Page 95 of A Devil in Silk
Before he replied, a maid entered bearing the tea tray and set it upon the low table.
As he watched her fuss with the cups, he realised they had forgotten to ask an important question. “Perhaps you can help us. Have you ever heard talk of Miss Forbes’ curse?”
The maid’s hands faltered on the tray. “Only whispers, my lord. They say she swore vengeance on the girls in her dormitory.”
“And the tutor?” Bentley pressed. “Do you remember his name?”
She thought for a moment, eyes lowering. “It was years past, but some here still speak of him. Mr Fletcher, I think. Best you ask the matron. She would know.”
Clara sat forward. “What else do they say? If we’re to help rid this place of bad omens, we must know what truly happened.”
The maid poured the tea, spilling some on the chipped china saucer. “Old scandals linger. Some still like to gossip.”
“About Mr Fletcher?”
“About the girls in the dorm, my lady.”
Clara didn’t correct her and claim she was Bentley’s mistress and lover, not his wife. And might never be, if she sought an exciting life chasing criminals. “You mean Agnes, Mimi and?—”
“Vivienne,” Bentley added, his mother’s name sour on his tongue.
“They say he was friendly with all the girls in the dorm.”
Cold prickled down Bentley’s spine. He stared at the maid. “All of them?” Even his mother? Did it explain her obsession with the curse? Was she culpable?
The maid nodded. “He was young and handsome, by all accounts. Jealousy—that’s what caused the trouble.” Her eyes darted nervously toward the door, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Though I hear he planned to elope with Agnes. Got as far as buying tickets for the stage.”
Bentley stilled, his pulse hammering in his ears. Agnes. Clara’s mother. Miss Nightshade’s words came rushing back with chilling clarity.
Agnes died with stained hands. Stained by silence, not blood. That’s why someone killed her.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Dog and Duck
Burford, Oxfordshire
Clara lay awake in the narrow bed, Olivia’s steady breathing the only sound in the darkness. Yet her mother’s name rang in her ears, a refrain she could not silence. It was as if a buried secret had clawed its way to the surface, bringing the dreadful fear it had cost Agnes her life.
She turned her head towards the crack beneath the door, willing the promised scrap of paper to appear. The waiting was its own kind of agony. What if Bentley failed to deliver the note? Perhaps Lord Rothley slept with one eye open. Or was he in the taproom, emptying the innkeeper’s stock of brandy?
Bentley’s troubled look after their visit to the seminary suggested he might turn to the bottle, too. The gossip had shaken him, so much that he asked outright whether she wanted to join him tonight—as if her passion could falter as easily as his faith.
Surely her desire for him burned in every touch, every desperate kiss. His arms were her solace, and she needed the shelter of his embrace, now more than ever.
Yet she sensed something had changed. Was it the frustration of having chaperones? Or the prospect of Daniel’s return and what awaited them in London? Were his doubts tied to her and?—
A faint sound stirred the silence. A slip of paper slid beneath the door. Every nerve jolted awake, though she fought the urge to fling back the coverlet.
She rose slowly, drawing her cloak around her shoulders as she crept across the boards. Her thoughts strayed to Bentley’s bare chest and hard body, sending a tremor of longing coursing through her.
The seal was a smear of wax, hastily pressed, but her pulse raced all the same. She broke it with a nail, devouring the hurried scrawl by the light of the dying embers.
Come to the Gabled Chamber at the end of the corridor.
I’ll be waiting.
—B
