Page 37 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)
Chapter Twenty
Rosefield Seminary
Cleeve Hill, Cheltenham
The carriage jolted over the rutted lane, the trees pressing closer as they approached the seminary. In the fractured summer light, its spire loomed black against the sky, ivy clawing up stone walls the colour of old bone.
Bentley sat beside Clara, while Rothley studied the shadowed facade like a general assessing the field. “So bleak,” he murmured, his tone almost approving.
Miss Woolf, swathed in dove-grey, followed the line of crumbling gargoyles with visible fascination. “I imagine the sermons here were better attended by ghosts than pupils.”
No wonder they found the setting appealing. Rothley wore his past like an old wound, while Miss Woolf had the air of someone who’d lived too long with danger to be troubled by death.
Bentley wished it were just him and Clara.
Rothley had kept him awake half the night at the Burford inn, mulling over Miss Woolf’s stubborn refusal to share her new address, as if it were a military secret.
And now, with the seminary doors within reach, Bentley could think of a dozen things he’d rather be doing with Clara than rifling through forty years of dusty secrets.
Clara leaned over him to peer through the carriage window, her gloved hand resting on his thigh beneath the folds of her skirts. “It looks more like a prison than a finishing school for daughters of the nobility. It’s hard to believe our mothers came here.”
The muscle beneath her touch tightened, a surge of heat darting through him at the casual intimacy. He’d not wait until they returned to London to kiss her again.
“Perhaps that’s why they never spoke of it,” he said, thinking how he might get Clara alone tonight, somewhere he could strip away her careful defences. “An oath can silence the truth for years.”
“I made a few enquiries,” Rothley said, for he was a man who left nothing to chance. “After Miss Forbes’s death forty years ago, funding dried up, numbers dwindled. In the end, they were taking merchants’ daughters just to keep the doors open.”
Bentley frowned. “I only told you about Rosefield yesterday.”
Rothley gave an arrogant grin. “And I needed but an hour in the taproom at Burford to learn everything I could about the place. Bad news travels.”
They alighted.
Miss Woolf rested her fingers lightly on Rothley’s sleeve instead of accepting his proffered hand.
The minor slight had Rothley grumbling as the ladies walked ahead and mounted the seminary steps. “Anyone would think I have leprosy.”
Bentley bit back a smile. “Perhaps she finds you too intense.”
“Intense? I’m not the one who writes grim poems about liars.” His mouth curved, though there was no humour in it. “Some of us have endured enough of them to last a lifetime.”
Bentley snorted. “We’re in Cheltenham to catch a murderer, not to delve into Miss Woolf’s psyche.”
“You should be grateful I came,” Rothley replied. “If nothing else, I’m here to keep your mind on the case, not Miss Dalton’s bed.”
Bentley cast him a warning look but didn’t suggest it was too late. He was already working out ways to outwit his friend tonight. A near-impossible feat given that Rothley was probably the most astute man in all of Christendom.
At the door, Clara lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it fall twice. The sound echoed through the hall beyond, but no one came. She tried again, the hollow thud swallowed by the stone walls.
Rothley stepped forward with a huff of impatience and seized the knocker. The door shuddered beneath the force of his rap, the sound loud enough to rouse the dead.
Miss Woolf glanced at him. “A determined approach, my lord.”
He arched a brow. “Determination opens doors, Miss Woolf.”
A long moment passed before hurried footsteps approached from within. The door creaked open to reveal a flustered maid with wisps of hair escaping her white cap. She wiped her hands on her apron, eyes darting between them. “Beg pardon, sirs, madam. I was in the laundry and didn’t hear you knock.”
“The Marquess of Rothley,” Bentley said, indicating his companion, “and I am Viscount Rutland. We wish to speak with whoever is in charge.”
The maid’s eyes widened, and she dipped so hurried a curtsy she nearly lost her balance.
“Yes, my lords, of course.” She brushed an errant strand from her cheek, as if suddenly aware of her untidy state.
“That’ll be Mrs Peverill, the matron. She’s in a …
a meeting with Mr James, the chaplain. Please, step inside and I’ll fetch her at once. ”
She led them through a dim hall into a parlour furnished with sagging armchairs, faded blue curtains, and bookcases furred with dust. Somewhere deeper in the building, an out-of-tune pianoforte stumbled through Rock of Ages , each verse mangled by the singer’s wretched tone.
Miss Woolf approached the bookcases, tilting her head to read the titles, her fingers trailing the spines as if seeking inspiration. Rothley joined her, scanning the shelves with feigned interest, though Bentley knew what held his attention.
