Page 65 of A Devil in Silk
The spoils of her ill-gotten gains.
“Why do you ask?” Daventry said, narrowing his gaze.
“When I loaned her my wife’s diamond earrings, she described such a box. Assured me it was sturdy and she wouldkeep them safe. I’ve pestered Inspector Mercer, keen to see the earrings returned to me.”
In vivid detail, Tarrington described the night he’d gifted the jewels to his wife, his eyes bright with the warmth of the memory. Bentley thought of Clara seeing The Lantern Ring for the first time and understood why people clung so fiercely to tokens of the past. After all, he’d kept her lantern.
Daventry opened the box to reveal the bounty within. “Miss Nightshade may have been defrauding her admirers. Using the secrets she learned, she took their possessions under the guise of securing their salvation. Is that how she came by your wife’s earrings?”
Lord Tarrington looked horrified. “Lavinia would never steal from the dead. Having the earrings helped her channel Margaret’s messages more clearly. I assure you, she took them with good intentions.”
Bentley opened the notebook and read the comments, reciting snippets of scandalous things that might see a person ruined.
“The list is endless, mention of affairs and lies, even bigamy.” Bentley wondered what Rosefield meant and how it related to Clara. “It’s fair to say Lavinia Nightshade did not have good intentions.”
But Tarrington shook his head most vehemently, refusing to accept the evidence presented. “That might belong to her assistant Mr Scarth. You know he served three years in Coldbath Fields for rioting.”
Daventry reached for his portfolio, opening it at a specific page. “Based on the information I received yesterday, Scarth was convicted on flimsy evidence. What is interesting is the moniker he earned while there.The Oraclesuggests Scarth possesses the true gift of hearing voices, not Miss Nightshade.”
In a sudden burst of outrage, Lord Tarrington shot to his feet. “I’ll not sit here while you tear Lavinia’s reputation to shreds.”
“You’re welcome to leave,” Daventry said calmly, “once you’ve explained why you punched Murray and tried to drive him out of town.”
Snatching up his hat and removing his gloves, the lord said, “Murray thinks I killed Lavinia. He’s under some absurd notion that we were—” He paused, glancing at Clara. “I’m sure you can imagine what he thought. I hit him because he dared to tarnish Margaret’s memory.”
Bentley made no comment.
He’d felt a similar surge of anger at the seance when cruel whispers about Clara’s scar echoed through the crowd. He still didn’t understand what drove these feelings. Was it desire, loyalty or something more profound?
“I want my wife’s earrings,” Tarrington said, gesturing to the black box. “I’ll sign to say they’ve been returned to my custody.”
Daventry had the lord describe them in detail before handing them over and recording his signature in the portfolio.
“My lord,” Clara called as Tarrington made to leave. “Just one more thing before you go.”
The lord released a weary sigh. “What is it, Miss Dalton?”
“When we spoke to you at the warehouse, you said Mr Scarth knew Lavinia drank wine because she always choked during the performance. Were you suggesting part of the seance was staged?”
The lord had the decency to appear slightly embarrassed. “People pay to see a show, Miss Dalton. Lavinia understood that better than anyone. Rest assured, an undeniable truth lived beneath the theatrics.”
“I understand,” Clara said, offering the man a smile Bentley had seen many times before, one that pulled at her scar and never quite reached her eyes, one that twisted something deepin his chest, a reminder that her armour, for all its polish, was paper-thin. “We all pretend, my lord. We all put on a show so the world won’t see how much we’re hurting.”
Chapter Fourteen
The carriage clattered over uneven cobblestones as they left Covent Garden’s market stalls and bustle behind. Fresh from Mr Daventry’s office and armed with a list of tasks, they’d agreed to visit Miss Picklescott, prompted by the revealing comment written in Miss Nightshade’s book.
Writes a scandalous column under the name of Thomas Brightwell.
Clara stole another glance at Bentley as he scanned the entries, annoyed with himself for missing a vital clue.
“It never occurred to me there’d be a concealed pocket glued to the backboard,” he grumbled. “That alone confirms Nightshade was up to no good.”
He slid his fingers inside the paper gap, dipping deeper into the folds. The memory of their scandalous encounter last night burned through her like an exquisite ache. The press of his mouth, the need in his voice, the arousing things he did and said, were impossible to ignore as she sat opposite him, aware of every shift of his body and every brush of their knees.
She wanted to cry. To release the tide of emotion that had been building in her chest since they’d kissed atop the tower. It seemed to swell with every passing second, every moment they spent alone together.
But the letter from his mother sat in her reticule like a stone chained to her heart. Every wise word on the page made sense. She should remember her place. She should remember that a scandal would be damaging. Not as damaging as a bullet in Bentley’s chest, but if it ever came to a duel, she would throw herself into its path without hesitation.
