Page 38 of A Devil in Silk
Chapter Eight
Bedford Square, Mayfair
Two days later.
The toast had gone cold. So had the tea.
Clara sat at the breakfast table, morning light filtering through the window and glinting off the silver spoon in her untouched marmalade. But her thoughts were far from food.
All she could think about was the kiss.
It lasted mere seconds yet shattered her defences, leaving behind the deep pulse of desire and the shock of feeling truly alive. No moment in her life had ever compared to the one she’d shared with Viscount Rutland on the parapet of the Abbey tower. It wasn’t just his hot mouth on hers or the press of his hard body, but the way he made her feel. Desired. Wanted. As if she were the only woman he craved.
Damn the rakish devil.
He was intent on ruining everything.
She wouldn’t be in this predicament if it weren’t for him. Nor would she have ticked two activities off her list. Maybe threenow, since she had never kissed a man, let alone with such reckless abandon.
A sudden wave of heat had her fanning herself with the napkin.
Thankfully, she’d managed to avoid him yesterday, citing a megrim, though in truth she couldn’t face him. Not until she’d silenced every wanton thought rattling about in her head.
Her gaze fell on the kippers, congealing unpleasantly on their plate.
Kippers. That’s what she’d think about next time she saw him. Rotten kippers. Bones and all.
She stirred her cold tea and tried to focus on the investigation.
She had returned alone to Westminster, hoping to coax more answers from Mrs Morven. The woman had plonked her in a red chair and proceeded to sing a mournful aria to her parrots.
When it ended, Clara offered a rapturous applause.
Her reward? One morsel of information: Mr Scarth had been off his food for days, barely touching anything the night of the seance.
Was he afraid he might be poisoned?
Her visit to the coroner confirmed poison was the cause of death. Aconitine. Soluble in alcohol. Deadly even in the smallest dose. One mouthful, and the heart could seize in seconds.
Clara pushed the tea away.
All the villain had to do was poison her, too, leave a fake note confessing to murder, and the case would be closed. With half the Vine Street constables already convinced of her guilt, who would question it?
The creak of the dining room door captured Clara’s attention.
Signora Conti entered, glanced at the table, and let out a sharp sigh. “Madonna mia, you have not eaten a thing. You will waste away like a sickly sparrow.”
Clara offered a faint smile but said nothing. She daren’t mention her sudden fear of poisoning because the housekeeper would have them on the first stage to Chippenham. Had she secretly summoned Daniel? Was her brother already charging towards London like the devil was at his heels?
Signora Conti narrowed her eyes. “Is it the food, or have thoughts of a handsome viscount stolen your appetite?”
Clara bristled. The woman was like an all-knowing seer. “What makes you think he has anything to do with it? I have more important things to consider, like keeping myself out of Newgate.”
Signora Conti merely raised a knowing brow, as if she’d seen the same flustered expression a hundred times before. “So you do not deny he is handsome? Even the scullery maid stares when he comes to dinner. She is usually so shy, she startles like a rabbit when you say her name.”
Handsomewas too plain a word for Bentley’s flawless features.
“Few men rival Lord Rutland.” Clara forced a smile. “There. Or would you like to wring another confession from my stubborn lips?”
