Page 45 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

Chapter Twenty-Four

“What will happen to Mrs Morven’s birds?” Clara asked, stroking the subdued African greys on their perch. The creatures shifted uneasily, as if aware they had outlived their mistress. “I might ask the countess if she’ll keep them at The Burnished Jade.”

Though Dalton hovered at her shoulder, Bentley stepped forward and placed a steady hand on her back. “I’m sure her ladies will find the birds entertaining. But we should see if Scarth wants them.”

He tried to sound sympathetic, but nothing mattered more than the fact Clara was alive. The image of Mrs Morven firing her pistol would haunt him forever. All he wanted now was for Inspector Mercer to release them, so he could take Clara home, hold her close, and love her as she deserved.

Daventry approached. “Mercer wants you at the Vine Street office tomorrow to give your statements. He’s sending Sergeant Brown to Cheltenham to confirm Scarth’s account.”

“We can confirm Scarth’s account,” Bentley said tightly. “Brown visiting Rosefield is like shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted.”

“They were convinced the murders were tied to the Factory Bill. Let them preserve appearances. The result is what matters.” Daventry congratulated them on their efforts before turning to Clara.

“Have you considered working for the Order, Miss Dalton? London lacks Henley’s clean air, but the pursuit of criminals has its rewards. ”

Bentley muttered under his breath. Daventry’s needling only sharpened his resolve. Clara would be his wife, once the world stopped interfering.

Clara smiled politely. “I daresay I’ve had enough adventure to last a lifetime, but I’m most grateful for the offer.”

Bentley didn’t contradict her. If she thought her adventures were over, she was wrong. Together, theirs were only just beginning.

“Well, the offer is there.” Daventry’s attention shifted to the cellar stairs, where the coroner’s men carried up the stretcher bearing Mrs Morven’s lifeless body. One pale hand slipped from beneath the white sheet, her final encore.

Clara shivered. “If titles were given for deception, Mrs Morven would have been a marchioness. She fooled us all with her masks and performances.”

Daventry’s gaze lingered on the sheeted form. “Lies are powerful weapons. They leave wounds that rarely heal.”

At the mention of deceit, Dalton asked, “Did Scarth explain how my mother was involved? Were the rumours of an elopement true?”

“I’m afraid that will always remain a mystery. Take comfort in knowing your mother loved you, regardless of what happened in her past.”

The words struck Bentley harder than he cared to admit. Did his own mother love him? Would she isolate herself, fearful for the future?

To banish the thought, he asked his own question. “You interviewed Scarth for half an hour. Did he say what he took from Nightshade’s apartment that night?”

“He went looking for proof Miss Picklescott was right about the blackmail. She came to the first seance undercover, hoping to expose Miss Nightshade. But she returned a second time not as an investigator, but as a victim, trapped in the very blackmail she’d sought to reveal.”

“Did he find any evidence to corroborate her story?”

“No. But he blames himself for confiding in Mrs Morven. In trying to stop a blackmailer, he’d unwittingly recruited a murderer.”

Bentley found it ironic. “The spirits didn’t warn him of the dangers?”

Daventry’s mouth twitched. “The Bard had it right. All the world’s a stage, and some events must play out until the curtain falls.”

Bentley considered the point. Had he not come to Westminster in search of Scarth, he would not have kissed Clara atop the tower. Perhaps it was fate that led Daventry to follow his instincts and pay the soprano a visit, too.

“Does that mean we’re free to leave?” he said, already planning where he might propose to Clara. Somewhere far away from Westminster.

“Yes.” Daventry suggested they go home and rest. “I’ll keep you informed of any developments. I’m sure we’ll learn more in the coming days.”

Bentley stifled a groan. He hoped he never heard talk of seances and seminaries again. He doubted he could visit the opera without hearing Mrs Morven’s chilling vibrato echoing in the auditorium.

A crowd had gathered on the street outside, a morbid mirror of the night Miss Nightshade died. Keen to be on their way, they pressed through the throng and reached Bentley’s carriage.

Once settled in their seats, Clara released a weary sigh. “At least it’s all over now. There’s no need to keep looking over our shoulders.”

Bentley had feared they would never catch the killer, that the past would go on haunting them both. “Yes. Let the dead rest where they belong.”

On the journey to Mayfair, they discussed the case and the curious fact that their mothers attended the same seminary, about everything but the one topic that mattered: marriage. A proposal burned on his tongue.

“May I speak to Clara alone?” Bentley said when they reached Dalton’s house in Bedford Square. “Just for a moment.”

