Page 92 of A Devil in Silk
Miss Woolf glanced at him. “A determined approach, my lord.”
He arched a brow. “Determination opens doors, Miss Woolf.”
A long moment passed before hurried footsteps approached from within. The door creaked open to reveal a flustered maid with wisps of hair escaping her white cap. She wiped her hands on her apron, eyes darting between them. “Beg pardon, sirs, madam. I was in the laundry and didn’t hear you knock.”
“The Marquess of Rothley,” Bentley said, indicating his companion, “and I am Viscount Rutland. We wish to speak with whoever is in charge.”
The maid’s eyes widened, and she dipped so hurried a curtsy she nearly lost her balance. “Yes, my lords, of course.” She brushed an errant strand from her cheek, as if suddenly aware ofher untidy state. “That’ll be Mrs Peverill, the matron. She’s in a … a meeting with Mr James, the chaplain. Please, step inside and I’ll fetch her at once.”
She led them through a dim hall into a parlour furnished with sagging armchairs, faded blue curtains, and bookcases furred with dust. Somewhere deeper in the building, an out-of-tune pianoforte stumbled throughRock of Ages, each verse mangled by the singer’s wretched tone.
Miss Woolf approached the bookcases, tilting her head to read the titles, her fingers trailing the spines as if seeking inspiration. Rothley joined her, scanning the shelves with feigned interest, though Bentley knew what held his attention.
He took the distraction as a gift. He shifted his hand to where Clara’s rested on the arm of her chair, letting his fingers stroke hers in a slow, deliberate caress. Her breath caught, and when her gaze lifted to his, the room and its shabby furnishings ceased to matter.
“Meet me tonight, at midnight,” he whispered for her ears only. “Slip out when Miss Woolf is asleep and we’ll steal an hour alone.”
“I suspect our chaperones sleep with one eye open. Doubtless Mr Daventry knew that.” One corner of her mouth curved in amused defiance. “But I’ll find a way.”
Her eagerness had his blood pumping faster. “I have a suggestion, though it may be presumptuous.”
Curiosity danced in her eyes, a look he craved almost as much as her touch. “Do you have a romp in a hay barn on your list, my lord?”
“Close. I was thinking of renting another room at the inn. A secret room. Our room.”
Her lips parted on a smile. “A wicked liaison at a coaching inn. How wonderfully rakish of you.”
“I aim to please.”
“You certainly do.”
Attraction hummed between them, woven into every word, every look. Yet beneath it, he sensed distance. She had given him her body but guarded her heart. Did she fear the choices ahead? The prospect of sacrificing her independence for a life in the peerage?
He needed to know.
The thought lingered as Mrs Peverill swept into the reception room. Barely thirty, she was striking—and dishevelled. A stray grey feather clung to her dark hair. Her lips were swollen as though recently kissed, and two pearl buttons on her sleeve hung undone.
“My lords,” she said, dipping into a deep curtsy before turning to the ladies as if they too held lofty titles. A fleeting wince betrayed her surprise at Clara’s eye patch before the practised smile settled into place. “Welcome to Rosefield.”
Bentley caught the look. People always stared, some with pity, others with morbid curiosity, but few had the grace to hide it. He could not shield Clara from inquisitive eyes, yet he could make certain no one dared speak unkindly in her presence.
“May I ask what brings you here?” Mrs Peverill said, shifting as though her recently unlaced corset sat awkwardly beneath her gown. “I assume you have a relative, a sister or niece, wishing to benefit from the knowledge bestowed by our founder, Mrs Rosefield.”
The matron gestured to the gilt-framed portrait of a miserable woman on the wall, whose downturned mouth seemed to drag her whole face towards her chin.
Rothley glanced at the glum portrait. “A woman clearly devoted to the art of encouragement.”
“Mrs Rosefield believed it her sacred duty to prepare young ladies for lives of refinement and virtue. Her aim was to cultivategrace, moral strength, and the accomplishments most pleasing to a discerning husband.”
“There are more options for a woman than becoming someone’s wife,” Clara said firmly.
“Few credible options,” Mrs Peverill replied.
“On the contrary, times are changing. I’ve been invited to accept a permanent position with the best enquiry agency in London.”
The news struck Bentley like a blow. She’d not breathed a word of it. Had she been weighing her options all along? She’d kissed him as if she’d die without his touch. Would she greet a marriage proposal with the same fervour, or had he mistaken passion for something fleeting?
“Yes. We’re here on behalf of the Order, investigating the murder of two women in London.” The words came out sharper than Bentley intended, edged by the sting of her revelation. He slipped a card from his coat and set it on the table.
