Page 7 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)
Chapter Four
“I’m sorry to ask, my lord, but I need you to empty your pockets,” Sergeant Brown said in a brisk voice.
He was broad-shouldered, with a weathered face and the cool gaze of a man acquainted with murder.
“I’m afraid I must ask the lady to do the same.
If you’d prefer to wait and speak with the inspector, I can?—”
“We have nothing to hide,” Bentley said, annoyed the thrilling night he’d planned to share with Miss Dalton had ended in tragedy. “We wouldn’t want to impede your investigation.”
He glanced at the stage, where a red velvet blanket cloaked the body of the famed medium.
Her pale hand, limp and lifeless, still dangled from beneath the shroud, its fingers curled as though grasping at secrets even in death.
Perhaps Miss Nightshade had been right, and he was cursed to live a miserable life, misfortune his faithful companion.
He patted his coat, withdrawing a pair of gloves, a silk handkerchief, and a silver card case.
Beside him, he heard Miss Dalton’s quiet intake of breath as she reached for her reticule.
It was only a breath, yet it sharpened his awareness of her in ways it shouldn’t.
Perhaps suggesting the outing was a mistake.
She deserved a night to forget her troubles, not one where every suspicious eye turned her way. He’d hoped to see her beam with excitement, not falter beneath the shadow of suspicion.
Near the stage, two men wiped tears from their cheeks. The red-haired fellow wept and sagged with relief when the constable declared him free to go. He was the only guest who had not offered the medium a sip of his wine.
Lord Tarrington stared at the shrouded body, but seemed more distraught at the thought of lost ticket sales.
“Are you certain Lavinia is dead?” he asked the constable a third time, desperation clinging to every strained syllable.
“What if she’s possessed by a spirit and trapped in a trance?
What the devil am I supposed to do about the bookings? ”
The constable gave a weary sigh. “The doctor thinks it’s poison, my lord. But we’ll wait for the coroner to arrive and conduct an inquest. He’ll be with us shortly. He’s just finishing up with a drowning victim found near Blackfriars.”
Bentley turned his attention to Miss Dalton as she thrust her black reticule at the sergeant. “By all means, look in my bag. I have no pockets, but you’re welcome to inspect my cloak.”
“I will need to check, ma’am.”
She opened her cloak without hesitation, but Bentley stepped forward, intercepting the sergeant with a scowl. “For heaven’s sake. Allow me to search her while you watch.”
The fellow moved aside but kept his hawk eyes fixed on them.
Bentley approached, his movements measured.
He brushed back the edge of Miss Dalton’s cloak, his fingers grazing the heavy fabric.
Their eyes met for a heartbeat too long, a look he usually avoided.
Yet it made his chest tighten and his pulse race harder than a stiff brandy on an empty stomach, though he had no right to want what duty forbade.
He set his mind to the task. There were no hidden pockets. No false seams. No flask or vial, nothing to raise suspicion.
Bentley stepped back, forcing himself to look anywhere but at her mouth or the delicate line of her throat, annoyed with himself for noticing. “As the lady confirmed, she has no pockets.”
The sergeant shifted his stance. “I’ll need to make sure you’re not hiding anything beneath your skirts, ma’am. The doctor is certain someone added poison to the wine. A person could easily conceal a small vial behind a garter.”
Miss Dalton stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
Bentley clenched his jaw. “You’ll not lay a hand on her person.”
“No, not me, my lord,” the sergeant said with a hint of apology. “I’ll send for a matron. It’s procedure in cases like these.”
Miss Dalton lifted her chin. “We’ve been here for hours already. I’ll not wait for a matron.”
Sergeant Brown nodded towards the stairs. “Perhaps one of the ladies being questioned might help. Someone of good reputation, to preserve propriety.”
“You mean the ladies who think I killed the medium just because I wear an eye patch? One of them might produce the vial they’ve been hiding and claim they found it tucked in the top of my stocking.”
“Then it will have to be a matron,” Sergeant Brown said. “Or we can return to the station-house and conduct the examination under supervision.”
“I shall save you the trouble.” Miss Dalton sounded defiant. “I shall hike my skirts and remove my stockings here.”
Bentley stared at her, stunned. “Here? I don’t think?—”
“I’ve done nothing wrong. And I’ll not wait another hour just so someone can whisper more lies behind my back. Shall I remove my eye patch, too, sergeant?”
