Page 16 of A Devil in Silk
With calm, determined hands, she reached beneath the hem of her skirts, lifting the layers of silk and petticoat to reveal her slender calves, and slowly peeled off her stockings. First one, then the other, her fingers steady despite a crimson blush climbing her throat.
Bentley’s gut twisted. He should have looked away, spared her the indignity. Yet there was nothing meek or shamed in the way she moved, only defiance, and it undid him more than any blush could.
He kept his eyes on her face, though his peripheral vision betrayed him. Soft pale skin. The curve of her knee. A flash of pretty ribbons.
It was agony.
Pure torture.
Not for the reasons the sergeant might suspect, but because there was something in the way she held herself, defiant yet unashamed, that cracked him open. Something about her filled his chest with hope when he’d learned to expect none.
She let her skirts fall and extended the stockings to Sergeant Brown, silk trailing from her fingers. “Satisfied, Sergeant?”
Red about the ears, the sergeant nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Bentley said nothing. Could say nothing. He was too busy pretending his heart wasn’t lodged in his throat.
The sergeant turned back to Miss Dalton’s beaded reticule and reached inside. His brow furrowed as he withdrew a tiny silver hip flask, no larger than his palm. He held it up, glancing between them. “May I ask what this contains?”
“Sherry,” Miss Dalton said before slipping into her shoes. “I thought I might need something to calm my nerves. We were attending a seance. One never knows if a relative might make an appearance.”
He sniffed inside the flask, frowning.
Bentley snatched it from the sergeant’s hand and raised it to his lips, but the fellow caught his arm to stop him.
“My lord, that isn’t advisable.”
“Neither is casting suspicion on a woman whose only crime is being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, swigging a mouthful. The heat of the sherry struck his throat, sweet and unmistakable. “It’s not poison. It’s fortified wine.”
Taking the flask, Sergeant Brown sipped the sherry, then gave a curt nod before returning it to Miss Dalton. “Did you notice anything unusual tonight, my lord?”
Bentley arched a brow. “What, aside from a woman speaking to the dead and making wild claims about everyone present?” Or Miss Dalton trying to cram her folded stockings into her reticule, reminding him her legs were bare?
The sergeant’s serious expression didn’t falter. “Did anyone behave oddly? Leave the room? Seem nervous or agitated? Can either of you recall the last time you saw Mr Scarth?”
Miss Dalton pursed her lips before saying, “Yes, when he handed wine to Miss Nightshade moments after he lit the candles and lamps. I’ve not seen him since.”
“Tarrington shouted for Scarth a few times, but he never appeared,” Bentley added, remembering the sheer panic in Tarrington’s voice.
It was strange. Silas Scarth had struck him as the more perceptive of the pair. He had correctly mentioned Bentley’s father’s watch being buried with his brother Marcus. A fact known only to one other person.
“Is Mr Scarth missing?” Miss Dalton asked, a little startled.
“Missing or kidnapped by the rogue who killed Miss Nightshade.” Sergeant Brown took out his notebook and pencil and scribbled something on the tatty page. “Did you sense Mr Scarth was annoyed about something? I’m told he was heard arguing with someone upstairs before the performance.”
“No, I found him to be most pleasant.” She touched the brooch that had belonged to her mother. “And oddly wise, in a somewhat unusual way.”
“We were the last to arrive,” Bentley explained, suspecting his mother was still sitting at the dining table, slicing her veal while plotting how to hold him to a twenty-year oath. “Everyone was already in their seats.” Seats allocated based on their names, which doubtless made it easier for Miss Nightshade to remember her researched facts.
The sergeant glanced between them. “May I ask what prompted you to come here this evening? I hear the tickets cost ten pounds apiece.”
Miss Dalton gasped and shot Bentley a puzzled look. “You paid ten pounds a ticket? We could have seen a medium in Covent Garden for two shillings.”
“Lavinia Nightshade is considered the best.” And he’d wanted Clara Dalton to have a night to remember. Ever since seeing that dreaded scar and the milky white veil covering her blind eye, he’d thought about little else.
“But what prompted you to attend a seance?” Sergeant Brown pressed. “Most gentlemen would purchase tickets to Vauxhall or the theatre. Somewhere less … morbid.”
Miss Dalton answered, the slight tremble of her lips betraying her calm facade. “It was my idea. My prospects in town are rather limited.” She motioned to the feathered patch as if it were explanation enough. “I sought a little excitement before I return to the tranquillity of open skies and green pastures.”
