Page 8 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

“We were the last to arrive,” Bentley explained, suspecting his mother was still sitting at the dining table, slicing her veal while plotting how to hold him to a twenty-year oath.

“Everyone was already in their seats.” Seats allocated based on their names, which doubtless made it easier for Miss Nightshade to remember her researched facts.

The sergeant glanced between them. “May I ask what prompted you to come here this evening? I hear the tickets cost ten pounds apiece.”

Miss Dalton gasped and shot Bentley a puzzled look. “You paid ten pounds a ticket? We could have seen a medium in Covent Garden for two shillings.”

“Lavinia Nightshade is considered the best.” And he’d wanted Clara Dalton to have a night to remember. Ever since seeing that dreaded scar and the milky white veil covering her blind eye, he’d thought about little else.

“But what prompted you to attend a seance?” Sergeant Brown pressed. “Most gentlemen would purchase tickets to Vauxhall or the theatre. Somewhere less … morbid.”

Miss Dalton answered, the slight tremble of her lips betraying her calm facade.

“It was my idea. My prospects in town are rather limited.” She motioned to the feathered patch as if it were explanation enough.

“I sought a little excitement before I return to the tranquillity of open skies and green pastures.”

The sergeant nodded. “I’m afraid I must ask about the nature of your relationship. Just for the record.”

“We’re friends, almost like family,” Bentley said, omitting to mention he found Clara’s disregard for rules attractive. In truth, he’d admired her long before her accident, but that was of no consequence now. “I’m acting as her chaperone in her brother’s absence.”

The word chaperone tasted sour on his tongue, a reminder of the only role he was allowed to play.

She shot him an irate look. “I was prepared to come alone, but some men are far too insistent.”

“Be thankful I was. A woman was murdered before our eyes.” Indeed, once the culprit was apprehended, they would be called to give evidence at the Old Bailey.

“Miss Picklescott said you received a disturbing message, ma’am.”

She frowned. “Miss Picklescott?”

“The lady who sat beside you on the sofa.”

Bentley made a mental note of the name.

“I’m inclined to believe it’s all nonsense, Sergeant,” Clara said, though her composure had faltered at the mention of her mother. “You spoke of the theatre, and I suspect everything that occurred here tonight was staged. Except for poor Miss Nightshade’s shocking death, of course.”

The sergeant flicked back through his notes. “So you don’t know anyone named Agnes?”

“Yes, Agnes was my mother’s name.” Her smile faltered for the briefest moment, so fleeting another man might have missed it, but Bentley didn’t. “She died eight years ago.”

“I’m not sure there’s anything more we can tell you,” Bentley said, keen to take Miss Dalton home. “We didn’t pour the wine. We’re not carrying a secret vial, nor did we force Miss Nightshade to drink from every vessel.”

Unlike Lord Tarrington.

Did that not make him the prime suspect?

Sergeant Brown snapped his notebook shut and slipped it back into his coat.

“It’s late. I’ll need you both to call at the Vine Street station-house to make a formal statement in the next day or two.

” He glanced at Bentley, a flicker of reverence in his eyes.

“If you’d prefer, my lord, the inspector can call on you at home.

Save you the trouble of visiting the police office. ”

And let Miss Dalton enter a building full of petty criminals alone? “We’ll visit Vine Street together sometime after noon tomorrow.”

After taking Miss Dalton’s address, the sergeant escorted them upstairs, where members of the audience were giving their versions of events to officers from Vine Street. Suspicious eyes shifted to Miss Dalton as she passed through the hall.

Outside the emporium, darkness deepened, as if the spirits mourned the loss of their fallen spokeswoman. A few carriages stood idle, while a restless crowd gathered across the dim street, drawn by a morbid fascination.

Bentley cupped Miss Dalton’s elbow and drew her aside. “Let me hail a hackney cab and see you safely home.”

She met his gaze, a tremor in her voice when she said, “I don’t want to go home. I won’t sleep. I can’t help but fear Miss Nightshade opened a door to the nether realm and failed to close it again.”

“None of it was real.” He doubted the medium had ever communed with spirits. “Nothing we witnessed from Lavinia Nightshade in the basement gave me cause to believe she possessed supernatural powers.”

