Page 4 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

“She’s currently under Lord Tarrington’s patronage,” Bentley said. He’d found that out while investigating mediums across the city, after learning a seance was on Miss Dalton’s list.

“Lord Tarrington?” she mused. “The man who owns the gallery of oddities?”

“Yes, and a lover of all things peculiar. He’s hosted Lavinia Nightshade for months now and claims she’s the only medium who’s ever convinced him there’s life after death.”

Bentley prayed Tarrington was right. Peace had eluded him in this life. Perhaps it awaited him in the next.

“Then he must have irrefutable proof,” Miss Dalton said, intrigued.

“Or Lavinia Nightshade is a fraud, and Tarrington is easy to manipulate. He has been grieving his wife’s death for years and clings to the slightest sign that life exists beyond the veil.”

Bentley’s own mother believed every white feather found in the garden was a visitation. For all he knew, she could be right.

“People in pain look for ways to seek comfort,” she agreed, her wistful sigh hinting at her own troubled past.

Was that not why they were both journeying across town in a shabby hackney, rattling like a costermonger’s cart over cobbles? Was adventure not another word for avoidance? Neither wished to face the real problem at hand.

“I’m told your father struggled greatly when your mother died,” he said. It was a sore subject, but something in him needed to ask. He couldn’t shake the feeling they had more in common than either cared to admit. “And grief made him impossible to live with.”

She went still. “Who told you that?”

The sharpness in her voice surprised him. He wasn’t sure which nerve he’d struck, only that he had. Perhaps her life had been as hard as his. Did she carry guilt for being the one who survived?

“Your brother.”

As if her spine had turned to steel, every line of her body went rigid in the seat. “Did he tell you anything else?”

“Only that he fought with your father often.” But it was clear there was more to the story. “That the man’s rage turned violent on occasion, usually when he drank too?—”

“Can we talk about something else?” Her tone was brittle, like ice cracking on a frozen pond. She cleared her throat three times. “This is supposed to be a night for daring escapades, not a conversation about memories I would sooner forget.”

She was right. He hadn’t meant to reopen old wounds, not hers or his own. Perhaps they should have gone swimming in the Serpentine beneath the stars, shedding their pasts with their clothes, letting cold water cleanse what words never could.

“Of course. But why add a seance to your list of tasks if you’re not hoping for a message?” he asked, promising himself this would be the last probing question tonight.

“Not everything on my list is meant to make sense,” she admitted after a moment’s reflection. “Some things are just impulses.”

“Impulses can be dangerous.”

“Perhaps that’s the point.”

“You want to live recklessly?”

He longed to cast off the shackles of duty and do things he’d always denied himself. There was something dangerously inspiring about Miss Dalton’s disdain for convention, something that made him wonder what it might feel like to be reckless with her.

“Is it reckless to crave freedom?” she said.

“Perhaps freedom is an illusion.”

“You mean everyone is trapped to some degree?”

“Yes, we just learn to live within the walls.”

To call this the most interesting conversation he’d ever had with a woman was no exaggeration. When she wasn’t avoiding him or snapping without cause, Miss Dalton proved an intelligent and captivating companion.

They fell silent as the hackney cab drew alongside The Arcane Emporium on Rupert Street, Soho. The oddities displayed in the bow window would give anyone pause: a large tusk from a prehistoric animal, a two-headed bird with cold glass eyes, a stuffed spider the size of a man’s hand.

Miss Dalton sat forward, studying the eerie facade. “You didn’t say the seance was at Lord Tarrington’s gallery.”

“Where better to commune with spirits than a room with a mummified python and a chandelier made of bones?” he mocked.

They were merely members of an audience in a supernatural play. Doubtless, Tarrington had paid a guest to swoon or sob while confirming their Aunt Mabel did have a hairy mole above her lip. Bentley would lay odds there was mention of buried treasure and forgiveness from beyond the grave.

He alighted and paid the jarvey.

Miss Dalton was out of the cab before he could assist her and stood on the pavement, a strained smile on her perfect lips. “I must confess to being a little apprehensive.”

“You can always hold my hand when the spirits make an appearance,” he teased, though it failed to raise a smile. “Expect lots of strange moans and incessant knocking.”

“No. What if someone should recognise us here?”

“I’ll say I’m acting in your brother’s stead, since he was called away to Chippenham.” He wouldn’t admit to finding something oddly compelling about his friend’s sister. “Everyone in town knows Dalton and I are as close as brothers.”

