Page 73 of A Devil in Silk
Instead of offering the usual witty retort, Bentley spoke from the heart. “I let guilt and the need to play the dutiful son come before happiness. But I love Clara. I have for some time.”
“Then marry her and be done with it.”
“She’ll think I’m asking out of obligation.” Clara would mistake love for pity, passion for guilt. “Once she’s completed her list, she’s leaving London.”
Clara didn’t want to be rescued, or to feel like a burden he couldn’t ignore. If he proposed now, she’d believe it was because of her scar, her past, the trouble shadowing her every step, not because he couldn’t imagine a life without her.
“I was mistaken,” Rothley said as he rose. “Even a turnip isn’t as mindless. Follow the advice you gave Gentry and make it impossible for her to say no. Give her a reason to stay.”
He strode ahead to join the queue of guests filtering into the hall and drawing room. Bentley followed, accepting a glass of claret from a footman and stealing a glance at the longcase clock.
A few hours in a private room at Porretta’s awaited. Now he had to provide the excuse they needed to leave.
They joined Clara, the Countess of Berridge, and Miss Woolf on one of the elegant damask sofas beneath the soft glow of the crystal chandelier. Clara glanced up, a secret smile tugging at her lips, and his doubts nearly vanished.
Eager for answers, Rothley said, “I didn’t realise you kept company with a poet, Miss Woolf.”
“That surprises me, my lord,” she said smoothly. “Considering you spent two hours in the bookshop opposite my lodging house this week. Did Mr Potter not mention I attend his literary meetings on the first Thursday of every month?”
“No, nor did he mention local talent when I asked about promising poets. I cannot abide untruths, which is why I’m curious. What inspired yourfriendto write a poem about mistrust?”
“What else but pain?” she said, meeting his gaze. “When lies are used like weapons and the truth is ignored, sometimes a poem is the only safe place one might speak freely.”
While Rothley stared as though he wanted to seize the woman’s shoulders and shake the truth from her, Clara turned to Bentley, her subtle nod a clear signal it was time to make their escape.
Bentley cleared his throat. “Did Miss Dalton mention our outing this evening? As we’re the only ones able to identify Mr Murray, we’ve agreed to visit The Swan and observe the passengers departing on hired coaches to Manchester.”
The countess arched a brow, her lips twitching as she struggled to suppress a smile. “Can you not stay for the second part of the programme?”
“Sadly, duty calls.” Though making love to Clara would be his life’s greatest pleasure, not a tiresome chore.
“I trust you’ll return Clara to The Jade. My husband has business at the club tonight, and we’ve agreed to remain here in Aldgate.”
She gestured towards the window, and the handful of wastrels loitering near the entrance to the infamous gaming hell across the street.
“I’ll have her home before midnight.” Bentley gave a reassuring nod. “Should we find Murray and encounter a delay, I’ll send a note with a penny boy.”
Clara rose and offered the countess a grateful smile. “Thank you for a lovely evening, and for agreeing to let me stay tonight.”
Bentley stood too, bowing politely before placing a hand at the small of Clara’s back. Warmth seeped through the fine silk, sharpening his anticipation.
They crossed the hall, muffled laughter fading behind them as they stepped into the cool night air. Beyond the waiting hackneys, his carriage stood apart, lanterns glowing like watchful eyes.
“We’re not taking Gibbs?” she asked, noting his slender coachman perched atop the box, not the man who spent his spare time reading Roman and Greek philosophy.
“I’d rather not see our outing immortalised in his next report,” Bentley murmured, handing her up and stepping in after her. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about visiting Porretta’s.”
Clara met his gaze, steady and unrepentant. “And miss the chance to be daring? Never. This adventure may have to last me a lifetime.”
The carriage drew up outside Porretta’s Bathhouse, tucked discreetly between the gentlemen’s clubs on St James’s Street. Fluted columns and a grand stone pediment lent the entrance the solemn beauty of a Roman temple. To Bentley, it felt more like a shrine to temptation than a place for bathing, a sanctum to honour the woman he could no longer resist.
Inside the carriage, Clara was somewhat subdued. Though she did her best to appear composed and even laughed at his amusing jokes, he’d sensed the tension mounting with every passing mile.
“Shall we pick Roman names for tonight’s escapade?” he said, though what he wanted most was for them to stop pretending.
Her smile proved fleeting. “And which will you claim? Caesar? Marcus Aurelius?”
“Something less lofty. Emperors rarely live long.” And he hoped to survive long enough to put their troubles to bed. “What about you? Will you be Cleopatra? Will you have the most powerful man in Rome at your feet?”
