Page 39 of A Devil in Silk
In the footman’s absence, Signora Conti moved to the teapot and tilted her head. “More tea? Or shall we sit and speak of foolish hearts instead?” She poured without waiting for an answer. “Is that why you pretended to be ill yesterday? You were talking to yourself last night,cara mia. You said only a fool kisses a man she means to avoid.”
Clara blinked, startled by the woman’s boldness. Her first instinct was to scold her for eavesdropping, except she hadn’t exactly been quiet when airing her frustration. And Signora Conti’s candour, while maddening, was oddly comforting.
“It was an accident,” Clara muttered, reaching for her teacup.
“Ah.” Signora settled into the adjacent chair. “You tripped and fell onto his mouth?” She gave a wistful sigh. “I had many such accidents in my youth. Once, I fell into Vincent De Cento when he sang to me in the moonlight. Men, they know how to make a lady clumsy.”
“Lord Rutland asked to touch my scar.” It had been her undoing. That, and the deep look of longing in his eyes as if she were something precious. Not broken. Not disfigured.
Signora Conti’s eyes widened. “You removed your patch for him?”
“Only for a moment.” A moment seared into her memory, impossible to forget. “Now I don’t know what to say when I see him.”
The housekeeper tutted softly. “You say nothing about what happened. It will kill him because it will be all he has thought about too.”
Clara recalled what Mr Daventry had said about an agent being the finest performer on stage. “What if he mentions it?” The moment he uttered the wordkiss, her resolve would surely crumble.
Signora Conti gave a knowing grin. “Then you shrug, look baffled and say, ‘Oh yes, I had almost forgotten’.”
“That’s all?”
“You touch your lips gently, like they are still swollen and a little bruised, then you mention the weather.”
It sounded simple. Odd. But quite simple.
“Very well.” Besides, nothing mattered more than uncovering the truth about what happened at the emporium. If she hoped to question Lord Tarrington and get past his butler, she needed someone with the viscount’s influence. “Any plan is better than no plan.”
Signora Conti gave a satisfied nod. “Good, because Lord Rutland is parked in the mews, waiting for you to finish your breakfast. A groom came with a note.”
Clara straightened. “You read my note?”
“Of course not. It was addressed to me.” She stood and gave Clara’s shoulder a gentle pat. “Take your toast with you. Even rebels need to keep up their strength.”
Clara fastened the final button of her blue pelisse, then straightened the matching bonnet, pausing only to check her eye patch was firmly in place. A glance in the hall mirror revealed a composed woman with a determined gleam in her good eye, exactly the impression she meant to give.
Heaven forbid Lord Rutland thought she was courting another kiss.
With the velvet patch, she looked less like a lovesick maiden and more like the captain of a pirate vessel who’d keelhaul the next man who looked at her lips.
Excellent. The disguise would do nicely.
Outside, the early summer air warmed her cheeks as she strode towards the waiting carriage in Gower Mews. Gibbs sat atop the box, hunched over his leather-bound book, lips barely moving as he read. He didn’t look up.
But Lord Rutland did.
He lounged against the carriage door, a burgundy coat moulded to every line of muscle. A slow, appreciative smile curled his lips as she approached. Heat pricked her neck. She prayed the bonnet’s brim hid the flush, though the gleam in his eyes said it did not.
“No longer nursing a megrim, Miss Dalton?”
“How kind of you to ask, my lord. No, I’m perfectly well.”
But why Miss Dalton, not Clara?
Was he regretting their romantic interlude, too?
She should have been relieved, not found herself longing for him to push back her bonnet and send her world spinning again.
Kippers!
