Page 84 of A Devil in Silk
“Yes. You can embrace this new beginning, or you can let resentment poison the rest of your days. The choice is yours.” He rose abruptly. He had a killer to catch, and a burning need to kiss the woman he loved. “I shall have Hockton send for your carriage. I suggest you return home and consider what else you have to lose.”
He didn’t wait for her reply but strode from the dining room, his boots striking the polished floor with purpose.
Waiting in the hall, Hockton bowed low and presented the salver. “A letter for you, my lord. It arrived a few moments ago, but I thought it unwise to disturb you.”
Bentley broke the wax, recognising the seal stamped with the scales of justice, the mark of The Order. “Send for Lady Rutland’s carriage. Tell Gibbs I need him ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”
“I’ll send a footman at once, my lord.”
Bentley read the note as he mounted the stairs, the tightness in his shoulders easing. Murray was in custody at the Hart Street Office, though they hadn’t found him boarding the stage to Manchester.
He marched into his chamber to find Clara fixing her hair in the full-length mirror. The sight of her stirred a vivid memory, her soft thighs cradling him, her hands gripping his back as he sank into her again and again.
“We’ve been summoned to Hart Street.” He crossed the room, tossed the letter on the bed and slid his arms around her waist. His mouth found the sweet spot at her nape, and she shivered beneath the kiss. “You’ll need to change your clothes. The moment Daventry sees you in a silk gown, he’ll know you haven’t been home all night.”
Clara stilled, their reflection meeting in the mirror.
I am home.
The words echoed in his mind, but she only said, “I’ll be glad when this business is over and we can put it behind us.”
She made no mention of retiring to the country—an encouraging sign in itself—though now was hardly the time for him to bend the knee and make a grand gesture.
“Do you think Lord Tarrington knew about the curse?” she asked. “He could have slipped poison into Miss Nightshade’s mouth when she was pretending to choke. She must have known something damning for him to go to such lengths.”
“Perhaps Murray will shed light on the problem. We witnessed his altercation with Tarrington, and there are always two sides to a story.”
She turned in his arms. “I assume your mother has left.”
“Hockton has summoned her carriage.” There was a chance she might never visit again. A chance she would never accept Clara, and he feared that would be one rejection too many. “She’s going home to reflect. Old patterns are hard to break.”
Clara nodded like she understood the struggle better than most. “The situation is more complex than either of us imagined. It seems there was some truth to Miss Nightshade’s claim. She knew about my mother’s silence, too.”
“Nightshade must have accessed the records at Rosefield.” He refused to accept the medium possessed any psychic ability. “Or Tarrington told her after learning the truth from his aunt.”
She rested her palm on his chest. “I’m just surprised they’ve lived under a dark cloud for so many years.”
“Are you not living under one yourself, Clara?” He studied her face, hoping she might remove all her barriers given time. “What happened to you still shapes so many of your choices.”
“Forgiveness takes great strength. I’ve never admired you more than when you let your mother cry on your shoulder.” She came up on her toes and brushed her lips against his, a kiss the distraction she needed.
His mouth claimed hers, slow at first, then with the hunger he’d carried since dawn. “Stay with me tonight,” he whispered.
She hesitated. The silence unnerved him more than any pistol or blade. “I should stay with the countess, at least for one night. And Daniel will arrive soon. We don’t want to tempt fate.”
The words struck harder than he expected. Thankfully, the press of her body and the hand stroking his chest said her thoughts and words were not aligned.
“You don’t need to worry about Daniel.” The man wasn’t blind or stupid, but he would force a proposal, which suited Bentley perfectly.
The question remained: Did it suit Clara?
Hart Street, Covent Garden
Office of the Order
They were ushered into the Order’s stately drawing room, a place fit for the highest ranks of the nobility, not the unkempt fellow with bristly cheeks, a torn coat, and one shoe missing.
With eyes rimmed red beneath a shock of copper hair, and a dark bruise shadowing one cheekbone, Murray shot to his feet, jabbed a finger at Clara, and cried, “You! It was you! You killed Lavinia. Everyone said so.”
