Page 52 of A Devil in Silk
Bentley pressed on. “As no notice was placed in the broadsheets, our so-called betrothal is nothing but fanciful gossip. I’m under no obligation to issue a grovelling apology or pay damages. If asked, I expect Miss Woodall to confirm that her mother’s desires are not aligned with her own.”
Miss Woodall lifted her chin and said with dripping disdain, “That’s why I’m here. I’ve decided I cannot marry a man who thinks helping the downtrodden amounts to saving a lawless woman from the noose.”
Bentley remained calm. “Then we understand each other perfectly. I took the liberty of calling for your carriage. Hockton will see you both out.”
He didn’t bother to bid them good day but went in search of his mother. The trudge upstairs to the nursery felt like an uphill climb, one he should have undertaken years ago. He didn’t want to hurt her, but the situation had become untenable.
Yet his resolve wavered the moment he pushed open the door and saw her sitting in the rocking chair, sadness clinging to her like old cobwebs, Marcus’ christening blanket draped over her lap.
“Mother.” Every muscle twisted into tight knots. Those in his throat seized. He coughed. Once. Twice. “I’ve sent the Woodalls away. You’re not to invite them here again. They’re your friends, not mine.”
She appeared sleepy, a little dazed, and when she looked at him, he wondered if she was disappointed not to see Marcus standing there.
“I’m not marrying Sarah,” he said gently.
She blinked, as though waking from a sad stupor. “Of course you are. You’re not thinking clearly. It must be that dreadful business with Miss Nightshade. It’s in every broadsheet.”
Bentley stepped closer. “I’m thinking more clearly than I have in years. If I can’t marry for love, I’ll marry someone I respect. And I cannot abide Miss Woodall.”
Her fingers curled around the edges of the soft blanket, and she firmed her tone. “But you must marry Sarah. She’s charming and beautiful, and a man must always be true to his word.”
“I am true to my word. I didn’t make the vow.”
He hadn’t failed her.
He wasn’t the husband who swore to love her, only to lack the courage of his convictions. He wasn’t the doctor who’d misdiagnosed an illness and made empty promises.
“And what will you do instead, gallivant about town with bored widows or women with morals so loose they find themselves arrested for murder?” She glanced at the crib in the corner. “Marcus would have demanded you do right by this family.”
He refrained from glancing heavenward. “Yet Marcus delivered quite a different message when I saw Miss Nightshade, urging me to avoid a miserable alliance at all costs.”
“It wasn’t Marcus who spoke to you. Anyone reading the latest sordid edition ofThe Satiristknows Nightshade was a fraud. It’s a scandal of the highest order.”
After discovering the black box beneath the floorboards, he couldn’t dispute her point. “Her assistant claimed Marcus was buried with Father’s watch, and as we’re the only ones who know that, I’d say he’s the one with the true talent.”
His mother gathered the ivory silk blanket to her chest. “Tell me his name. Invite him to dine with us tomorrow night. There are questions only he can answer.”
He explained Silas Scarth was missing, and that he was investigating Lavinia Nightshade’s death with the help of the agents of the Order.
His mother looked faintly impressed. “Does Sarah know you’re applying your talents to ridding London of its villains? I imagine she’d consider it quite admirable.”
“No. And her opinion is of no consequence to me.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Good heavens. I see the real problem here. You’re not merely playing the concerned peer. You’re trying to clear your courtesan friend of murder.”
Heat flared in his chest. “She is a respectable lady, not a courtesan, and she only attended Miss Nightshade’s performance because I purchased the tickets.”
“Respectable ladies do not take nighttime trips with unmarried gentlemen. Who is she, this newfriendof yours?”
He hesitated, reluctant to speak, driven by a desire to protect Clara. Still, someone would eventually see them together, and it was better to tell his mother now before the gossips ran amok.
“Miss Dalton.”
She blinked in horror. “The blind girl with the terrible scar?”
“Miss Dalton is not blind.” Horrid images and the need to avenge her burned through him. Indeed, he clenched his jaw so hard he was likely to crack a tooth. “She can see perfectly well out of her right eye.”
As expected, his mother leapt to an irrational conclusion. “Suchweaknessesare in the blood. If a man hopes to sire healthy sons, he would be a fool to?—”
