by Adele Clee
“At the risk of sounding patronising, they are entirely different needs.”
Daphne moved to the side table and pulled the stopper from the decanter. As soon as he heard the clink of crystal, he would know her fingers trembled. “I understand passion, Mr Thorpe.” It was a lie. She knew kindness and consideration, but not the burning force that was said to be all-consuming.
Thorpe snorted. “To use the word passion suggests you don’t understand at all. A man feels nothing when he pays for services rendered. Satisfaction is but a fleeting moment.”
“Forgive the error. Lust would have been a more appropriate term.” The blood rushed to her cheeks. Heavens, this would not do. “Even so, as your colleague it is not for me to pry into your personal affairs.”
Glass in hand, Daphne crossed the room and offered him the drink. He gripped the vessel awkwardly around the rim to avoid touching her fingers. Never in all their previous meetings had she noticed the marks on his hand. One raised white line ran from thumb to wrist. A patch of pink almost silvery skin covered one knuckle. They were the hands of a man who’d fought for his position. Was his body littered with similar scars? Was his hollow heart battered and bruised, too?
Thorpe cleared his throat. “As your colleague, I have nothing to hide. If I’m to help give perspective on your case, it is important we understand one another.”
It took all the willpower she possessed not to laugh. The man was a mystery. Opaque. Completely unreadable. Scholars skilled in cracking codes would struggle to decipher his intention.
Daphne gestured to the chair once again. “Then let us sit and get to the matter at hand.”
Only once they’d taken their seats did the size of the room feel inadequate. With barely a few inches between their knees, Daphne focused on his face and the silly beard that hid the sculptured jaw she found far more appealing.
Thorpe swallowed a mouthful of brandy. “Are you moving house?”
Daphne followed his gaze around the room. “Why do you say that?”
“You love to read I recall, yet the shelves are bare. You adore the countryside and yet dusty paintings of fruit hang on the walls. Nothing in this room fits with what I know of your character. Everything is dated, dull and uninspiring.”
Like a naive debutante responding to her first compliment, Daphne’s heart fluttered. Did he think her intelligent and interesting then? “How astute of you. I’m sure if you delve deeper you will find the answer you seek.”
Thorpe inclined his head at the challenge. “When considered in context to what I know of our profession, I’d say you never remain in the same place for long.”
“This is my current abode, not my home. As I’m sure you’re aware, I must be ready to leave at short notice. Personal possessions can be a hindrance. Everything I hold dear fits into a reticule.” Daphne assessed his stern expression. Only a satisfied sigh revealed the true nature of his thoughts. “Am I to assume you approve of my logical approach to work?”
“Regardless of your approach, I have never approved of your work,” Thorpe replied bluntly, his eyes as cold and lifeless as the ash in the grate. “But when one understands the dangers, as you obviously do, one can avoid any mishaps.”
It was Daphne’s turn to sigh. Despite taking numerous precautions over the years, her quarry always found her. The stranger never approached her directly, never sent threatening letters or hid in dark doorways waiting to pounce. Even so, she knew the moment he’d entered her house. The faceless creature touched nothing, took nothing. Like a ghost, he breezed in and out without a trace though his ominous energy lingered.
“What happened to Madame Fontaine’s window?” Thorpe’s voice drew her attention.
“Someone threw a stone and smashed the glass.”
Thorpe shuffled in the chair. “Someone?”
“We were in our beds and woke to the sound of it shattering.” Whilst in a dreamlike state, Daphne had thought it was thunder.
“What time was this?”
“Around six o’clock. The costermongers were passing through with their barrows, and the milkmaid was delivering to a house in the street. A penny each bought a description of the culprit. The man was tall, lithe, staggered along the pavement mumbling to himself.”
“And his clothes?”
“Clean. Neat. Those of a gentleman.”
“And what conclusion did you draw?” Thorpe swallowed a mouthful of brandy, his beady gaze watching her intently over the rim of the glass. Possessing the power to unnerve with a single look, the man should have donned a wig and taken the bench. “Do you believe it a drunken prank?”
“I rather hope so. But you would be surprised what secrets ladies tell their modiste. As you know, information from Madame Fontaine assisted me in our last case. But disclosing personal information can be dangerous.”
“That does not answer the question.”
Daphne shrugged. “The truth is I have no idea. It could have been a drunken prank. It could have been someone with a grudge. Madame Fontaine is making a gown for an important client and has until tomorrow to finish it. Consequently, I have not had an opportunity to question her fully on the matter.”
“But you do not think it is the same person who broke into Madame Fontaine’s shop earlier this week?”
Thorpe was speaking of the theft, not of the mysterious shadow-of-a-man who followed Daphne from place to place.
“Logic would suggest they are different men,” she said. The thought of three unidentified gentlemen with revenge in their hearts proved unsettling. “The thief entered the shop at night under a blanket of darkness. He stole two of Madame Fontaine’s gowns, slippers and gloves to match. The gentleman who smashed the window did so in front of witnesses. Such erratic behaviour suggests anger, resentment, an irrational person.”
Thorpe straightened. His broad, impressive shoulders filled her line of vision. A lady would have nothing to fear in his company. Wrapped in his arms, one would fall into a deep and peaceful slumber.
“Tell me about your last case.” Thorpe’s business-like tone shook Daphne from her fanciful musings. “The one prior to the work we did for Lord Harwood and Mrs Dempsey.”
“What, you think a previous client is responsible for the incidents that have occurred here this week?” Daphne had considered the possibility. In their line of work, one expected a level of animosity.
“Perhaps.”