“But she knew my mother’s name.”

“Tarrington knows your brother and would have mentioned the minor detail. It was all an elaborate show to justify the expensive tickets.” He’d wager the lord had made a tidy profit in the process to purchase more strange curiosities from abroad.

Her shoulders sagged. “Poor Miss Nightshade. Perhaps you’re right, and she was all bravado. Surely the spirits would have warned her not to drink the wine tonight.”

“I doubt even the spirits could have predicted the tragic turn of events.” He would never forget the cold fear in the young woman’s eyes as she fought for breath. Why was she so terrified if she knew what lay beyond the veil?

“This was hardly the thrilling night I longed for,” Miss Dalton said, removing a lace handkerchief from her reticule and dabbing a tear from her right cheek. “And certainly not one I hope to recall in my dotage.”

“There’ll be others … other thrilling experiences, I mean.” Not ones marred by misfortune. The question was: Would she include him in her plans, after he had all but invited himself along? “Your list is quite extensive. Do you have it with you?”

“No, and there’s nothing on the list that can be accomplished on a grim night or without proper planning.

” Her sad sigh tugged at something deep inside him.

“But thank you for purchasing the tickets. I’m sorry the night took a tragic turn.

Neither of us expected to become suspects in a murder investigation. ”

They weren’t truly suspects. They hadn’t poured or served the wine, assuming that’s where the villain placed the poison. After tomorrow, the event would be a sad and shocking memory, one they would struggle to banish from their minds.

“We’ve had better evenings,” he said solemnly. A miserable fate awaited them both in the coming weeks, and an afternoon spent at the station-house would eat into what precious time they had to enjoy their freedom.

Then a thought struck him.

“I have an idea where we might go for an hour, a short detour to a park before I take you home.”

He masked the suggestion as casual, though the truth was simpler. Neither of them seemed ready to return to their dull lives just yet.

Her brow furrowed. “A park? At this late hour? Is it not dangerous? I heard there has been a spate of robberies.”

He smiled to himself. This lady courted danger but only when it posed no threat. Then again, having suffered a life-changing injury when falling from her horse, it was only natural she’d proceed with caution.

“This is more a public garden than a park. Somewhere to help us forget the tragedy we witnessed.”

She gave the smallest nod, enough to show she would follow, though her expression revealed nothing of what she felt.

They walked side by side in silence, neither willing to bridge the distance between them. Across the street, onlookers still lingered, hoping to catch a glimpse of something gruesome.

They left the noise of Soho behind, slipping through winding lanes on foot, their problems fading into the blackness of the city. Neither spoke of turning back. The quiet streets felt like stolen time, time they weren’t ready to surrender.

As they neared their destination, he paused outside a narrow shop wedged between a pawnbroker’s and a tobacconist’s and gestured to the worn sign above the door. “Like all polite guests, we cannot arrive empty-handed.”

“Alaric Hatch, Chandler,” she muttered, frowning for the umpteenth time. “Surely the shop is closed. It’s past midnight. The bells of St Anne’s just chimed the hour.”

“The chandler stays open until the violinists go home.”

“Violinists?”

Excitement stirred in his chest.

He knew The Lantern Ring would steal her breath.

“All will be revealed,” he said, playing to her lust for adventure, and speaking as a man who longed for a different life too.

They stepped into the shop, where wicks hung like wilted flowers behind the counter, and shelves brimmed with stubby tapers and reels of twine. The air was thick with the scent of tallow and beeswax.

An old man appeared, his waistcoat streaked with soot, the hump on his back no hindrance. “One for yourself and the lady?” was all the shopkeeper asked, casting an appraising glance over their clothes.

Bentley nodded. He paid and accepted a box of Lucifer matches and two lit lanterns, handing one to his daring companion. “We won’t need to carry them far.”

Miss Dalton smiled as she accepted it, the sight so rare it felt like sunlight breaking through a winter sky. “You certainly know how to leave a lady intrigued.”

A flicker of doubt entered his mind as he escorted her across the street to the alley, its entrance marked by a rusty iron gate.

Would Miss Dalton mistake his intentions when she looked upon the romantic scene?

Would she avoid him after tonight? Pretend she found his company tedious, as she so often claimed?

