Page 56 of A Devil in Silk
But the Marquess of Rothley stepped into her path, his broad frame blocking her exit. “Whether you approve or not, I’m tasked with ensuring your safety while you’re in London.”
She almost laughed at that. She’d been kissed twice by her handsome colleague, the man who’d made caressing her scar part of his list of forbidden pleasures. Heaven knows what other shocking things Bentley dreamed of doing.
“I haven’t been safe since I witnessed Miss Nightshade’s murder. I’ll never find peace until I discover who killed her.”
The marquess regarded her through intense, wolf-like eyes. “Then I’ll accompany you tonight. I have more than enough skill when it comes to catching villains.”
“There’s no need. Mr Daventry’s agent is waiting outside.” It wasn’t a lie. Bentley was tasked with heading this enquiry.
Under his breath, the marquess cursed and gave an arrogant snort. “A woman once made the mistake of deceiving me, Miss Dalton. Know I’ll not tolerate lies or half-truths. Rutland is the agent waiting for you, is he not?”
“Yes,” she replied, as though the answer were obvious. “We’re colleagues in the hunt for a devious criminal.”
Two kisses had blurred the boundaries, but life was complicated.
He stepped closer, his shadow spilling over her skirts. “You’re dipping your toe into dangerous waters. I’m advising you to step back from the shore and find a different pursuit.”
She met his intimidating glare. “As I said, you wouldn’t understand my reasoning. You’re in no danger of facing the gallows, nor do you know how it feels to be the object of everyone’s scorn.”
The marquess recoiled slightly, as if struck. “I’ve been betrayed by those closest to me, accused of murder by the good people of the ton. By all accounts, I bed a harem of women I keep chained in my cellar. Yet the truth is, I dine alone each night. I sleep alone. And my dark thoughts often threaten to consume me.” He held her gaze, unflinching. “We’re more alike than you think, Miss Dalton.”
She dared to look into his dark, forbidding eyes and glimpsed her own sorrow mirrored there. “Then you know what it is to feel dead inside. These escapades … they’re my only chance to feel alive. I beg you, don’t begrudge me that, my lord.”
Something softened in his predatory gaze. “You talk like a barrister angling for a verdict,” he said gruffly. “And damned if you’re not skilled enough to chip at the ice around my heart. You may leave with Rutland, but on one condition.”
She held her breath. “Name it.”
“I want to speak to him alone first.”
“I have your word you’ll let me leave with him afterwards?”
He squared his shoulders. “My word is my bond, Miss Dalton. I’ve never broken a vow yet.”
She gave a curt nod and let him escort her through the elegant foyer and out into the cool night air. Like a hawk hunting its prey, he scanned the row of carriages before honing in on his target.
“Your errant knight awaits,” he said with dry amusement. “Have a care, Miss Dalton. Even the noblest knight can be dangerous when the cause is close to his heart.”
Chapter Twelve
The moment she saw Bentley, her heart skipped a beat. He lounged with lazy confidence against the squab, boots propped on the opposite seat, studying Miss Nightshade’s book beneath the glow of the carriage lamp.
The marquess rapped on the window before yanking open the door as though he might pull it off its hinges. “It seems an agent’s work is never done. Your colleague is quite desperate to put her mind and hands to good use tonight.”
Bentley’s gaze found her instantly. His eyes lingered on her red gown, drinking her in like a man savouring a rare vintage. Yet whatever he thought, he kept behind a measured smile, saying only, “Villains grow careless at night. Most arrests are made in the early hours.”
The marquess gave a dry tut. “A word in private, if you can drag yourself from your book of constabulary duties.”
“Certainly.” Bentley alighted in one fluid motion. He caught Clara’s hand, his fingers warm as they closed around hers. Leaning close enough for his breath to stir her hair, he murmured, “I’m glad you came.”
“I never refuse a challenge.”
Steadying her as she stepped inside, he pressed Miss Nightshade’s notebook into her hand. “Something to read in my brief absence. I won’t be long.”
She settled into the seat and watched the men step into the shelter of a shop doorway. Their heads bent close, voices too low for her to catch. Their expressions told their own story. There was no anger in Bentley’s eyes, only intent focus. At one point, the marquess gripped his friend’s shoulder in what looked like a gesture of solidarity.
The marquess returned to the carriage to bid Clara goodnight. He almost ruined her evening by adding, “Based on the article inThe Satiristand the reaction of those here tonight, I think it’s wise to write to your brother in Chippenham and inform him of the situation.”
Her heart sank faster than a brick in a well.
