Page 36 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)
Lord Tarrington shook his head, almost violently. “I didn’t kill Lavinia, but what she did to me was cruel. Pretending Margaret approved of my taking a lover. Lying to break down my resolve. Insisting my wife would understand because the soul is not tethered to mortal constraints.”
The room fell quiet.
Tears welled in the lord’s eyes. “Then Murray tells me she’s a fraud, that Scarth is the one with the talent. I refused to believe it and flew at him outside that dockside tavern, my fists full of murderous intent.”
And guilt, Clara suspected.
Guilt for those fragile moments of weakness.
“Do you know what it’s like?” Pain etched every line of his face. “To feel the warmth of the wrong woman’s lips when yours have been cold for so long? It brings no pleasure.”
Another lengthy silence ensued. Clara studied him, but grief and guilt blurred so closely together she could not tell which one ruled him.
“Is there anything else you’ve not told us, Tarrington?” Bentley spoke like he was tired of hearing his lies. “The reason you purchase these oddities from abroad? Why you have an unusual fascination with all things macabre? The sprigs of dried rowan?”
“Superstition, Rutland. We all have our talismans. Some men wear a saint’s medal. Others, a lock of hair. I prefer rowan. It is said to guard against misfortune. And I have known more than my share.”
Clara seized the moment to press further. “Some believe misfortune is simply part of life. Others believe darker forces are at work. I imagine your aunt favoured the latter after her time at the Rosefield Seminary.”
The lord recoiled into his chair as if she had flung holy water at him. “My aunt was a fanciful woman,” he said at last, his tone clipped. “Too much given to gossip and old wives’ tales. You’re not suggesting her ramblings hold any bearing on the present?”
The tightness in his jaw betrayed something far from indifference, and Clara was certain he understood her meaning all too well. “You speak of gossip and old wives’ tales yet seem afraid to name it. A curse.”
The lord’s gaze hardened and the mask of civility slipped. “Some things are best left unnamed. Names have a way of giving power to what ought to be forgotten.”
“Yet you surround yourself with reminders,” Clara replied.
“And you invite disaster by keeping company with those supposedly marked.” His eyes lingered on her before turning to Bentley. “Have you not suffered enough?”
Bentley met the challenge without flinching. “I see it for what it is, chains of fear forged from rumours, meant to imprison the mind.”
“In that we are agreed.” Lord Tarrington’s gaze drifted to a small brass talisman on the side table, its surface etched with lotus petals and endless knots.
Lifting it with care, he turned it so the faint light caught the worn engravings.
“From the Far East. The lotus is said to shield the bearer from misfortune, though it is not my soul I am keen to protect.”
To protect someone was more than a gesture of faith.
It was a vow, a promise to carry their burdens and keep them safe from harm.
Yet a hollow ache opened in her chest, for she had failed the man she loved.
Because of her, his bond with an old friend was fraying, and his mother would never forgive what she deemed his betrayal.
She looked back at Lord Tarrington. “Few possess the conviction to keep such vows. One lapse doesn’t mean failure.”
The approval in his eyes softened the tension.
Bentley used the shift to his advantage. “Perhaps you might tell us how Lavinia came to know about the curse at Rosefield.”
“She knew because I told her,” Lord Tarrington said without apology. “I wanted proof the curse was a lie. She dismissed it as nonsense, then conveyed Margaret’s wish that I move on.”
Clara noted a discrepancy in his account.
“When we spoke in Mr Daventry’s office, you refused to believe Lavinia lied. Yet you had already struck Mr Murray, and now you tell us he confessed she was a fraud.”
A faint smile touched his lips, though it never reached his eyes. “Who would believe a toad like Murray? Only when I returned from Daventry’s office and replayed all that had happened did the truth become glaringly obvious. You must think me a fool for not seeing it sooner.”
