Page 9 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)
Chapter Five
Bentley arrived at his mother’s house later than intended. After sharing Miss Dalton’s flask of sherry last night, they listened to the music before blowing out the lights in their lanterns and taking a hackney cab home.
But sleep had not come easily.
He’d spent restless hours in bed, heavy with a sense of foreboding after the incident at the seance. Fragments of Miss Nightshade’s cryptic warning to Miss Dalton echoed through his mind like a dream half-remembered.
Still grappling with unease and a pressing need to recall the medium’s message, he entered the dining room and stopped short.
Miss Woodall sat at the table, her spine straight, her expression demure, her mother beside her smiling like a cat with the cream pot.
A curse hovered on his lips. He swallowed it down, drawing on years of excellent breeding, smiling rather than frowning, inclining his head respectfully rather than jabbing his finger at the door and telling them to get the hell out.
Looking composed and impossibly flawless, Miss Woodall’s golden hair caught the morning light, her beauty so classical it could have been carved in marble. Yet even the way she held her toast, with a peculiar pincer grip, annoyed him.
“There you are, Bentley.” His mother looked brighter than she had in years. She gazed at Miss Woodall with the pride of a jeweller unveiling his finest gem. “No doubt some important obligation kept him.”
“Punctuality seems to be a virtue of the working class,” Miss Woodall replied, barely glancing in his direction. “Not everyone can afford the luxury of being late.”
“Sacrifice comes in many forms,” he said, flicking his coattails and taking the seat at the head of his mother’s table. He nodded for the footman to pour the coffee, certain the next hour would be torturous.
“Yes, my daughter will have you up with the larks, my lord,” came Mrs Woodall’s witless remark. “I’m confident she will run your household with brisk efficiency.”
He didn’t want a matron in his bed. He wanted a woman who broke the rules, who chose a morning of passion over a schedule of social obligations. One who stole chocolate macaroons and ate them behind the curtains. A woman who laughed at decorum, not one who lived by its strictures.
“No one dictates the hour at which I rise, Mrs Woodall.”
He hoped his tone was cold enough to frost the windows. It was time the Woodalls learned exactly what sort of husband he would be. No one’s servant. No one’s fool.
His mother laughed while secretly glaring at him, tugging at the iron shackle she’d fastened around his neck at birth. “He’s teasing. Bentley knows the value of a woman’s opinion.”
He knew the opinions of those seated around the table were on par with Hamlet’s machinations. “Still, I demand the freedom to decide what happens in my own household.”
“Freedom and duty are not easily balanced,” Miss Woodall countered. “But we’re adults who know the importance of responsibility. I’m sure we will muddle through.”
Muddle through?
What the devil?
Why wasn’t she searching for a way out of this marriage instead of feeding his mother false hope? It’s not like the Woodalls needed his money. And Miss Woodall made no secret of her disdain for the peerage. So why this sudden display of dutiful compliance?
Although no betrothal had been officially announced, for the sake of appearances a gentleman had to give her the option to refuse. Until then, society would assume the match inevitable. And if she truly felt the same reluctance, would she not welcome the chance to admit it?
“Would you care to take a stroll in the garden, Miss Woodall?” He would tell her, in no uncertain terms, to stop playing games and end this nonsense.
The lady gazed at the window and turned up her nose. “The sun is rather bright this morning, and freckles are so unbecoming on pale skin.”
“You can take my parasol,” his mother offered.
Miss Woodall smiled, all civility and constraint. “That’s kind, but I’ve already walked this morning. I try not to overtire myself, not when I have important letters to write this afternoon in support of the Factory Bill.”
While his mother looked on with awe and admiration, he said, “Do you support the age limit or the reduced working hours? Reformers seem undecided which is more pressing.”
“Both.” She took a bite of her toast.
The crunch grated on his nerves.
“Then you must have an opinion on Lord Althorp’s latest amendment. Do you believe four inspectors will be enough to regulate every mill in England?”
“This is hardly talk for the breakfast table,” Mrs Woodall interjected. “I don’t mind Sarah having her hobbies, but I draw the line at ruining one’s appetite.”
Rebellion stirred in his chest like smoke before a fire. He would end this farce today before his mother sank deeper into delusion. Despite the burden of guilt, he could no longer keep up the charade.
He had to speak.
He had to speak now.
Just as he opened his mouth, a firm knock on the door broke through the tension. Doubtless fate planned to put its boot on his head and force him down into turbulent waters.
