Page 7 of A Devil in Silk
“You’ll be happy, Bentley. I’m certain of it. Marrying Sarah will bring light into our lives again after so many years overshadowed by sorrow. It will bring an end to the needless suffering.”
How could he disappoint the mother he loved?
How could he deny her this last chance of happiness?
He couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried.
So he lived in the hope Miss Woodall would see reason. Because the only alternative was breaking the heart of a woman who’d suffered enough. More than that, he feared one more disappointment would destroy her spirit for good.
The hall clock suddenly chimed the quarter hour, its sharp notes like a summons to escape. Freedom lay beyond these prison walls. For the next fourteen days, he would chase every fleeting pleasure, cling to every stolen moment like it was his last, and do anything to forget his future was bleak.
He stood but refrained from asking his mother if she needed anything before he left for the evening. “I have a prior engagement. I’ll stay at home in Bruton Street tonight.”
While he would prefer to stay in Bruton Street every night, her bouts of melancholy worsened when she was left alone for too long.
He saw the quiet panic flicker across her face. “Are you meeting your friends at the club?” she asked, her tone casual though her eyes betrayed the worry she couldn’t hide.
“Yes, Gentry is home from his honeymoon,” he lied, knowing that if he mentioned Lavinia Nightshade, his mother would pace the floor until his return, hoping for proof of the afterlife. “But he’s back at the practice tomorrow.”
Believing all doctors were incompetent, she tutted. “I’ve always liked Mr Gentry, but it was lax of him to leave London. His patients must have been beside themselves with worry.”
“They were left in Dr Harper’s capable care.”
For the next five minutes, Vivienne Sommersby recounted the grave mistake made by the doctor who had misdiagnosed measles as hives, an error that had led to disaster. One he could recite verbatim.
He rounded the table and kissed his mother gently on the temple. A stab of guilt almost made him pull out a chair and ask for dessert, longing to see the whisper of a smile grace her lips.
Be selfish for once.
Time for frivolity is in short supply.
Indeed, he was dying himself inside. A slow decline that would likely last a decade. And he was tired of playing the dutiful son.
“I’ll visit in the morning, and we can enjoy breakfast together.”
Her eyes widened. “I could ask Sarah to join us. She adores Mrs Redley’s baked eggs and truffle cream.”
“If it pleases you.” He doubted Miss Woodall would come. “Though she usually requires a few days’ notice to make space in her diary.”
He kissed his mother’s forehead and left before she kept him at the dining table until midnight. He ran the half-mile to Bruton Street, guilt snapping at his heels but anticipation driving him harder.
Hockton, ever punctual and prepared, stood in the hall beside Bentley’s valet, who held out a new blue coat. “There’sa hackney waiting in the mews, my lord, ready to depart.” The butler sounded breathless, though he hadn’t sprinted through the streets or changed clothes in a corridor.
Bentley looked at the grand clock, cursing under his breath because he hated tardiness. Miss Dalton struck him as a woman who wouldn’t hesitate to turn a man away, no matter his title. Thankfully, he had the tickets for Lavinia Nightshade’s evening of ghostly charades.
He dressed in haste, not breathing properly again until the hackney rolled into Bedford Square twenty minutes later.
Miss Dalton appeared on the doorstep, the hood of her black cloak raised. Dressed in sombre colours fit for a seance, she glanced around the quiet square, then hurried to the waiting hackney.
Bentley opened the door but didn’t step down. The breach of etiquette made him feel like a wicked scoundrel embroiled in a clandestine affair.
“You’re late,” Miss Dalton said as she slipped into the seat beside him. “I feared you’d had second thoughts and forgotten to cancel.”
He almost smiled. Only Clara Dalton could turn a reprimand into something that made him feel oddly welcome.
Why would he cancel? He’d paid a king’s ransom for the tickets. And he never felt more alive than when trading barbs with her.
“And miss a chance to meet the famed medium?” he said, though he had no interest in Lavinia Nightshade. The woman squashed beside him made his heart thump faster, perhaps because she always challenged his opinion.