Sergeant Brown cleared his throat. “That won’t be necessary, ma’am, but I will need a witness to confirm you’re not concealing a vial on your person. I’ve asked all the ladies present to do the same.”
To go to such lengths implied a member of the audience had murdered Miss Nightshade. The doctor was right. For the poison to act so swiftly, it must have been added to the wine.
“ He will act as a witness.” Miss Dalton jabbed her finger at him. “Lord Rutland will watch me remove my stockings, and you can observe from the far corner. He’s a family friend. I’m sure you won’t question the word of a viscount.”
“Me?” Bentley’s throat tightened.
Had the woman taken leave of her senses? What did she want him to do? Kneel and watch her unsheathe her smooth white thighs? He’d rather not answer the sergeant’s questions while nursing a raging cockstand.
“As long as you’re comfortable with his lordship acting in the matron’s stead.” Sergeant Brown asked the constable and Lord Tarrington to leave the basement and wait upstairs. “This will take but a moment.”
Tarrington reminded them he owned the emporium, but the sergeant’s expression brooked no argument. Muttering something about refunds and ruined reputations, Tarrington followed the constable and mounted the stairs, the basement door clicking shut behind them.
A heavy silence followed.
Bentley didn’t move.
Miss Dalton didn’t speak as she removed her black satin shoes.
With calm, determined hands, she reached beneath the hem of her skirts, lifting the layers of silk and petticoat to reveal her slender calves, and slowly peeled off her stockings. First one, then the other, her fingers steady despite a crimson blush climbing her throat.
Bentley’s gut twisted. He should have looked away, spared her the indignity. Yet there was nothing meek or shamed in the way she moved, only defiance, and it undid him more than any blush could.
He kept his eyes on her face, though his peripheral vision betrayed him. Soft pale skin. The curve of her knee. A flash of pretty ribbons.
It was agony.
Pure torture.
Not for the reasons the sergeant might suspect, but because there was something in the way she held herself, defiant yet unashamed, that cracked him open. Something about her filled his chest with hope when he’d learned to expect none.
She let her skirts fall and extended the stockings to Sergeant Brown, silk trailing from her fingers. “Satisfied, Sergeant?”
Red about the ears, the sergeant nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Bentley said nothing. Could say nothing. He was too busy pretending his heart wasn’t lodged in his throat.
The sergeant turned back to Miss Dalton’s beaded reticule and reached inside. His brow furrowed as he withdrew a tiny silver hip flask, no larger than his palm. He held it up, glancing between them. “May I ask what this contains?”
“Sherry,” Miss Dalton said before slipping into her shoes. “I thought I might need something to calm my nerves. We were attending a seance. One never knows if a relative might make an appearance.”
He sniffed inside the flask, frowning.
Bentley snatched it from the sergeant’s hand and raised it to his lips, but the fellow caught his arm to stop him.
“My lord, that isn’t advisable.”
“Neither is casting suspicion on a woman whose only crime is being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, swigging a mouthful. The heat of the sherry struck his throat, sweet and unmistakable. “It’s not poison. It’s fortified wine.”
Taking the flask, Sergeant Brown sipped the sherry, then gave a curt nod before returning it to Miss Dalton. “Did you notice anything unusual tonight, my lord?”
Bentley arched a brow. “What, aside from a woman speaking to the dead and making wild claims about everyone present?” Or Miss Dalton trying to cram her folded stockings into her reticule, reminding him her legs were bare?
The sergeant’s serious expression didn’t falter. “Did anyone behave oddly? Leave the room? Seem nervous or agitated? Can either of you recall the last time you saw Mr Scarth?”
Miss Dalton pursed her lips before saying, “Yes, when he handed wine to Miss Nightshade moments after he lit the candles and lamps. I’ve not seen him since.”
“Tarrington shouted for Scarth a few times, but he never appeared,” Bentley added, remembering the sheer panic in Tarrington’s voice.
It was strange. Silas Scarth had struck him as the more perceptive of the pair. He had correctly mentioned Bentley’s father’s watch being buried with his brother Marcus. A fact known only to one other person.
“Is Mr Scarth missing?” Miss Dalton asked, a little startled.
“Missing or kidnapped by the rogue who killed Miss Nightshade.” Sergeant Brown took out his notebook and pencil and scribbled something on the tatty page. “Did you sense Mr Scarth was annoyed about something? I’m told he was heard arguing with someone upstairs before the performance.”
“No, I found him to be most pleasant.” She touched the brooch that had belonged to her mother. “And oddly wise, in a somewhat unusual way.”