Page 3 of A Devil in Silk
She didn’t doubt that for a second.
He could make a nun sit up and take notice.
“Dangerous paths are often the most tempting.” She knew that because her list of adventurous activities kept growing by the day. “But a harlequin speaks in riddles and dances in lies. I would be a fool to follow you.”
She stepped back, her intention to leave clear before she dropped into a curtsy. She didn’t bid him farewell, because Bentley Sommersby, sixth Viscount Rutland, could make ‘good night’ sound like a prelude to something sinful.
Clara headed for the French doors before King Henry returned with two flutes of champagne. This was meant to be an evening of revelry, not one spent avoiding the only guests who’d dared to approach her.
The viscount was right. Outside, the gentle breeze offered a welcome reprieve. Clara paused on the terrace, her hands curling around the stone balustrade as she took in the garden below, strung with a festoon of pretty lights.
Perhaps she should return to The Grange, the country house her brother had bought when all she’d wanted was to disappear. Running away was easier than facing the world. But the desire to live pulsed in her veins like a second heartbeat. It whispered to her in these quiet moments, urging her to reclaim the life fear had stolen.
Why should she bear the punishment for her father’s crime?
Since when did a Dalton shy away from a challenge?
Who wanted a life of obscurity anyway?
Clara reached inside her bodice and retrieved the folded list, the edges crinkled from the countless times she’d read it in secret. A soft chuckle escaped her as she skimmed the page.
“Ride in Mr Green’s air balloon,” she whispered, the thought sending a thrill shooting down her spine as she weighed the risk. “Race in a curricle. Attend a seance.”
Each task was a rebellion. A testament that a person was defined by the strength in their heart, not the hardships they endured.
She inhaled the cool night air, the taste of freedom already sweet on her lips. The only question now was: Which adventure should she tackle first?
Perhaps a night spent alone with an Egyptian sarcophagus at the British Museum, though some whispered of a cursed priestess whose spirit still wept within the gilded coffin.
As if the priestess herself had reached through time to deter her, a sudden gust of wind snatched the list from her grasp and sent it fluttering into the night. She turned to chase the paper, but it danced across the terrace to taunt her, until a figure stepped from the shadows and caught the wayward note in his hand.
It was the harlequin—the viscount—the mischief maker and a man of many masks. “I do hope you weren’t too attached to this,” he said, his tone light as he held the list just out of her reach. “It’s a case of finders keepers, I’m afraid.”
“Give me back my letter,” she said, sharper than she’d intended. “The harlequin is meant to offer light relief, not steal a lady’s private correspondence.”
The viscount brought the paper to his nose and inhaled deeply. “It smells of wildflowers in the height of summer. The scent is unique,Contessa. A scent I would know anywhere.”
Clara’s heart skipped a beat. He spoke like he knew who she was. “Then you must know my aunt,” she said, naming animagined relative. “She often sprays her letters with a blend of lavender and rosemary.”
“No.” He shook his head. “This has the distinct smell of a woman who craves adventure. A woman who means to ignore every rule, every boundary.”
Sweet Mary! He did recognise her.
“Either way, it is not yours to keep,” she said, her voice tight with the tension she struggled to contain. He really was the most annoying devil.
His grin widened, the playful gleam in his eyes impossible to miss. “Yes, but now I’m plagued with a burning curiosity. What does your fictitious aunt have to say that’s so important?”
Panic flared. “Nothing that concerns you.” She tried to snatch the paper, but he held it higher. “Besides, aren’t harlequins supposed to be mute?”
“And I shall be when I find somewhere quiet to study it in detail.”
Before she could kick him in the shin and wrest it from his grasp, the viscount descended the steps and strode into the garden.
“Come back here,” she said through gritted teeth. When he failed to respond, she chased after him in hot pursuit. Trust a harlequin to turn theft into a theatrical act.
She found him waiting beside a carved oak bench, turning the list lazily between his elegant fingers, as if it were nothing more than a handbill for a play he’d seen a thousand times.
“What game are you playing, my lord?”