The butler entered, bowed to his mistress, and turned to Bentley.
“I beg your pardon, my lord. There are two gentlemen at the door, an Inspector Mercer and a Sergeant Brown. The inspector is asking for you. He says it concerns the incident you witnessed last night at The Arcane Emporium in Rupert Street.”
Bentley froze and inwardly cursed. What the devil were they doing calling at his mother’s house? And when had Coleman developed a loose tongue? Weren’t all butlers trained in discretion?
“Ask the inspector to wait?—”
“You visited that gruesome place in Soho? At night?” His mother clasped a shaky hand to her string of pearls. “You mustn’t go there again. I know someone who contracted a tropical disease from touching one of Lord Tarrington’s stuffed spiders. Maybe that’s why you look so peaky this morning.”
“You cannot catch a disease from a dead arachnid, Mother.”
“You said you were going to your club.”
“There was a change of plan.”
The furrows on her brow deepened. She wouldn’t rest until she knew every intricate detail. He wasn’t surprised when she turned to the butler and said, “Show Inspector Mercer in, Coleman.”
Before Bentley could protest, Mercer entered as if he’d been lingering in the doorway. He bowed with easy respect, brushing a hand through his grey hair. “Inspector James Mercer, my lady. My lord. Forgive the intrusion at this early hour, but the matter is too urgent to delay.”
“What is this about, Inspector?” Bentley’s mother asked, her smile a touch warmer than politeness required as her gaze lingered on his broad frame.
Though age softened the sharp angles of youth, Mercer was handsome in a quietly distinguished way. The round spectacles perched on his nose lent him a scholarly air, belying his reputation for handling London’s most hardened criminals.
“It’s a private matter, my lady,” he said, his accent neither refined nor coarse, typical of the city’s clerks and constables. “A pressing matter best discussed with his lordship directly.”
“I assume you called at Bruton Street.” Bentley wondered if the visit was a blessing in disguise or if the shock would have his mother reaching for the laudanum. “You should have waited there and sent word with my footman.”
Inspector Mercer nodded in agreement. “That was my intention, but Lord Rothley felt the matter warranted your immediate attention and directed me here.”
Confused, he said, “What has this to do with the marquess?”
“He’s at the station-house in Vine Street.” Mercer glanced at the ladies seated at the table before subtly adding, “Supporting a friend who has been taken into custody. New evidence came to light when we searched the crime scene, but that’s a topic we can discuss at the station-house.”
While his mother gasped at the mention of a crime, Bentley’s blood ran cold. “You made an arrest this morning?”
He didn’t need to ask who they held in a cell. The sickening feeling rising in his stomach told him all he needed to know.
“Not an arrest, but we’ve detained a suspect for questioning.”
Bentley’s jaw tightened.
He recalled how the audience looked at Miss Dalton last night, like she had the morals of a pirate and the black heart of a woman versed in witchcraft. Had someone spoken out against her? Tarnishing her good name with lies and half-truths?
It was his fault Miss Dalton was in this predicament. Had he not purchased the ticket to see Miss Nightshade or convinced her she needed a companion, she would be tucked up safely in bed.
“Who is this criminal?” his mother asked with barely veiled desperation. “If my son witnessed a robbery at the emporium?—”
“I witnessed a murder, not a robbery.”
Unlike her dramatic mother, Sarah Woodall neither inhaled sharply nor jerked in her chair.
“Probably a poor servant girl used as a prop in a degrading charade to appease Lord Tarrington’s peers.
It’s disgusting what men will pay to enter these pitiful establishments when most of London can barely afford a meal. ”
The thinly disguised insult hit its mark. His conscience refused to endure Miss Woodall’s mindless waffle a second longer.
“I do my part,” he countered, “funding better housing in the slums and providing alms to the poor in St Giles. Anyone can write a few letters, but where are the results, Miss Woodall? Did you protest outside the Spitalfields mills, or join the hundred or so gathered outside Whitehall for the march?”
“Bentley!” his mother exclaimed.
“What, Mother? Am I to be condemned because I paid to see Lavinia Nightshade perform at the emporium last night?”
“Lavinia Nightshade?” His mother’s mouth dropped open, her breath catching in her throat. “You went to a seance? Did you commune with the dead?” She sat forward, hope alive in her eyes. “Did you receive a message, a message from Marcus?”