Page 14 of A Devil in Silk
Someone shrieked.
Clara saw nothing but the room’s reflection in the glass.
Miss Nightshade opened her eyes wide, but a dark menace lingered there. The older man seated beside Lord Rutland received the first warning to fall from her distorted lips.
“Anne says you refuse to believe because you know what you did with the … the …” Miss Nightshade turned to the middle-aged man on the sofa to the viscount’s left. “Sir, your mother says there’s a fine line between reform and rebellion. They’ll stretch your neck if they catch you.”
Lord Tarrington hurried to the stage, clearly concerned for her welfare. He was almost scared to touch the troubled medium. “Lavinia? Good heavens, Lavinia. Can you hear me? You must fight against those who seek to harm the living.”
“I—I cannot. They’re telling me things, horrid things I don’t want to hear.” The medium tried to rise from the chair, but an invisible force threw her back into the seat. “Nothing is forgotten. All your lies and your secrets travel with you beyond the grave.”
That’s when she told the viscount he was doomed to live a miserable existence. She jerked towards Clara and said, “Agnes died with stained hands. Stained by silence, not blood. That’s why someone killed her.”
A hush fell over the guests. Even the candles seemed to dim. Clara swallowed against the tightness in her throat, unsure whether the message was intended for her and how the medium had known her mother’s name was Agnes.
Lord Tarrington shook the medium by the shoulders and called, “For mercy’s sake, Silas, fetch Lavinia a drink!” The lord snatched the tulip glass off the trestle table and pressed the rim to Lavinia’s mouth. “I need more. She’s burning with a fever.”
Other guests stood, offering what little wine they had left, except for the red-haired fellow who had already drunk his.
“Everyone will pay the price,” Lavinia said as Lord Tarrington gripped her jaw and forced wine into her mouth. She raised a weak hand towards Clara. “A shadow clings to you, an ill wind that stirs the spirits. You must seek redemption before it’s too late.”
The ladies on Clara’s sofa began backing away from her. The red-haired man glared at her like she’d cast a spell that drowned poor Bethany.
A voice from the crowd rang out, sharp and accusing. “She’s the one who brought ruin into this room. The spirits have marked her!”
Viscount Rutland was beside her in seconds, pulling her closer as if shielding her from every accusing eye. “This is nothing but nonsense,” he said, voice steady despite the chaos. “That woman is no oracle, but a charlatan. This whole spectacle was a sham designed to part fools from their coin.”
The musky scent of the viscount’s cologne enveloped her, disarming and sadly comforting, yet it roused thoughts no well-bred lady should entertain. She coped better when he teased her or acted the confident peer. Not so well when he played the caring friend. Foolishly, she wondered how different things might have been if he were not a viscount and she bore no scars.
“Lavinia Nightshade is no charlatan,” the rosy-cheeked woman countered. “She once told me my brother had buried a chest full of guineas in the garden, and I found it the very next day.”
“You must all absolve yourselves of your sins,” Lavinia suddenly cried. “Cleansing the soul is the only way to gain redemption, or you will carry your guilt like a shroud into the next world.”
Then Miss Nightshade blinked rapidly, as if the candlelight had grown too bright. The faint twitch at the corner of her mouth was likely another ploy to frighten the crowd.
She gripped Lord Tarrington’s coat so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her skin lost its rosy hue as though her soul had vacated her body.
“Silas!” the lord yelled as the medium’s body stiffened and her eyes widened in alarm.
Miss Nightshade gasped, the sound sharp and shallow. “Help me!”
“Silas! For Pete’s sake, man, fetch a doctor.”
But it was too late to save Lavinia Nightshade. A shudder rolled through her, and she collapsed to the floor like a marionette with severed strings.
Chapter Four
“I’m sorry to ask, my lord, but I need you to empty your pockets,” Sergeant Brown said in a brisk voice. He was broad-shouldered, with a weathered face and the cool gaze of a man acquainted with murder. “I’m afraid I must ask the lady to do the same. If you’d prefer to wait and speak with the inspector, I can?—”
“We have nothing to hide,” Bentley said, annoyed the thrilling night he’d planned to share with Miss Dalton had ended in tragedy. “We wouldn’t want to impede your investigation.”
He glanced at the stage, where a red velvet blanket cloaked the body of the famed medium. Her pale hand, limp and lifeless, still dangled from beneath the shroud, its fingers curled as though grasping at secrets even in death. Perhaps Miss Nightshade had been right, and he was cursed to live a miserable life, misfortune his faithful companion.
He patted his coat, withdrawing a pair of gloves, a silk handkerchief, and a silver card case. Beside him, he heard Miss Dalton’s quiet intake of breath as she reached for her reticule. Itwas only a breath, yet it sharpened his awareness of her in ways it shouldn’t. Perhaps suggesting the outing was a mistake.
She deserved a night to forget her troubles, not one where every suspicious eye turned her way. He’d hoped to see her beam with excitement, not falter beneath the shadow of suspicion.
Near the stage, two men wiped tears from their cheeks. The red-haired fellow wept and sagged with relief when the constable declared him free to go. He was the only guest who had not offered the medium a sip of his wine.
