Page 40 of A Devil in Silk
“One of those troublesome headaches that vanished as suddenly as it came?” he asked with teasing suspicion.
“No. Why do you say that?”
“Had I arrived at Mrs Morven’s half an hour earlier yesterday, we might have listened to her heartfelt rendition ofCasta Divatogether.” He gave a mock shudder. “Though I’m told it’s best endured with cotton in one’s ears and a great deal of brandy.”
Clara bit back an unladylike curse. Either Mrs Morven had a loose tongue or the parrots had squawked, “Clap again, Clara”.
“I must have just missed you,” she said, taking Signora Conti’s advice and affecting a blasé air. “A pity, as we could have shared the agony.”
“Missed me or avoided me?” he shot back.
She gave a soft shrug. “Would it wound your pride terribly if I said I hadn’t given you a thought?”
It was the greatest lie she had ever told.
The man had taken up residence in her mind.
“It would if I believed it.”
Gibbs slammed his book shut and called from his box, “Are we planning to move from the mews today, or do you hope to catch a criminal by exchanging pointless barbs?”
Clara turned to the coachman. “An excellent point, Gibbs. Your patience is saintly. We shall try not to tax it further.”
“As long as there’s no lingering about at ungodly hours. I don’t see why you can’t kiss in the carriage like normal folk. A quick turn around the park is ample in my opinion.”
Clara stiffened. A single, damning word—kiss—had the power to summon every forbidden image she’d spent two days trying to banish. Was nowhere safe? Could she not ride in a carriage now without picturing a rampant coupling on the leather-sprung seats?
She kept a vacant look. “You’re speaking in riddles, Gibbs. One must question what sort of book you’re reading.”
“How to Spot a Liar from Ten Yards, ma’am.”
Bentley laughed. “Blame me, Gibbs. Miss Dalton’s lies are so amusing, I’m inclined to encourage them.”
Feeling distinctly outnumbered, she said, “Perhaps Gibbs is right. We should abandon these foolish shenanigans and focus on the case.”
“Where do you suggest we start?” Bentley asked.
“We ought to begin with Lord Tarrington, though it’s probably best we don’t mention we’re working for The Order.” The peer might think they were keen to blame him for Miss Nightshade’s murder.
Bentley agreed. “I suggest we pretend we’re looking for Scarth because we suspect he’s the villain and we’re trying to clear our names.”
Clara nodded, feeling more at ease now they were back to playing intrepid enquiry agents, not two clumsy people who had accidentally fallen onto each other’s mouths.
“To Tarrington’s warehouse on Wapping Wall, Gibbs,” Bentley said, opening the carriage door. “With the emporium temporarily closed, he’ll be surveying his latest shipment of oddities.”
He extended his hand to her.
She hesitated, reminding herself it was only a hand. Yet as their palms met, she almost wished it felt like a cold kipper, anything but warm, strong, and dangerously self-assured.
As the carriage pulled away, silence settled between them.
She watched the streets blur past, feigning interest in barrow boys and shouting hawkers. But Bentley’s gaze seared her skin, every nerve alive to it, until she felt flushed from crown to heel. Still she refused to turn, terrified of what he might read in her face.
“So, according to Mrs Morven, Scarth was off his food,” he said at last, easing the tension in the air. “He never ate the day of the seance.”
She faced him, suddenly aware of how small the space was between them. “Yes, he never said why, but maybe he feared he was the one about to be poisoned.”
“Aconitine,” he said, “from the monkshood or wolfsbane plant, probably dried, ground and prepared in a tincture.”
