Page 103 of A Devil in Silk
“No, no.” Signora Conti wagged a disapproving finger. “You must wait for Mr Dalton to return. He will be furious if he comes home to find you gone.”
Clara straightened. “I’m not a child, signora. We need answers, and Mr Scarth might be the key to solving this entire mystery.”
Bentley offered the housekeeper every reassurance. “I’ll keep her safe. I give you my word. I’ll protect her with my life.”
Signora Conti seemed unconvinced. “Pah. Promises from men in love. You think yourselves invincible until the crack of pistol fire.”
Clara snatched her pelisse from the stand, pressed a kiss to the woman’s cheek, and said gently, “Tell Elsa we’ve gone to Westminster.” With quiet resolve, she ushered Bentley out the door.
“Your brother will likely call me out for not waiting,” he said once they were settled in his carriage. “To survive two duels in two days would be quite the feat.”
“Since when have we ever done what we’re told?”
An odd shiver of foreboding ran through him, enough for him to firm his tone. “Silas Scarth might seem like a calm, spiritual fellow, but don’t be fooled. There’s every chance he’s the killer.”
Her lip trembled, but her tone turned playful. “Are you suggesting we’re riding into danger, my lord?”
“I suppose that would feed your excitable spirit.” God, he lived for this. Her teasing banter. The wicked glint in her eye. The heady thrum of passion in the air.
Her gaze slid over him, deliberate as a caress. “It isn’t danger that feeds me, Bentley. It’s you. The way your breath quickens, the pulse I can almost hear, the heat that builds between us. How exquisite it feels when you move inside me. That’s what intoxicates me.”
“And tonight you’ll have every intoxicating inch.” Carnal need laced his voice. His abdominal muscles tightened with anticipation. “I’ll find a way to get you alone, no matter the cost.”
“We could meet in my garden once everyone’s asleep.”
This woman would be the death of him. But he’d ask her to marry him while stripped bare beneath the moonlight. It seemed the most fitting place for his temptress, his salvation, the woman who’d stolen his sanity.
But he forced his focus back to the matter at hand. “We’ll make plans for our midnight adventure on our return from Westminster. Until then, let’s keep our minds on the case. Our lives, our future, depend on catching a killer.” And by God, he prayed the end was in sight.
Chapter Twenty-Three
There was no sign of Mr Scarth on Dartmoor Street. He wasn’t loitering in a darkened doorway, watching Mrs Morven’s terrace house, nor crouched amid the rubbish in the narrow alley behind. The gate to her yard was locked, the stillness suggesting she had already chased him off with her broom.
Clara released her grip on Bentley’s arm, though she couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding creeping like cold fingers over her skin. The sun lingered above the rooftops, gilding the brickwork, but the air felt heavy, charged with menace.
“We should take Mrs Morven’s statement while we’re here.” She scanned the quiet street, deciding she’d sooner hear the parrots’ shrill squawks than risk the killer pouncing from the shadows. “It would be helpful to know what Mr Scarth was looking for.”
“I agree.” Bentley’s voice bore the mark of frustration. “At this rate, we’ll never solve this damn case. Instead of being lured by a seance, I should have bought tickets to the Arabian night at the amphitheatre and let you ride a camel. At least then we’d have known the nature of the beast.”
“Fate had you purchase tickets to see Miss Nightshade instead. Despite our troubles, I wouldn’t change a thing.”
Perhaps one thing. At The Lantern Ring, she would fall into his arms, dance beneath the soft, sensual glow, taste sherry on his lips.
His eyes warmed. “Nor would I. Being with you is a gift beyond measure. But we’ll have no peace until this is over, until you’re safe.”
The image of lanterns and laughter faded as unease returned. What if the curse was real? What if their lives were doomed, forever marred by tragedy?
Desperate for answers, she asked, “Why would Mr Scarth come back here?” The question nagged at her. Had he left a damning clue behind? “We checked his belongings and found nothing incriminating.”
“Perhaps Mrs Morven stole something of his.” Bentley scanned the dull facade of the retired soprano’s house. “Or perhaps he came to kidnap the parrots and spare them her torturous singing.”
A sick feeling coiled in Clara’s stomach. “But what if he’s inside? We assume she drove him off, but what if he returned to silence her? She can testify to what he wrote in the notebook he hid under the mattress.”
The puzzle turned endlessly in her mind, but the pieces refused to fit. Was Mr Scarth the intruder at Rosefield? And if so, what was he searching for there?
“We should knock.” Bentley gave her no chance to protest. He strode to the door, raised the iron knocker, and released it with measured force.
They waited.