She faced him fully for the first time this evening, the black feathered eye patch fitting for a woman who seemed to carry secrets as dark as its design. “It’s plausible. You’ve always seen me as a younger sister.”

“Sister?” The word jarred, wrong in his ears. He hesitated, forcing a neutral smile. “More of a … friend.”

Her weak nod confirmed what he already knew: he was the friend she didn’t want, the one she humoured out of obligation, the one she ignored at parties.

Yet something about her held his attention and it wasn’t her blind eye or dreadful scar. Questions about her accident haunted his dreams. What had happened during her ride that day? Her brother refused to say.

“Some memories are best left buried,” was all Dalton offered before swiftly changing the subject.

Forever keen for new experiences, Miss Dalton approached the black door though she hesitated, her fingers frozen mid-air as she stared at the devil-faced knocker.

Bentley smiled to himself. “The beast won’t bite. Remember, everything you see is to rattle your nerves. Fear makes you more susceptible to manipulation.”

She cast him a look of reproach. “What if you’re wrong and Miss Nightshade can hear voices from the nether realm?”

He started to scoff but stopped himself. “If that’s true, I’ll ask for a message that makes my mother’s suffering easier to endure.”

Miss Dalton inhaled sharply. “Forgive me. I didn’t know she was ill.”

“She’s not. It’s a long, complicated story.”

One he had no desire to discuss tonight. Not when this might be his last chance to forget his obligations. He reached to knock on the emporium door, but it creaked open slowly as if carried by the wind.

The hair on his nape prickled.

No one stood in the hall to greet them.

Miss Dalton caught his arm suddenly, fingers gripping before she seemed to realise what she’d done. She released him at once, though the heat of her touch lingered like a brand.

“If Miss Nightshade wishes to frighten us, my lord, she’s doing an excellent job.”

He glanced at her, more intrigued than alarmed. “I doubt the door was closed,” he said, offering the logical explanation she clearly sought.

She hesitated on the threshold. “Why do I get the sense our lives won’t be the same when we leave here?”

A similar feeling rose in him too, though he suspected it had less to do with spirits and more to do with Miss Dalton. “Here’s to a change for the better.” Something to save him from a fate worse than death.

They stepped into the hall, painted a blood-red, the walls framed with dark panels and eerie black sconces. The smell of exotic incense wafted along the narrow corridor. Doubtless it carried a trace of opium to numb their senses and make the shadows seem alive.

“Stay with me at all times,” he whispered, unease unfurling in his chest. “Regardless of what Miss Nightshade or Tarrington say, we must remain together.”

She released his arm and lowered her hood. “Now you’re making me feel uneasy. Aren’t you renowned for being the voice of reason?”

“It pays to be cautious. And we’ll not be duped by charlatans.”

The murmur of voices drifted up from the open basement door. A man in black emerged from below, though Bentley had not heard his approaching footsteps. He was slender, with a shock of white hair, pale skin, and eagle-sharp eyes.

“Silas Scarth,” he announced, inclining his head. “I’m Miss Nightshade’s assistant. Welcome to The Arcane Emporium. I sense you’ve brought more than just your curiosity tonight.”

Yes, Bentley had brought a trunk full of doubt and a cartload of suspicion.

Scarth muttered, ‘Welcome, friends,’ to no one in particular, his gaze moving beyond their shoulders as if he’d received a silent reply.

Bentley’s fingers twitched at his side. Was the man performing? Or did he truly believe some ghostly guest had joined their number?

“Keep your outdoor apparel on, ma’am,” Scarth said quietly. “The air turns cold when the veil is lowered.” His dark eyes lingered on the Celtic clasp at Miss Dalton’s throat. “You wear your mother’s brooch tonight.”

Startled, Miss Dalton touched the metal. “Yes.”

Bentley tensed as Scarth’s gaze shifted to his waistcoat pocket. If the man was about to offer some trite observation, claiming the watch had belonged to his father, he’d be wrong.

Instead, Scarth shocked him by saying, “You carry a new timepiece. Your oldest brother is the custodian of your father’s watch.”

Heat coiled in Bentley’s stomach. His father had buried his watch with his firstborn son. “I purchased the full hunter only last week.”

“Some things never last, no matter how new.”

Bentley almost laughed. Even here, surrounded by candles and theatrics, he couldn’t escape his mother’s refrain. Before he could respond, Scarth stepped past him and slid the bolt home, the heavy click sealing them inside.