Dalton looked at the scorch mark on Bentley’s coat sleeve and swore. “I should thrash you for taking her to that lunatic’s house. She could have been killed.”

Bentley met his glare, undeterred. “You think I don’t know that? I’ll carry the guilt for the rest of my life. But if you’re spoiling for a fight, can it wait until tomorrow? I have more pressing matters to attend to tonight.”

Dalton’s scowl eased, but he was as desperate as Bentley to settle the matter. “Why wait? If you mean to address the future, come inside and we’ll discuss it in my study.”

“No,” Clara said firmly. “I need to speak to Bentley privately.”

Dalton hesitated, his gaze flicking between them. “So be it. I’ll be inside.” He closed the carriage door behind him, leaving them alone.

Bentley exhaled, the weight of unspoken words pressing at his chest. He turned to her, ready to speak, but Clara was determined to speak first.

“Will you do something for me, Bentley?”

“Anything.” He’d proved he would die for her.

“Can we have one last adventure tonight?”

He knew that look, the quiet dare in her smile. “What did you have in mind?” he teased, though the word last unsettled him.

She reached for his hand, her fingers twining with his like they were bound for life. “Can it be a surprise?”

He brought her hand to his lips, needing answers yet unable to deny her. “One last adventure,” he agreed, slipping back her glove to kiss the tender skin of her wrist. “Then we’ll sit down and discuss the future?”

Her lashes fluttered as his mouth moved over her. “Yes,” she breathed in the sultry way that always undid him. “Tomorrow we will discuss the next steps.”

“What time shall I call?”

“Be ready for the hackney at nine.”

“Ah, we’re travelling incognito.”

She chuckled, a sound he would never tire of hearing. “Perhaps. I don’t wish to ruin the surprise. And this outing is a new addition to my list.”

Her enthusiasm was intoxicating, arousing a need he could no longer mask. “Do you know how badly I want to kiss you? How much I want to taste more than your mouth? To have you beneath me, nothing between us?”

“As much as it all sounds deliciously tempting, I would advise against it. My brother has his nose pressed to the study window, looking every inch the gruff bear.”

He brushed another kiss across her wrist before drawing the glove back into place. “Then I shall look forward to having you to myself tonight.”

Heedless of her brother’s watchful eyes, Clara kissed him as she made to depart. “Until tonight.”

He captured her chin, his breath on her mouth, but held back from claiming her. “Until tonight.”

He waited, watching until she disappeared inside before turning away. Anticipation thrummed in his veins. It was there when he bathed and changed for dinner, there when he paced the hall, counting the seconds until the longcase clock struck nine.

The hackney rattled up ten minutes late, testing Bentley’s patience further. “Sorry about the delay, milord. The fool beast caught the scent of a mare and wouldn’t budge till she passed.”

Bentley gave an amused snort. “I know the feeling.”

He climbed inside, expecting to join Clara, but found himself alone. Puzzled, he sat back, presuming they’d collect her en route. Yet the jarvey headed straight for Oxford Street.

Bentley rapped on the roof. “Where the devil are we going?”

The fellow glanced over his shoulder, eyes wary beneath his cap. “Beg pardon, milord, but the lady swore me to secrecy.”

He spent the next fifteen minutes imagining all manner of scenarios until the carriage drew up outside the chandler’s shop in Soho. Then he knew where to find her. The Lantern Ring. Not somewhere from her list, but his choice, proof it held a special place in her heart, too.

The jarvey tipped his cap. “Right you are, milord. We’ve reached the destination. The lady said you’d best purchase a lantern.”

Bentley smiled to himself, the memory of that night clear in his mind, the night he sensed Clara’s barriers begin to fall.

He reached into his pocket to pay, but the jarvey raised a staying hand. “The lady paid. Gave a generous tip, too.”

Bentley’s smile deepened. “Of course she did.”

“I’ll return at midnight.” And with that, the cab trundled away down the street to pick up another fare.

Bentley entered the chandler’s shop, the familiar tang of tallow and beeswax stirring more memories. He laid down a coin and accepted a lit lantern. “Thank you, Mr Hatch.”

“A nice night for a dance beneath the stars, sir.”

“Indeed it is.”

Lantern in hand, he crossed the street and slipped through the iron gate into the passage. The sensual strain of violins drifted on the night air, as potent as any aphrodisiac.

He stepped into the garden, drawn by the glow of lanterns circling the dancers. Couples moved in time with the music, their joy unburdened by wealth or title. Here, there was only love. The love of music, the love of the one person who mattered most.