Page 28 of A Devil in Silk
The wench returned with a carafe of wine and two glass tumblers. She didn’t spare Clara a glance and focused her attention on the gentleman with the fine coat and the heavier purse.
“Why did you refuse to see me today?” he asked bluntly, dismissing the wench and pouring the wine himself. “I called twice.”
She reached for her wine and took a slow sip, buying herself a moment. “Because I needed time to think, and you enjoy being my one and only distraction.”
Her thoughts drifted to them, cramped in a carriage with her brother on the long journey to Chippenham a few weeks ago. For endless miles, their thighs brushed with every sway of the wheels and dip in the road.
She had stared out the window, feigning indifference, while her heart drummed a restless rhythm, her skin tingling with awareness of a man she had no business thinking about at all.
And yet here he was again.
And her heart hadn’t learned a thing.
His low chuckle stirred the hair on her nape. “Then it seems I’m more dangerous than I appear. A devil in a tailored coat and silk cravat.”
A devil with handsome looks and an easy tongue.
“So dangerous, you purchased tickets to a murder where I’m the prime suspect.” She took another drink of wine and addressed the reason they were sitting in a tavern in Westminster. “What prompted you to buy two tickets for the seance?”
He gave a half-shrug. “Visiting a seance was on your list.”
“You didn’t read my list until the masquerade ball. You already had the tickets then.” She wasn’t a trained constable, but even she could see the flaw in his tale.
“I overheard you talking about it to Miss Woolf the night of the recital,” he confessed. “Miss Woolf has an interest in the macabre and mentioned Miss Nightshade.”
Clara vaguely recalled the conversation. “Is that how you knew I was The Crimson Contessa?” Had he been stalking the ballroom, waiting for the right moment to pounce?
He laughed. “Only you would wear a mask completely covering your left eye. And I would know the gentle sway of your hips anywhere.”
The last comment sent a flush creeping up her neck. She didn’t want to imagine his gaze roaming over her body. Yet a traitorous part of her wanted him to keep looking.
“If we’re to work together,” she said, keeping her tone even despite her quickening pulse, “you must stop treating this like a game. Mr Daventry expects professionalism.”
“Aren’t enquiry agents meant to be observant?”
“You were not an enquiry agent then.”
“Touché,” he said, clinking his glass with hers. “I’ll rephrase my question. Aren’t men meant to observe the sway of a woman’s hips?”
“Why would you want to observe mine?”
Perhaps it was best she didn’t know.
He leaned in a fraction, whispering, “Because some things are worth remembering. Maybe it’s a memory I’ve added to my own private list.”
The scoundrel was teasing her, as he always did, but she was determined to call his bluff. “And what else do you hope to remember when you’re past your prime?”
His smile deepened. “That would be telling, but let’s make a bargain. I’ll reveal something on my list every time we tick one off yours.”
Oh, this man knew how to pique her interest.
“Sadly, I can no longer afford the luxury of gallivanting about town.” A sharp pang of regret gnawed at her. She didn’t want her lasting memories shadowed by murder. “We should dispense with talk of daring pursuits and focus on the case.”
A spark in his eyes hinted the matter was far from over, yet he said, “Agreed. Let’s begin by asking ourselves what happened to Silas Scarth.”
The change of subject brought a silent sigh of relief. His playful banter always found a weakness in her barricade. “There are two possibilities. Mr Scarth is the killer and fled after adding poison to Lavinia’s wine.”
“In which case, the sensible thing to do is leave London.”
