounted the stairs, the tightness in his shoulders easing. Murray was in custody at the Hart Street Office, though they hadn’t found him boarding the stage to Manchester.
He marched into his chamber to find Clara fixing her hair in the full-length mirror. The sight of her stirred a vivid memory, her soft thighs cradling him, her hands gripping his back as he sank into her again and again.
“We’ve been summoned to Hart Street.” He crossed the room, tossed the letter on the bed and slid his arms around her waist. His mouth found the sweet spot at her nape, and she shivered beneath the kiss.
“You’ll need to change your clothes. The moment Daventry sees you in a silk gown, he’ll know you haven’t been home all night. ”
Clara stilled, their reflection meeting in the mirror.
I am home.
The words echoed in his mind, but she only said, “I’ll be glad when this business is over and we can put it behind us.”
She made no mention of retiring to the country—an encouraging sign in itself—though now was hardly the time for him to bend the knee and make a grand gesture.
“Do you think Lord Tarrington knew about the curse?” she asked. “He could have slipped poison into Miss Nightshade’s mouth when she was pretending to choke. She must have known something damning for him to go to such lengths.”
“Perhaps Murray will shed light on the problem. We witnessed his altercation with Tarrington, and there are always two sides to a story.”
She turned in his arms. “I assume your mother has left.”
“Hockton has summoned her carriage.” There was a chance she might never visit again. A chance she would never accept Clara, and he feared that would be one rejection too many. “She’s going home to reflect. Old patterns are hard to break.”
Clara nodded like she understood the struggle better than most. “The situation is more complex than either of us imagined. It seems there was some truth to Miss Nightshade’s claim. She knew about my mother’s silence, too.”
“Nightshade must have accessed the records at Rosefield.” He refused to accept the medium possessed any psychic ability. “Or Tarrington told her after learning the truth from his aunt.”
She rested her palm on his chest. “I’m just surprised they’ve lived under a dark cloud for so many years.”
“Are you not living under one yourself, Clara?” He studied her face, hoping she might remove all her barriers given time. “What happened to you still shapes so many of your choices.”
“Forgiveness takes great strength. I’ve never admired you more than when you let your mother cry on your shoulder.” She came up on her toes and brushed her lips against his, a kiss the distraction she needed.
His mouth claimed hers, slow at first, then with the hunger he’d carried since dawn. “Stay with me tonight,” he whispered.
She hesitated. The silence unnerved him more than any pistol or blade. “I should stay with the countess, at least for one night. And Daniel will arrive soon. We don’t want to tempt fate.”
The words struck harder than he expected. Thankfully, the press of her body and the hand stroking his chest said her thoughts and words were not aligned.
“You don’t need to worry about Daniel.” The man wasn’t blind or stupid, but he would force a proposal, which suited Bentley perfectly.
The question remained: Did it suit Clara?
Hart Street, Covent Garden
Office of the Order
They were ushered into the Order’s stately drawing room, a place fit for the highest ranks of the nobility, not the unkempt fellow with bristly cheeks, a torn coat, and one shoe missing.
With eyes rimmed red beneath a shock of copper hair, and a dark bruise shadowing one cheekbone, Murray shot to his feet, jabbed a finger at Clara, and cried, “You! It was you! You killed Lavinia. Everyone said so.”
Like a pugilist taking a blow to the chin, Clara absorbed the accusation and struck back. “I’m not the one paid to play a part at the seance. You lied, sir, to the entire audience.”
Murray’s glare sharpened. “Paid to play a part? Madam, you’ll say anything to shift the blame. You had poison in that tiny flask and convinced the sergeant it was sherry.”
“It was sherry,” Bentley countered. “I drank it myself.” Warm and sweet, like Clara’s lips. They had passed the flask between them while watching couples dancing. Being with her left him dizzy, yet he had lived to see sunrise, proof love, not curses, ruled his fate.
“Sit down, Mr Murray.” Daventry gestured to the agents flanking Murray, and they forced him back into the chair. “Miss Dalton won’t see the inside of a cell at Newgate. You will, unless you explain why you attacked the landlord at Miss Nightshade’s residence.”
Daventry motioned for Clara and Bentley to sit, then explained that his agent had been watching the house on Dowgate Hill when Murray broke in and assaulted the owner.
“In some cases, housebreaking with violence is still a hanging offence, Mr Murray. Be concerned for your own neck, not Miss Dalton’s.”
“It’s not housebreaking if I had a key,” the scruffy fellow retorted. “And a man’s allowed to defend himself when he’s walloped with a bedpan.” He touched the lump on his forehead and winced.
Daventry reached into his coat pocket and tossed a ring of skeleton keys onto the low table. “Burglars’ tools do not constitute a door key.”
“They’re not mine.”
“They were found in your pocket.”
“Planted there to make me look guilty.”
“What were you looking for?” Daventry’s expression darkened. He drew out his watch and flicked open the gold case. “You have five seconds to tell me. I’d rather not take you into the yard and add to your injuries. Be assured, I’m skilled at hurting men without leaving a mark.”
Murray’s jaw worked like a horse fighting the bit. His gaze darted to the door, then to the iron keys on the table, as if weighing his chances of escape. “I was looking for the items Lavinia promised me.”
“The spoils of your ill-gotten gains,” Bentley said. “We have proof Lavinia blackmailed members of the audience, and by your own admission, she paid you to help deceive them.”
The lines on Murray’s brow deepened, and his hands shot up in mock surrender. “So I told a white lie and pretended to see a vision.”