Page 89 of A Devil in Silk
“You do?”
“Yes. That I was somehow involved with Lavinia.”
“Were you?”
“Of course not.” Anger flared as the lord swallowed hard.
It was a lie. Men rarely admitted to such lapses, yet their eyes often betrayed them.
“How did it happen?” She already knew how. One moment she had been admiring the view of London from the tower, the next she was kissing Bentley, unable to get close enough to ease the ache. “Was it that first rush of excitement, the sudden quickening of a heart you thought dead? Was it the relief of knowing grief and elation cannot exist in the same breath? That for a second you could forget your wife?”
“Forget her!” He shot to his feet. “Forget how she lit up a room when she smiled? Forget our first dance, our first kiss, the feeling that consumes you until it’s impossible to breathe?”
Clara stilled, caught by the raw edge in his voice. She knew that breathless yearning—had felt it in Bentley’s arms, when the world narrowed to the heat of his gaze and the press of his lips.
“You must feel like you betrayed Margaret’s memory.”
Lord Tarrington shook his head, almost violently. “I didn’t kill Lavinia, but what she did to me was cruel. Pretending Margaret approved of my taking a lover. Lying to break down my resolve. Insisting my wife would understand because the soul is not tethered to mortal constraints.”
The room fell quiet.
Tears welled in the lord’s eyes. “Then Murray tells me she’s a fraud, that Scarth is the one with the talent. I refused to believe it and flew at him outside that dockside tavern, my fists full of murderous intent.”
And guilt, Clara suspected.
Guilt for those fragile moments of weakness.
“Do you know what it’s like?” Pain etched every line of his face. “To feel the warmth of the wrong woman’s lips when yours have been cold for so long? It brings no pleasure.”
Another lengthy silence ensued. Clara studied him, but grief and guilt blurred so closely together she could not tell which one ruled him.
“Is there anything else you’ve not told us, Tarrington?” Bentley spoke like he was tired of hearing his lies. “The reason you purchase these oddities from abroad? Why you have an unusual fascination with all things macabre? The sprigs of dried rowan?”
“Superstition, Rutland. We all have our talismans. Some men wear a saint’s medal. Others, a lock of hair. I prefer rowan. It is said to guard against misfortune. And I have known more than my share.”
Clara seized the moment to press further. “Some believe misfortune is simply part of life. Others believe darker forces areat work. I imagine your aunt favoured the latter after her time at the Rosefield Seminary.”
The lord recoiled into his chair as if she had flung holy water at him. “My aunt was a fanciful woman,” he said at last, his tone clipped. “Too much given to gossip and old wives’ tales. You’re not suggesting her ramblings hold any bearing on the present?”
The tightness in his jaw betrayed something far from indifference, and Clara was certain he understood her meaning all too well. “You speak of gossip and old wives’ tales yet seem afraid to name it. A curse.”
The lord’s gaze hardened and the mask of civility slipped. “Some things are best left unnamed. Names have a way of giving power to what ought to be forgotten.”
“Yet you surround yourself with reminders,” Clara replied.
“And you invite disaster by keeping company with those supposedly marked.” His eyes lingered on her before turning to Bentley. “Have you not suffered enough?”
Bentley met the challenge without flinching. “I see it for what it is, chains of fear forged from rumours, meant to imprison the mind.”
“In that we are agreed.” Lord Tarrington’s gaze drifted to a small brass talisman on the side table, its surface etched with lotus petals and endless knots. Lifting it with care, he turned it so the faint light caught the worn engravings. “From the Far East. The lotus is said to shield the bearer from misfortune, though it is not my soul I am keen to protect.”
To protect someone was more than a gesture of faith. It was a vow, a promise to carry their burdens and keep them safe from harm. Yet a hollow ache opened in her chest, for she had failed the man she loved. Because of her, his bond with an old friend was fraying, and his mother would never forgive what she deemed his betrayal.
She looked back at Lord Tarrington. “Few possess the conviction to keep such vows. One lapse doesn’t mean failure.”
The approval in his eyes softened the tension.
Bentley used the shift to his advantage. “Perhaps you might tell us how Lavinia came to know about the curse at Rosefield.”
