Page 91 of A Devil in Silk
Fear gripped her heart like a vice. “If Daniel ever learns the truth, you may regret breaking that oath.”
“I can’t lie anymore, Clara.”
The carriage rocked, a sign Gibbs was getting restless. A sharp rap sounded above, followed by his gruff voice drifting down through the roof hatch. “If you’ve finished mooning over each other, we’d best be on our way. We need to be on the road to Cheltenham if we hope to reach Burford before nightfall. Mr Daventry insists we take chaperones. And the marquess will want time to prepare.”
Clara met Bentley’s gaze, her disappointment reflected in the depth of his eyes. A night away had less appeal when it meant sharing their time with friends. Would there be moments for stolen kisses, for the forbidden touches she craved?
“Take us home, Gibbs. Fetch Rothley while we pack a valise. I suspect he’ll be ready within the half-hour when he learns Miss Woolf is to be our companion.”
“Olivia will be glad of a respite away from London,” Clara said, though she suspected their journey would offer little in the way of peace. Still, there was one consolation. Daniel wouldn’t be in Cheltenham.
Chapter Twenty
Rosefield Seminary
Cleeve Hill, Cheltenham
The carriage jolted over the rutted lane, the trees pressing closer as they approached the seminary. In the fractured summer light, its spire loomed black against the sky, ivy clawing up stone walls the colour of old bone.
Bentley sat beside Clara, while Rothley studied the shadowed facade like a general assessing the field. “So bleak,” he murmured, his tone almost approving.
Miss Woolf, swathed in dove-grey, followed the line of crumbling gargoyles with visible fascination. “I imagine the sermons here were better attended by ghosts than pupils.”
No wonder they found the setting appealing. Rothley wore his past like an old wound, while Miss Woolf had the air of someone who’d lived too long with danger to be troubled by death.
Bentley wished it were just him and Clara. Rothley had kept him awake half the night at the Burford inn, mulling over MissWoolf’s stubborn refusal to share her new address, as if it were a military secret. And now, with the seminary doors within reach, Bentley could think of a dozen things he’d rather be doing with Clara than rifling through forty years of dusty secrets.
Clara leaned over him to peer through the carriage window, her gloved hand resting on his thigh beneath the folds of her skirts. “It looks more like a prison than a finishing school for daughters of the nobility. It’s hard to believe our mothers came here.”
The muscle beneath her touch tightened, a surge of heat darting through him at the casual intimacy. He’d not wait until they returned to London to kiss her again.
“Perhaps that’s why they never spoke of it,” he said, thinking how he might get Clara alone tonight, somewhere he could strip away her careful defences. “An oath can silence the truth for years.”
“I made a few enquiries,” Rothley said, for he was a man who left nothing to chance. “After Miss Forbes’s death forty years ago, funding dried up, numbers dwindled. In the end, they were taking merchants’ daughters just to keep the doors open.”
Bentley frowned. “I only told you about Rosefield yesterday.”
Rothley gave an arrogant grin. “And I needed but an hour in the taproom at Burford to learn everything I could about the place. Bad news travels.”
They alighted.
Miss Woolf rested her fingers lightly on Rothley’s sleeve instead of accepting his proffered hand.
The minor slight had Rothley grumbling as the ladies walked ahead and mounted the seminary steps. “Anyone would think I have leprosy.”
Bentley bit back a smile. “Perhaps she finds you too intense.”
“Intense? I’m not the one who writes grim poems about liars.” His mouth curved, though there was no humour in it. “Some of us have endured enough of them to last a lifetime.”
Bentley snorted. “We’re in Cheltenham to catch a murderer, not to delve into Miss Woolf’s psyche.”
“You should be grateful I came,” Rothley replied. “If nothing else, I’m here to keep your mind on the case, not Miss Dalton’s bed.”
Bentley cast him a warning look but didn’t suggest it was too late. He was already working out ways to outwit his friend tonight. A near-impossible feat given that Rothley was probably the most astute man in all of Christendom.
At the door, Clara lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it fall twice. The sound echoed through the hall beyond, but no one came. She tried again, the hollow thud swallowed by the stone walls.
Rothley stepped forward with a huff of impatience and seized the knocker. The door shuddered beneath the force of his rap, the sound loud enough to rouse the dead.