Clara’s thoughts raced ahead of the conversation. If Lord Tarrington spoke the truth, then Lavinia’s dishonesty might have reached other ears. Had Mr Scarth killed her in a fit of vengeance? Was Mr Murray driven by greed when he learned of the treasure box?
Lord Tarrington glanced at the mantel clock. “You’ll forgive me, but I have an appointment and there’s nothing more I can tell you.” He rose, replaced the brass talisman on the table, and let his fingers glide over it once, perhaps for luck, before bidding them good day.
Bentley inclined his head. “Then I hope our visit to the seminary tomorrow brings answers. Ones that will spare us the need to trouble you again.”
“You’re visiting the source of the curse?” The lord seemed shaken by the news. He reached into a vase of roses, pulled a small sprig of rowan and handed it to Clara. “Keep it with you. Such things can linger within the old walls.”
Then he ushered them from the room.
They stepped into the hallway, both releasing a breath after the strain of the interview, and made their way to the waiting carriage. Once inside, Clara adjusted her skirts, watching Bentley settle opposite her with that unreadable look she knew too well.
“Well?” she asked. “Do you believe him?”
“He changes his story with the wind. Proving he poisoned the wine will be impossible. But I suspect Tarrington knows that.”
“Why kill Miss Picklescott?”
“Maybe she saw something she shouldn’t have that night.”
“Sadly, we’ll never know.” A pang of trepidation gripped her, though whether from Daniel’s impending arrival or the fear of becoming the killer’s next victim, she could not say. “I only wish the culprit were behind bars. Then we might rest easier in our beds.”
His lips curved faintly as he studied her, his gaze lingering on the sweep of her neck, the rise of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the very paths his hands had traced last night. “It’s not rest I crave when I’m in bed with you.”
She tried to smother a smile and failed. “You make it sound as if we’ve been lovers for years.”
“If I count the number of times I’ve made love to you in my mind, we have.” His husky voice sent heat curling through her. “You’re mine now. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”
She arched a brow in mock challenge. “Yours? That sounds dangerously like a claim, my lord.”
“Damn right it’s a claim.” His gaze roved over her face as if committing every detail to memory. “I’m not prepared to lose you.”
Her heart kicked, the thought of life without him pressing sharp and cold beneath her ribs. “You make me sound … exceptional.”
“You are exceptional. Clever and beautiful?—”
“Not reckless and maddening?” she teased.
“I prefer to dwell on the things you refuse to believe.”
“Then you’ll be thinking about me for quite a long time.”
His smile deepened. “I’ve been doing that since the day we met.”
A wave of sadness stole over her. So much time wasted. “Why didn’t you say something? I thought you saw me as Daniel’s irritating sister.”
“You are Daniel’s irritating sister. And believe me, I did try to think of you that way. Out of respect for oaths made in my name. From a fear of ruining friendships with men who are like family.”
She thought of his mother’s warning.
If you’re fond of my son, you’ll stop your brother from beating him bloody and tossing him to the crows.
Fear gripped her heart like a vice. “If Daniel ever learns the truth, you may regret breaking that oath.”
“I can’t lie anymore, Clara.”
The carriage rocked, a sign Gibbs was getting restless.
A sharp rap sounded above, followed by his gruff voice drifting down through the roof hatch.
“If you’ve finished mooning over each other, we’d best be on our way.
We need to be on the road to Cheltenham if we hope to reach Burford before nightfall.
Mr Daventry insists we take chaperones. And the marquess will want time to prepare. ”
Clara met Bentley’s gaze, her disappointment reflected in the depth of his eyes. A night away had less appeal when it meant sharing their time with friends. Would there be moments for stolen kisses, for the forbidden touches she craved?
“Take us home, Gibbs. Fetch Rothley while we pack a valise. I suspect he’ll be ready within the half-hour when he learns Miss Woolf is to be our companion.”
“Olivia will be glad of a respite away from London,” Clara said, though she suspected their journey would offer little in the way of peace. Still, there was one consolation. Daniel wouldn’t be in Cheltenham.