He took the distraction as a gift. He shifted his hand to where Clara’s rested on the arm of her chair, letting his fingers stroke hers in a slow, deliberate caress. Her breath caught, and when her gaze lifted to his, the room and its shabby furnishings ceased to matter.
“Meet me tonight, at midnight,” he whispered for her ears only. “Slip out when Miss Woolf is asleep and we’ll steal an hour alone.”
“I suspect our chaperones sleep with one eye open. Doubtless Mr Daventry knew that.” One corner of her mouth curved in amused defiance. “But I’ll find a way.”
Her eagerness had his blood pumping faster. “I have a suggestion, though it may be presumptuous.”
Curiosity danced in her eyes, a look he craved almost as much as her touch. “Do you have a romp in a hay barn on your list, my lord?”
“Close. I was thinking of renting another room at the inn. A secret room. Our room.”
Her lips parted on a smile. “A wicked liaison at a coaching inn. How wonderfully rakish of you.”
“I aim to please.”
“You certainly do.”
Attraction hummed between them, woven into every word, every look. Yet beneath it, he sensed distance. She had given him her body but guarded her heart. Did she fear the choices ahead? The prospect of sacrificing her independence for a life in the peerage?
He needed to know.
The thought lingered as Mrs Peverill swept into the reception room. Barely thirty, she was striking—and dishevelled. A stray grey feather clung to her dark hair. Her lips were swollen as though recently kissed, and two pearl buttons on her sleeve hung undone.
“My lords,” she said, dipping into a deep curtsy before turning to the ladies as if they too held lofty titles. A fleeting wince betrayed her surprise at Clara’s eye patch before the practised smile settled into place. “Welcome to Rosefield.”
Bentley caught the look. People always stared, some with pity, others with morbid curiosity, but few had the grace to hide it. He could not shield Clara from inquisitive eyes, yet he could make certain no one dared speak unkindly in her presence.
“May I ask what brings you here?” Mrs Peverill said, shifting as though her recently unlaced corset sat awkwardly beneath her gown. “I assume you have a relative, a sister or niece, wishing to benefit from the knowledge bestowed by our founder, Mrs Rosefield.”
The matron gestured to the gilt-framed portrait of a miserable woman on the wall, whose downturned mouth seemed to drag her whole face towards her chin.
Rothley glanced at the glum portrait. “A woman clearly devoted to the art of encouragement.”
“Mrs Rosefield believed it her sacred duty to prepare young ladies for lives of refinement and virtue. Her aim was to cultivate grace, moral strength, and the accomplishments most pleasing to a discerning husband.”
“There are more options for a woman than becoming someone’s wife,” Clara said firmly.
“Few credible options,” Mrs Peverill replied.
“On the contrary, times are changing. I’ve been invited to accept a permanent position with the best enquiry agency in London.”
The news struck Bentley like a blow. She’d not breathed a word of it. Had she been weighing her options all along? She’d kissed him as if she’d die without his touch. Would she greet a marriage proposal with the same fervour, or had he mistaken passion for something fleeting?
“Yes. We’re here on behalf of the Order, investigating the murder of two women in London.” The words came out sharper than Bentley intended, edged by the sting of her revelation. He slipped a card from his coat and set it on the table.
“Murder?” Mrs Peverill stared at the card as though searching for bloodstains. “Good heavens, and here I was hoping to gain new pupils. What bearing does it have on me?” Her gaze darted towards the hall, genuine unease marring her tone. “Am I to deliver distressing news to one of the girls?”
“No, not today.” With a deft turn of his wrist, Bentley redirected her gaze to Clara. “I’m sure my colleague is eager to enlighten you.”
Unaware he was remotely peeved, Clara thanked him before addressing the matron. “Clues found at the properties of both victims name this seminary. We believe someone connected to Rosefield may hold the key to uncovering the killer’s identity.”
“But I scarcely deal with the parents or guardians,” Mrs Peverill said sharply.
“And I’ll not have you questioning my girls.
They’re distressed enough after we chased an intruder off the premises.
” She gave a sudden gasp, one hand flying to her throat.
“Good heavens. You don’t suppose he’s the murderer? ”
Bentley stiffened. It couldn’t be a coincidence. “When was this?”
“A few nights ago,” Mrs Peverill replied, her voice unsteady. “A man dressed in black. It was dark, and I couldn’t see his face. He’d been rummaging through the old cabinets in my office. There’s nothing there of any value, but he took a file and escaped before we could stop him.”