Page 54 of A Devil in Silk
They moved along the crowded corridor, each step an effort, as if wading through treacle while the press of bodies closed in. Snatches of conversation rose around her, words honed with spite and edged with curiosity. Her name fell from painted lips. A fan snapped shut. A head tilted for a better look. Eyes lingered on her mask as though it were not velvet, but the devil’s horns themselves.
She kept her chin high, refusing to quicken her pace, though her fingers tightened around her fan until the sticks bit into her palm.
“Ignore them,” the countess said loud enough for everyone to hear. “Thetonlikes to jump to conclusions and believe everything written in sordid publications is as good as gospel.”
Clara’s heart stuttered as the truth began to take shape. “Someone mentioned me in the broadsheets?” She prayed not by name.
“No, in that scandalous ragThe Satirist. A constable at Vine Street must have sold information. The article … and I use the term loosely, claimed that a woman wearing an eye patch was taken in for questioning over the death of Lavinia Nightshade.”
The chill of fear chased down her spine, but she met the next curious gaze without flinching. “That explains the blatant stares and whispered accusations.”
“Yes. You’ve certainly attracted more attention than usual tonight.”
A female attendant in black held the retiring room door wide, and the scent of rosewater drifted into the hall. Clara entered with measured grace, though her pulse urged her to run. The lamplight softened the gilt mirrors and polished walnut, yet the warmth brought no comfort. Ladies powdered their cheeks and adjusted their skirts, pausing long enough to let their eyes flick over her mask before turning away. The scandal sheet might not be on their lips, but its shadow was in the room all the same.
The countess neither reached for a bourdaloue nor vanished behind the elegant screens. She was far more interested in asking Clara a personal question. “I understand Lord Rutland made one of your wishes come true.”
Clara’s pulse leapt. Her mind didn’t rush to the breathless climb up the Abbey’s narrow staircase, but to the passionate kiss on the rooftop.
“I’m told Mr Gibbs noted a midnight visit to Westminster Abbey in his report,” the countess continued, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief.
Clara drew her aside. “It wasn’t planned. We were questioning a suspect nearby, and it seemed foolish to waste the opportunity.”
Yet she recalled little about the view, only the warmth of Bentley’s mouth and hands. Only the hours spent awake in bed afterwards, the thrum of desire refusing to dissipate.
That hunger lingered still, a steady hum beneath the surface.
The countess tilted her head, studying Clara with a perceptive gleam. “As a man burdened by obligation, I imagine Lord Rutland craved a moment of freedom too.”
Clara let out a soft, humourless laugh. “Freedoms he’s explored many times. I once hid in his study with my brother while he gave his mistress her congé.”
There had been no tender words that night, only Bentley’s cool dismissal of a casual arrangement. She should have felt disgust. Instead, jealousy had twisted through her like a serpent, along with a deep, unwavering sadness that she would never know the joy of sharing his bed.
The countess’ lips curved in a faint smile. “Perhaps. But I’ve learned that a man’s heart is not always reflected in his manner, and even the most unlikely men can change.”
An unwelcome warmth bloomed in Clara’s chest. No matter how hard she tried to fight it, her thoughts always returned to Bentley and the reckless hope that he might one day be hers.
But marriage was a dream she had long abandoned. Men did not wed women with scars like hers, not when they had titles to protect and heirs to produce. So she found herself weighing another possibility: a brief, secret affair. A chance to know his touch, to quiet the yearning that consumed her, before slipping away to the country for good.
She was still weighing the somewhat practical solution during the first act ofNorma. Giuditta Pasta possessed the voice of an angel, but Clara’s attention drifted. Across the theatre, shenoticed Mr Daventry seated in his box, his skilled fingers idly stroking his wife’s nape.
Beside her, the Earl of Berridge held his wife’s hand in his lap, his thumb moving in slow, tender circles. The quiet intimacy was intoxicating, making her almost lightheaded and longing for a connection that seemed forever out of reach.
Except perhaps it wasn’t.
As the curtain fell on the first act ofNormaand applause thundered through the house, an assistant appeared at the entrance to the box, a silver salver balanced on one gloved hand.
He bowed to the marquess. “A message for Miss Dalton, my lord. I was directed to your box.”
Clara stared at the folded note, her throat tight. “I’m Miss Dalton.”
The assistant stepped closer, extending the salver. “The gentleman requires no reply, madam.”
Clara lifted the crisp cream paper, her fingers trembling as she broke the dark red seal.
Life is fleeting. Live while the hour allows.
—B