Strains of music reached them, the delicate rise and fall of a violin weaving through the night air like the echo from a hidden ballroom.

Miss Dalton looked at him before holding her lantern aloft and navigating the dim passage. “Is it a piece you recognise? It’s slower, more seductive than the usual ballroom waltz, like the violin bow lingers on every note, pulling you deeper into its spell.”

“The men who play here come from all over Europe. I’m told you never hear the same piece twice.”

“You’ve not been here before?” she said, surprised.

“No.” He didn’t mention it was a place frequented by lovers, or that most people danced and kissed beneath the starlight.

“Not even with Lady Mersham?”

“Certainly not.” He cringed at the mention of his former mistress. Most men would avoid the subject, but he knew Miss Dalton valued honesty. “She would sooner die than be seen wandering the streets of Soho, or listening to musicians who weren’t performing in a Mayfair gallery.”

“She had no desire to learn about life beyond the gilded cage?”

“No.”

“What about your fiancée? As a staunch supporter of reform, surely Miss Woodall is happy to mix with people of every station.”

“Miss Woodall is not my fiancée.” And he prayed she never would be. He just had to break the news to his mother while causing minimal distress. “I’ve not spent more than a few hours in her company this past year.”

No doubt a multitude of questions filled Miss Dalton’s mind, but she stopped abruptly as the alley gave way to a small garden, where trees formed a soft canopy overhead.

A wide circle of glowing lanterns marked the edge of a grassy dance floor.

Couples moved in time with the three violinists, swaying together in the candlelight, closer than propriety would normally allow.

Miss Dalton’s lips parted as she drank in the scene, her expression softening with wonder. She looked at him, then at the musicians, almost breathless. “I’ve never seen anything so magical. Should we place our lanterns beside the others?”

“We place the lanterns if we wish to dance,” he said, knowing she would refuse. “We can listen and watch. Absorb the atmosphere.”

She nodded. “I’d rather not trip over your feet and ruin the experience.”

He was just glad of her company, and relieved she wasn’t wiping tears from her cheek or suffering strange looks from those who suspected she’d poisoned the medium at the seance.

With luck, Sergeant Brown would soon make an arrest and expose Lavinia Nightshade for the fraud she was, a fraud who’d tried to fool the wrong person.

“Tomorrow night, I thought we could race my new curricle,” he said, desperate to know if she would include him in future outings.

While moving to the music and soaking up the atmosphere, Miss Dalton said, “I know what I’m running from. But again, I find myself questioning your motive.”

He wasn’t clear himself.

He wasn’t sure if he was trying to escape his own troubles or helping Clara Dalton escape hers. Perhaps it was nothing more than a strange familial bond, though a part of him wondered if that was just a convenient lie.

“I told you. I have a limited time to make merry before the guillotine falls.”

“So you’re still planning to announce your betrothal in a fortnight? Shouldn’t you spend more than a few hours with a woman you mean to marry?”

He looked at the men on nature’s dance floor, more absorbed by the women in their arms than the music. “There are times I wish I were a tailor or a tavern landlord. Then the burden of obligation might not be so heavy, and I could marry someone of my own choosing.”

She gave him her full attention. “Feeding a family on a meagre income is a heavier burden than marrying for convenience. It’s easy to believe someone else’s life is simpler, but you never truly know until you’ve lived a part of it yourself.”

Instead of thinking about his predicament, he thought of her. Clara Dalton entered his mind more often than she should. “Is that why you’re running away? Because you don’t like the feel of new shoes?”

She gave a half-shrug. “They hurt every time I leave the house. No matter how long I wear them, the leather never softens.”

“Perhaps it’s not the shoes but how you’re walking.” Like she had given up on life at the tender age of five and twenty.

She shot him a curious glance. “Is this where you say dancing is good for the posture and persuade me to waltz in this pretty garden?”

“I’m not foolish enough to think your mind could be swayed.”

She found that amusing, chuckling to herself as she placed her lantern on the ground and took the flask from her reticule. “Then let us drink to sore feet and stubborn souls.”

He watched her sip sherry from the flask amid the stirring music and glowing lanterns, knowing he would never forget this night. Not because a poor woman had died, but because Clara Dalton had remembered how to smile.