Page 60 of A Devil in Silk
As the tremors eased, Clara slumped against the seat, still panting. Bentley had stripped her bare, not just in body but in soul. The wonder she felt with him surpassed any adventure she could invent for her list. In his arms, she wasn’t the woman everyone feared or pitied. She was desired, cherished, and dangerously close to wanting more than a fleeting affair.
The carriage slowed, then stopped. Bentley shifted back onto his seat, his lips glistening in the dim light, and licked them as if savouring the taste of her.
“Saints in heaven!” His hand swept over the hard ridge straining against his trousers. “If we hadn’t reached our destination, you may have had more of me than you bargained for. This desire for you is unlike anything I’ve ever known.”
Her chest tightened. The confession stirred all the tender feelings she’d tried to brush aside, along with foolish dreams and wild fantasies, though the wildest of them had just come true.
“Where are we?” She lifted the edge of the blind. Lanterns flickered beyond the glass, their glow sliding over slick cobbles. The stench of the Thames foreshore coiled through the air, rank and sour. From somewhere in the dark came the slap of water against the wharf and the hollow creak of ropes straining against their moorings.
“Wapping Wall,” he murmured, his voice tempered now. “Tarrington’s warehouse is just ahead. I thought we might get drunk at The Prospect of Whitby tavern and break into Tarrington’s premises. Neither of us fear curses, and we might find a clue inside.”
Their erotic encounter had already left her half-sotted. The addition of wine or whisky might lead to another reckless interlude. And the thought of hunting for answers at midnight by the river stirred a different kind of thrill.
“There’s just one problem. What about your trousers?”
“The problem is settling down nicely, though hearing your bawdy banter might revive it in an instant.” His palm drifted over the front of his trousers, a wicked glint in his eyes. “For a moment, I feared I might tear the seam.”
“I meant that I can’t exactly blend into a dockside tavern dressed like a lady of the opera. I need to change clothes.”
Bentley folded his arms across his chest. “Change here, and I’ll play ladies’ maid.”
Clara sighed but reached for the valise. “I can undress myself. Now close your eyes.”
He chuckled, shielding his gaze with fingers spread in a teasing V. When she tutted, he shifted his attention to the street outside, peering through a narrow gap in the blinds.
“I’m not sure that’s rain on the cobblestones. Some fellow just staggered out of an inn, dropped his trousers, and watered the wall.”
She rummaged in the valise. “Remind me not to grip the sole when I tug off my boots. You did bring footwear?”
“You’ll find a pair of maid’s half-boots in there somewhere,” he replied, distracted by the sudden shouts outside.
“More drunken louts fighting?”
“Not louts.” His tone sharpened. “The fellow has a silver-topped cane and a hat so tall he’s liable to spear a passing gull.Whoever he is, the drunkards are keeping their distance, except for a short fellow waving his fist.”
“Is it anyone you know?” Worse still, someone who might recognise her and go gossiping to the marquess at his club.
Bentley leaned closer to the window. “The tall man has grabbed him … shaking him like a rag doll. Ah, there goes the little one’s hat.”
Abandoning the valise, Clara joined him at the window. “Can you see who they are?”
Bentley jerked. “Wait. By God, I think it’s Tarrington. And that red-haired fellow from the seance. The one who wept every time Nightshade mentioned Bethany.”
“Mr Murray?” They needed to question him as a matter of urgency. He’d given the constable a false address and maybe even a false name.
“Tarrington is striding towards his carriage, and the fellow is chasing behind.”
“As agents, we should intervene.”
“Damn right we should. We need to know why they’re arguing here at this late hour.” He glanced at Clara, his gaze falling to her strewn stockings. “But you can hardly chase after him barefoot, and he’s about to leave. We’ll summon Tarrington to Daventry’s office in the morning. He can explain himself there.”
They turned back to the window to see Lord Tarrington whirl around, his fist flying in a brutal arc. Mr Murray stumbled back, crashed against a post, and slid boneless to the ground.
Clara gasped. “Good Lord!”
Lord Tarrington seized the man under the arms, bundled him into his waiting carriage and climbed inside. The driver cracked his whip, and the vehicle vanished into the dark depths of Wapping Wall.
Chapter Thirteen
