Page 62 of A Devil in Silk
Yet strangely, the notion of marrying Clara didn’t feel like a punishment. It was something he’d never dared imagine. She was too headstrong, too independent, too determined to hide from the world because she believed no man could love a woman with scars.
He’d always believed what burned between them was simple desire. But whatever bound him to Clara was not so easily defined.
“Show me the letter you received from my mother.” His voice carried the quiet authority of his station, not the wavering of a man at war with his feelings. “You have it in your reticule because you wouldn’t risk leaving it at home for Signora Conti to read.”
She tightened her grip on the beaded bag, confirming his suspicion. “It’s better I don’t. A fragile mind clutches at any hope of stability. Her thoughts are obviously clouded by grief and the terrible?—”
“Don’t do that. Don’t make excuses for her.”
She glanced out the window, noting they were still stationary. “We’ll be late for our appointment with Mr Daventry if we don’t leave now. And Gibbs is far from patient.”
Gibbs knew when a man needed a private moment and when he should focus on the job at hand. A sharp rap on the roof sent the carriage lurching into motion.
Bentley exhaled slowly as the vehicle picked up speed. “Let me guess what my mother wrote.” He kept his voice low, knowing the words would hurt her. “A blind girl belongs in the countryside.”
Clara flinched but gave a solemn nod.
“Except you’re not blind. And you’re certainly not a girl. You’re a capable woman, and braver than most men I know.”
That earned him a watery smile. “You see what others don’t.”
“My mother said I need a bride untarnished by scandal.”
“A woman embroiled in a murder case is not the kind of company you should keep.”
His temper flared, but he kept his composure. “Yet I love creating scandals with you.”
She gave an odd little laugh. “Somehow, we make even the darkest days a little brighter. But a man of your station should not?—”
“That’s for me to decide.” He noticed her shoulders relax slightly. “Any other pearls of wisdom my mother saw fit to share?”
“Only that if I was fond of you at all, I should remember that my brother might beat you bloody and toss you to the crows.”
Bentley gave a wry smile. “Threats are a poor substitute for reason.”
“Signora Conti said threats are the last refuge of the desperate.”
He pictured the wise housekeeper giving Clara a motherly hug. “Was it Signora Conti who advised you to keep your distance?”
“Oh no. She said I should fall onto your mouth as often as possible.”
He laughed. “Then it’s settled.”
“Settled?”
“Only a fool would argue with an Italian woman. And I have every intention of following her advice.”
Daventry was in excellent spirits. He lounged in a drawing room grand enough to rival any in Mayfair, a secret smile playing on his lips as he jotted notes into a leather portfolio. His gaze drifted to the black enamel box on the low table, its lid thrown open to reveal jewels and gold coins gleaming like captured sunlight.
“I assume you’ve read through Nightshade’s notebook.” Daventry raised his eyes to meet theirs. “Is there mention of those who attended the seance that night?”
Bentley felt a flicker of shame for his lack of attention, though he had studied the list while waiting for Clara outside the King’s Theatre. “None of the people at the seance are listed in the notebook.”
“Perhaps Miss Nightshade died before she could find a reason to blackmail the audience,” Clara said, taking a long sip of tea.
Daventry set aside the portfolio and lifted a pair of diamond earrings from the box, turning them in the light. “I imagine Nightshade would call it salvation, not blackmail. The cost of clearing one’s conscience. The price of entering the Kingdom of Heaven unblemished.”
“I doubt the murderer saw it that way,” Bentley said.
