Page 87 of A Devil in Silk
Daventry merely raised a brow. “Question Tarrington. Tell him to call at the office. Then visit the Rosefield Seminary and see what you can discover about the woman who died.”
Clara shifted. “But the seminary is in Cheltenham, sir. It will require an overnight stay at an inn.”
“I suggest the Dog and Duck in Burford. Take a chaperone. I’m sure Miss Woolf will be accommodating. Invite Rothley, too, in case you encounter trouble en route.”
Clara swallowed twice. “Trouble?”
“The clue to both murders lies at the seminary.” There was steel in Daventry’s voice, a warning to remain vigilant. “There’s every chance the killer will seek to silence you, too.”
Chapter Nineteen
Lord Tarrington’s drawing room was a mausoleum to his beloved wife. Heavy curtains kept out the daylight. Fresh flowers crowded every surface, the sweet scent of roses almost cloying in the refined space. Clara studied the portraits on the walls, the same woman captured at different ages and angles, her dark eyes following them no matter where they stood.
“Lady Tarrington was beautiful,” Clara murmured, though the repeated image unsettled her rather than stirred admiration.
Bentley stood, hands clasped behind his back, gazing up at one gilt-framed painting. “And well-loved, if appearances are to be believed.”
Loved or possessed. Clara could not decide.
Her gaze lingered on Bentley rather than the gallery of images, tracing the breadth of his shoulders beneath the dark cut of his coat. She remembered the beauty of his strong body as he rose above her in bed. The desire to touch him bordered on obsession, a need she scarcely understood. Even now, her mind betrayed her, conjuring a scene in a discreet coaching inn nearCheltenham, his hand between her thighs, his mouth claiming hers, his?—
“Have you noticed the sprigs of dried rowan tucked among the flowers?” Bentley said, drawing her from her romantic musings. “An old superstition. Said to keep evil spirits at bay.”
Clara studied the room again. On the mantel, she spied a small silver charm shaped like a crescent moon. At the base of one portrait was a tiny pouch of red cloth tied with twine. Protective tokens, if she wasn’t mistaken.
“Perhaps Lord Tarrington is guarding against a curse.”
“Or he failed to protect his wife when she was alive, and now seeks to make amends in death.” Bentley glanced at her. “My mother keeps lavender sprigs for a similar reason.”
It was the first time he’d mentioned his mother since breakfast. Clara didn’t need the wisdom of the ancients to know why. The matron had not sought Clara out to say goodbye. Why would she lower herself by acknowledging her son’s lover? Actions such as Clara’s saw women relegated to the whispered titles of courtesan or Cyprian.
It might not trouble Bentley now, but his mother’s disapproval would rub like a stone in one’s boot, tolerable at first, until it wore the skin raw.
“I’m sorry if my being there caused her more pain.” She’d never intended to make life difficult for him.
His gaze softened. “You didn’t cause her pain. She carries it with her the way some people carry heirlooms, passed down, polished, and never put away.”
She hesitated, but had to tell the truth. “No one but Miss Woodall will ever be good enough for you.” She wondered how she would bear his mother’s rejection, the sly digs, the gnawing sense of inadequacy.
When he spoke, his voice rang with certainty. “I decide who is good enough for me, no one else.”
She wanted to believe him and tuck the words away, like a charm against the doubts that had plagued her for years. But hope was more dangerous than fear.
“Good,” she said, smoothing her tone into something playful. “You still owe me a race in your new curricle, and I mean to hold you to that vow.”
His smile curved slowly, playing havoc with her heart. “I’d mention what you owe me, but it’s fit for your ears alone … and I hear the distinctive clip of Tarrington’s boots on the parquet.”
Clara straightened as the lord entered the drawing room, his gaze sweeping over them with cool recognition. He carried himself with the same polished authority she remembered, though the faintly theatrical tilt of his head made her wonder if he ever moved without an audience in mind.
“I’d ask what the devil you want now, but Margaret would insist I hold my temper.” He glanced at his wife’s portrait, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his black coat as if keen to impress her. “She had the patience of a saint.”
An uncomfortable stillness settled over the room.
The lord’s gaze lingered on a painting of his wife wearing a Grecian-style gown, and he sighed. “Margaret always looked exceptional in red.”
“I can only imagine how painful it is to lose someone you love deeply.” Clara looked at Bentley, the ache in her chest sharper than she expected.
“Grief makes people uncomfortable,” Lord Tarrington said. “They want you to bury the memories along with the casket and pretend love never existed.”
