Page 23 of A Devil in Silk
Her thoughts flashed to the moment the viscount said goodnight, the echo of romantic music still humming in her mind, the ache for something she could not define. He’d lingered at the door, a silent beat stretching between them. Something about the way he looked at her made her feel like a desirable woman, not someone who should jerk away in shame.
She would refuse to let him accompany her again.
It was a kindness she couldn’t afford to mistake for more.
There was a fine line between generosity and pity.
“Only at the seance?” the marquess queried. “It was three this morning when your housekeeper sent word confirming you were home.”
“Are you spying on me, my lord?”
“Yes. I promised your brother no harm would befall you while he was away in Chippenham.” He glanced Olivia’s way. “And I can be relied upon should any unexpected difficulty arise.”
“I know you’d move mountains to help a friend in need,” Clara said, catching the subtle way the marquess angled his body towards Olivia, wordlessly inviting her trust. “Why else would you be here?”
Lord Rothley’s protectiveness was steady, dependable. It lacked the dangerous pull she sometimes felt in Bentley’s company, a truth she scarcely dared admit.
“A trouble shared is a trouble halved,” he said. “And a man in my position can get results where common decency fails.”
“Good, then I pray you put an end to this farce,” Clara said. “Regardless of the evidence the inspector believes he has found, I did not murder Miss Nightshade.”
“I wouldn’t trust the constables to conduct a thorough investigation,” Olivia added, her tone edged with cynicism. “They accused me of leaving my door unlocked, though the splintered wood around the lock proved otherwise.”
The marquess leaned forward, his dark eyes sharpening, but the office door flew open before he could speak. The mood shifted at once. It wasn’t the inspector who strode in but a man whose quiet authority seemed to command the space without effort.
Mr Daventry, head of The Order—a select band of elite enquiry agents and a friend of the Marquess of Rothley—tossed his leather portfolio onto the desk and dropped into the inspector’s worn chair.
As no introduction was necessary, the handsome agent with dark, brooding looks said, “I spoke to the Home Secretary and had him assign me to the case. Tarrington is the obvious suspect, but he’s doing everything possible to deflect the blame.”
“And I suppose a woman with an eye patch made of crow feathers is the obvious choice of villain,” Clara added.
Mr Daventry’s expression softened. “The truth hides behind the most polished faces, Miss Dalton. It’s why people are quick to point at the unusual. But I wouldn’t be here if I thought you were guilty of murder.”
“Thank you,” Clara said, feeling somewhat reassured. “Inspector Mercer alluded to a document found at the crime scene, one that must surely incriminate me.”
“While we await his return, perhaps you can tell me exactly what happened last night.” He relaxed back and steepled his fingers. “Leave nothing out.”
“There’s not much to tell,” she said, though her mind betrayed her with images from The Lantern Ring: people dancing, the glint in the viscount’s eyes as he drank from the flask where her mouth had been moments before. “We went to a seance, and the medium died on stage.”
“Do you believe Miss Nightshade communed with spirits?”
Clara hesitated. “She certainly seemed to know things. Trivial things about the lives of people in the audience.”
Lord Rothley gave a short laugh while casting a covert glance at Olivia. “It’s surprising what one can learn simply by speaking to a person’s neighbours.”
Olivia looked at the marquess with mild interest. “Perhaps Miss Nightshade spent years perfecting her craft. Reading people can reveal a great deal. Wounded men, for example, often prefer to speak plainly rather than risk being deceived again.”
The marquess shifted in his seat.
“Wounded men make excellent enquiry agents,” Mr Daventry said. “They see what others miss. And when they give their heart, they guard it fiercely. For the right woman, they’d walk through fire.”
Clara looked down at her hands folded in her lap. It was a beautiful sentiment, but one she feared was not meant for her. That kind of devotion belonged to other women, women untouched by scandal and unmarred by scars.
Before Clara could dwell on it further, the door opened sharply and Inspector Mercer strode into the office, Lord Rutland close behind with a look that could shatter stone.
The inspector’s coat was creased from travel, his expression carefully neutral. “Daventry,” he said with a courteous nod, “a word outside, if I may.”
Mr Daventry rose. “By all means.”
