Page 81 of A Devil in Silk
“Some people find the strength to steer through their troubles,” she said, knowing she was not that strong. “Others find themselves adrift. There’s no right or wrong. How can there be when we’re all on different journeys?”
The words sounded wise, though part of her was stranded in that moment when the crop struck her face. Part of her still grieved the loss of that vivacious woman.
He brushed an errant lock of hair from her brow. “Last night was everything I knew it would be. I’m not the same man I was yesterday. You rouse a determination in me that?—”
A loud knock echoed through the house, sharp and jarring against the hush of the nursery. They froze, the fragile intimacy between them splintering.
Bentley’s grip on her hand tightened. “I’ll wager that’s Mercer come to haul one of us to gaol, or Daventry with the clue we need to end this fiasco.”
Another possibility crept into her mind. “It could be my brother. We can expect him any day now.” To end the illusion. To make them face stark realities.
Before either could move, a woman’s elegant voice rang through the hallway. “Lay another place at the breakfast table, Hockton, and summon my son.”
“Saints have mercy,” Bentley said between gritted teeth. “It’s my mother.” He turned to her, cupping her cheek, panic flashing in his eyes. “Stay here. I’ll inform her I have a ten o’clock appointment and see her out. Hockton will be discreet.”
“There’s no need. I’ll leave through the servants’ entrance.”
The names people whispered behind her back were cruel enough. If Lady Rutland discovered her here, she wouldn’t just be the scarred woman suspected of murder. She would be the scarred harlot who’d spent the night in a viscount’s bed.
“Like hell you will,” he said, resolute. “I’ll send her away. Then we must have a frank discussion, Clara.”
The nursery door burst open before she could reply.
Lady Rutland stood framed in the doorway, a picture of elegance, though her white-knuckled grip on the handle betrayed the storm brewing in her eyes.
“Bentley? For shame!” Her voice cracked as she caught sight of their dishabille. “You would conduct your liaisons here, in the nursery, of all places? You would dishonour this room and the sacred memories it holds?”
Clara felt the matron’s disapproval. The walls seemed to close in, the space shrinking until Bentley’s hand settled on the small of her back, reminding her she wasn’t alone.
“We will discuss this downstairs. You’re welcome to stay for breakfast, Mother, provided you have nothing but kind things to say.”
“Discuss it?” Lady Rutland’s gaze flicked from the crib to Clara’s eye patch. “You fools. Have you not suffered enough without inviting the devil to your door? Have you no decency? Have you truly fallen so low?”
“Be careful, Mother,” came his razor-sharp warning.
Clara shifted beside him. “Perhaps I should go?—”
“You’re a guest inmyhome,” he interjected. “I invited you here. You won’t be the one to leave.”
Lady Rutland looked aghast. “What about Sarah? The poor girl has spent her entire life devoted to you and the pact you made. She’s earned her place at your side.”
“The pact you made,” he countered. “I’m not in love with Sarah.”
“Love?” A bitter laugh escaped her. “If life were about love, we’d all be doomed. I ignored every warning and paid the price.” Her gaze flicked to Clara’s marred eye. “That mark. Tell me you’re not foolish enough to believe it was an accident?”
“Forgive me, my lady, but you weren’t there the night I was injured.” Clara fought to suppress her anger, anger at her father, at this woman’s cold judgement, at how easily her pain was dismissed. “You have no right to make assumptions.”
But the matron did not waver. “Assumptions? Do you think chance brought you here, Miss Dalton? I assure you, it’s the devil’s doing.”
“That’s enough, Mother!” Bentley’s words cracked like musket fire, sharp with a fury Clara had never heard from him before. “Grief has broken you. You’ve always been stubborn, but never cruel.”
Clara refused to let the quarrel spiral further. Steeling herself, she reached up and loosened the ribbon at her temple. The velvet patch fell away, exposing the scar she usually kept hidden.
“This is not the work of the devil, but of a man struggling with grief.” Her anger faltered, softened by a wave of sympathy. “We’ve all suffered, my lady. But compassion and kindness are the weapons of the brave.”
The frustration in Lady Rutland’s face eased as she looked at the scar slicing Clara’s brow. Tears welled. “My dear girl. You have borne a grave injustice. I’m only thankful your mother was spared the guilt. Thankful she never lost a child.”
The comment caught Clara by surprise.
