Page 55 of A Devil in Silk
It was the same inscription they’d found on the back of Miss Nightshade’s elegant mantel clock. A wise warning from the dearly departed, perhaps. But Bentley had signed the note as a lover might, with the ease of a man who saw himself as more than a friend.
“Something related to the case?” the marquess asked.
“Just evidence from Miss Nightshade’s room.” It wasn’t evidence, nor a ghostly warning. It was an invitation to abandon caution, to seek a distraction, to surrender to more stolen kisses.
Ever curious, the marquess said, “A clue to who might have killed the famed medium in front of witnesses?”
“A quote that seemed out of place,” she replied, recalling the stark surroundings. The brass clock was an unusual extravagance that had surely been a gift. “Something that needs further investigation.”
She was not thinking of clocks, but the desire to discover the physical pleasures a woman might share with a man she trusted.
They took refreshments in the private parlour, a room of oak panelling and plush leather seats. The earl and countess sampled the house’s burgundy while Clara sipped lemonade, barely noting the taste.
She was too busy compiling a new list in her mind. Crossing offvisiting a gentleman’s club in disguiseand replacing it with the feel of Bentley’s hand gliding across her bare thigh.
The marquess, mistaking her distant stare for lingering fear, offered reassurance. “Despite what that rag of a newspaper implies, you’ll never see the inside of Vine Street police office again, Miss Dalton.”
She summoned a faint smile. “I’m sure the papers will find a new scandal to amuse themselves with tomorrow.”
They returned to their seats as the lights dimmed and the orchestra began tuning for the second act. But before the curtain rose, the attendant reappeared at the entrance to the box, another letter resting on his silver salver.
She felt the burn of her companions’ gazes as she broke the seal and read the missive.
Numbers 4 and 5 await.
If you’ve courage enough to live while the hour allows …
join me outside after the performance.
—B
Her breath caught; her pulse quickened.
“Another note from …” The marquess glanced at Mr Daventry in the opposite box, busy whispering something into his wife’s ear. “An agent of the Order?”
“Yes. Forgive me.” Though she knew she ought to stay firmly in her seat, she was already rising. “Duty calls, I’m afraid.”
Although the task she had in mind would not be a chore.
Even Giuditta Pasta couldn’t hold a candle to Bentley Sommersby.
Clara ignored the questioning looks from her companions and slipped from the box, the note burning in her palm like a brand. She barely noticed the swell of music as the curtain rose, her thoughts fixed on the promise hidden between the wax seals.
By the time she reached the theatre’s grand staircase, her skirts were lifted to her ankles, her heart pounding wildly as the orchestra eased into the opening strains ofDormono entrambi.
Giuditta Pasta’s mournful voice rose through the auditorium, the echoes of a mother’s grief chasing her down the deserted corridors.
“Miss Dalton! Wait!” the marquess called, his footsteps thudding dully against the carpeted steps. “A note from the Order doesn’t excuse you from explanations.”
“I’d explain, but you wouldn’t understand.”
“If you think I’ll permit you to walk these dangerous streets in the dark, you’re very much mistaken.” He swore, quite eloquently. “Damn the devil! Slow down before you fall!”
But she couldn’t stop.
She wanted to put miles between herself and every wicked person who whispered and stared. She wanted someone to look at her the way Mr Daventry looked at his wife: like a rare diamond in a sea of shale. She wanted the company of a man who made her smile, not shrink away in shame.
A thankful breath escaped her when she reached the foyer. The imposing oak doors were in sight. The only man who didn’t see her as damaged was waiting to whisk her away on an adventure.
