Page 21 of A Devil in Silk
Bentley froze and inwardly cursed. What the devil were they doing calling at his mother’s house? And when had Coleman developed a loose tongue? Weren’t all butlers trained in discretion?
“Ask the inspector to wait?—”
“You visited that gruesome place in Soho? At night?” His mother clasped a shaky hand to her string of pearls. “You mustn’t go there again. I know someone who contracted a tropical disease from touching one of Lord Tarrington’s stuffed spiders. Maybe that’s why you look so peaky this morning.”
“You cannot catch a disease from a dead arachnid, Mother.”
“You said you were going to your club.”
“There was a change of plan.”
The furrows on her brow deepened. She wouldn’t rest until she knew every intricate detail. He wasn’t surprised when she turned to the butler and said, “Show Inspector Mercer in, Coleman.”
Before Bentley could protest, Mercer entered as if he’d been lingering in the doorway. He bowed with easy respect, brushing a hand through his grey hair. “Inspector James Mercer, my lady. My lord. Forgive the intrusion at this early hour, but the matter is too urgent to delay.”
“What is this about, Inspector?” Bentley’s mother asked, her smile a touch warmer than politeness required as her gaze lingered on his broad frame.
Though age softened the sharp angles of youth, Mercer was handsome in a quietly distinguished way. The round spectacles perched on his nose lent him a scholarly air, belying his reputation for handling London’s most hardened criminals.
“It’s a private matter, my lady,” he said, his accent neither refined nor coarse, typical of the city’s clerks and constables. “A pressing matter best discussed with his lordship directly.”
“I assume you called at Bruton Street.” Bentley wondered if the visit was a blessing in disguise or if the shock would have his mother reaching for the laudanum. “You should have waited there and sent word with my footman.”
Inspector Mercer nodded in agreement. “That was my intention, but Lord Rothley felt the matter warranted your immediate attention and directed me here.”
Confused, he said, “What has this to do with the marquess?”
“He’s at the station-house in Vine Street.” Mercer glanced at the ladies seated at the table before subtly adding, “Supporting a friend who has been taken into custody. New evidence came to light when we searched the crime scene, but that’s a topic we can discuss at the station-house.”
While his mother gasped at the mention of a crime, Bentley’s blood ran cold. “You made an arrest this morning?”
He didn’t need to ask who they held in a cell. The sickening feeling rising in his stomach told him all he needed to know.
“Not an arrest, but we’ve detained a suspect for questioning.”
Bentley’s jaw tightened.
He recalled how the audience looked at Miss Dalton last night, like she had the morals of a pirate and the black heart of a woman versed in witchcraft. Had someone spoken out against her? Tarnishing her good name with lies and half-truths?
It was his fault Miss Dalton was in this predicament. Had he not purchased the ticket to see Miss Nightshade or convinced her she needed a companion, she would be tucked up safely in bed.
“Who is this criminal?” his mother asked with barely veiled desperation. “If my son witnessed a robbery at the emporium?—”
“I witnessed a murder, not a robbery.”
Unlike her dramatic mother, Sarah Woodall neither inhaled sharply nor jerked in her chair. “Probably a poor servant girl used as a prop in a degrading charade to appease Lord Tarrington’s peers. It’s disgusting what men will pay to enter these pitiful establishments when most of London can barely afford a meal.”
The thinly disguised insult hit its mark. His conscience refused to endure Miss Woodall’s mindless waffle a second longer.
“I do my part,” he countered, “funding better housing in the slums and providing alms to the poor in St Giles. Anyone can write a few letters, but where are the results, Miss Woodall? Did you protest outside the Spitalfields mills, or join the hundred or so gathered outside Whitehall for the march?”
“Bentley!” his mother exclaimed.
“What, Mother? Am I to be condemned because I paid to see Lavinia Nightshade perform at the emporium last night?”
“Lavinia Nightshade?” His mother’s mouth dropped open, her breath catching in her throat. “You went to a seance? Did you commune with the dead?” She sat forward, hope alive in her eyes. “Did you receive a message, a message from Marcus?”
She didn’t care to hear from her husband or other children, just the son whose memory she clung to like a lifeline in a storm.
