Page 10 of A Devil in Silk
A similar feeling rose in him too, though he suspected it had less to do with spirits and more to do with Miss Dalton. “Here’s to a change for the better.” Something to save him from a fate worse than death.
They stepped into the hall, painted a blood-red, the walls framed with dark panels and eerie black sconces. The smell of exotic incense wafted along the narrow corridor. Doubtless it carried a trace of opium to numb their senses and make the shadows seem alive.
“Stay with me at all times,” he whispered, unease unfurling in his chest. “Regardless of what Miss Nightshade or Tarrington say, we must remain together.”
She released his arm and lowered her hood. “Now you’re making me feel uneasy. Aren’t you renowned for being the voice of reason?”
“It pays to be cautious. And we’ll not be duped by charlatans.”
The murmur of voices drifted up from the open basement door. A man in black emerged from below, though Bentley had not heard his approaching footsteps. He was slender, with a shock of white hair, pale skin, and eagle-sharp eyes.
“Silas Scarth,” he announced, inclining his head. “I’m Miss Nightshade’s assistant. Welcome to The Arcane Emporium. I sense you’ve brought more than just your curiosity tonight.”
Yes, Bentley had brought a trunk full of doubt and a cartload of suspicion.
Scarth muttered, ‘Welcome, friends,’ to no one in particular, his gaze moving beyond their shoulders as if he’d received a silent reply.
Bentley’s fingers twitched at his side. Was the man performing? Or did he truly believe some ghostly guest had joined their number?
“Keep your outdoor apparel on, ma’am,” Scarth said quietly. “The air turns cold when the veil is lowered.” His dark eyes lingered on the Celtic clasp at Miss Dalton’s throat. “You wear your mother’s brooch tonight.”
Startled, Miss Dalton touched the metal. “Yes.”
Bentley tensed as Scarth’s gaze shifted to his waistcoat pocket. If the man was about to offer some trite observation, claiming the watch had belonged to his father, he’d be wrong.
Instead, Scarth shocked him by saying, “You carry a new timepiece. Your oldest brother is the custodian of your father’s watch.”
Heat coiled in Bentley’s stomach. His father had buried his watch with his firstborn son. “I purchased the full hunter only last week.”
“Some things never last, no matter how new.”
Bentley almost laughed. Even here, surrounded by candles and theatrics, he couldn’t escape his mother’s refrain. Before he could respond, Scarth stepped past him and slid the bolt home, the heavy click sealing them inside.
Bentley reached for the tickets in his pocket, but Scarth raised a reassuring hand. “No need. Miss Nightshade is expecting you.”
He gestured toward the basement door, but not before directing them to wash their hands in the porcelain bowl resting on a black-lacquered console table.
“If you’d be so kind. Clean hands ensure a clear channel.”
Miss Dalton cast Bentley a wary look, but neither questioned the request. The water was cool, faintly scented with lavender, and the ritual felt oddly ceremonial. If only it had the power to wash away oaths.
They descended into the soft glow of candlelight.
Below, the air carried a gentle chill and the rising wisps of smoke from hanging brass burners. The room looked more like a bordello than a seance parlour. Red velvet draped the walls like theatre curtains. Gilt-framed mirrors fractured the candlelight into ghostly glimmers. Black brocade sofas encircled a narrow stage, almost every seat taken, their occupants staring as though under a spell.
“It seems we’ll have to sit separately,” Miss Dalton whispered, sounding relieved not disappointed.
“No, we won’t.” Bentley was determined to have someone move seats to accommodate them, but Lord Tarrington appeared from the shadows to guide them into position.
Tarrington looked every inch the polished gentleman, his black hair swept back, his charcoal coat perfectly tailored. He wore a permanent smile as if a private joke lingered behind those oddly twisted lips.
“Miss Nightshade has marked the places,” Tarrington said, inclining his head before directing Miss Dalton to the sofa nearest the stage. “I’m afraid your positions have been chosen and cannot be changed.”
What nonsense was this? No doubt the medium had researched everyone who’d purchased a ticket. Perhaps she’d spent days planning how to frighten them out of their wits.
On the bright side, this was quickly becoming one of those strangely unique events they would remember in their dotage. And for some unknown reason, he wanted Miss Dalton to be impressed.
Tarrington didn’t address him, though they’d crossed paths at countless social events. The eccentric had once brought a stuffed python to a dinner party. Now, he merely gestured to the only seat left, directly opposite the small stage, where the sole prop was a heavy oak chair with solid wooden arms and a high back.