“While I am happy to disclose information, for obvious reasons I shall be vague.” Clients insisted on anonymity. If she broke a trust or confidence, she’d never work again. “My client hired me to gather written proof of her husband's infidelity, proof he kept a mistress in town. The lady—”
“I want names and places,” Thorpe interjected.
Others did his bidding without question. Out of loyalty. Out of fear. She was not so easily intimidated.
“You know I cannot divulge the name of my client.” Daphne stared into his dark eyes, determined to remain resolute. In the warm glow of candlelight, the faint amber flecks accentuated his wild, feral appeal.
Thorpe stood abruptly. The sudden movement caused Daphne’s heart to shoot up to her throat. “Then there is little point me being here.” He stomped over to the side table and placed his glass on the tray. “I’m not in the habit of investigating ghosts.”
Ghosts!
Did Mr Thorpe possess the ability to read her mind?
“Why … why do you say that?” Daphne rose slowly from the chair. “Do you know something? Is that the real reason you watch the house?”
The deep frown marring his brow answered her questions. Confusion and then suspicion flashed in his eyes. “There is something you’re not telling me.” With a sense of urgency he scanned her from head to toe. His assessing gaze moved past her shoulder and swept the room once again. “Despite your efforts to hide it, you’re frightened.”
Daphne sucked in a breath. “As you’ve said many times before, though I work in a man’s world I am still a
woman.” His gaze dropped briefly to her breasts swaddled in the thick pelisse, and for a moment she struggled to breathe. “What is the point of pretending I have your strength and hardened heart? Yes, I’m frightened, Mr Thorpe. Is that what you want to hear?”
Thorpe stepped closer, his menacing aura replaced by something else though she knew not what. “Then trust me. Let me help you. Together we will discover who stole Madame Fontaine’s clothes, who smashed her window.”
Would he find the man who haunted her, too?
Though loath to admit it, she needed him. Recent events had left her mind muddled.
“But you must be honest with me,” Thorpe continued. “If I’m to help find the thief, I need to build a full picture of your life. I need names, details of previous cases.”
Daphne shook her head. “Would you divulge personal information if I asked about your work?”
“Colleagues may share notes. Equally, if you hire my services, I guarantee utmost discretion.”
“Hire your services?” Daphne smiled. “And remind me of your fee, Mr Thorpe.”
“What I want money cannot buy, Mrs Chambers. All I ask is that you trust me with the truth.”
The cryptic comment intrigued her. Thorpe didn’t strike her as a man who craved material possessions. So what was he searching for? How did he define happiness when he appeared detached from all emotion?
A vision of him sitting alone in a dark room, his brooding gaze focused on the dying embers in the hearth, flashed into her mind. The life of an enquiry agent was often lonely, one fraught with mistrust and suspicion. No one would blame him for having a cynical view of life. But that was not the reason he wore an impenetrable suit of armour.
“If the truth is the price I’m to pay for your expert opinion, then so be it.” Daphne resisted the urge to place her palm on his chest. Would she feel his heart beating beneath the shield of steel? Or was it buried so deep not even he knew it was there? “But you must allow me to invite you to dinner by way of thanks. I am considered quite a good cook, and from the breadth of your chest and shoulders I imagine you have a healthy appetite.”
For a fleeting moment his eyes brightened, but he blinked and it was gone. “I have yet to meet a servant who's happy to share her chores with her mistress.”
“And you certainly won’t meet one here. I have no use for a maid or housekeeper.”
“Are you telling me you live here alone?” The hard edge to his tone spoke of disapproval.
“Not entirely alone. Betsy occupies the rooms downstairs.”
Thorpe stared at her, his expression unreadable. “A lady should not be without an attendant.”
“In the same way it is objectionable for a lady to work?”
“Indeed.” Thorpe muttered something, the words incoherent. “Thomas would never have permitted you to wander the streets at night without a chaperone.”
The mere mention of her husband brought a host of memories flooding back. Was the ghost haunting her the same man who’d killed Thomas and discarded his body in the Thames?
“Thomas is dead, Mr Thorpe. As his oldest friend, I would expect you to share his concerns, but there is little point dwelling on the way things should be. I am a widow without means and must make my own choices.”
“The man I know would not have left you in such a financial predicament.”
Daphne raised her chin. “Some things are unavoidable. But you’re right, he would be livid to learn I work for a living.” Now was not the time to reminisce. “And regarding the matter of servants, is it not a rule of business never to form emotional attachments?” Caring for other people was considered a weakness. “A servant or paid companion would be an easy target for a man with a mind for revenge.”
Thorpe’s cheek twitched. “Unless one’s companion is Bostock.”
“Regardless of what others perceive, Mr Bostock is your friend and associate, not your servant.” Even so, she imagined Bostock’s hulking frame and meaty fists proved useful when dealing with scoundrels. “And yes, I would sleep easier in my bed knowing so capable a man was but a few feet away.”
“I can arrange for Bostock to accompany you on your outings, to keep guard at your door, though I must advise against taking another case until we have confirmed that the incidents regarding Madame Fontaine bear no real threat.”
“Surely Mr Bostock has more important things to do.” Taking a new case was the last thing on her mind. Renting new rooms was her priority — and ensuring no one wished Betsy any harm.
Thorpe took a step closer. “Nothing is as important as your safety.”
The hint of sincerity in his tone stole her breath. Did he care? Or did he feel duty bound to protect his friend’s widow?
“And so I shall return mid-morning,” he continued. “In the meantime, you should prepare Madame Fontaine for questioning.”
“Prepare her?” Daphne snorted. “Is it to be an inquisition? Should I ready a potion that loosens the tongue?”
“As you know, I am not a man to mince words. Most people find my approach intimidating. Like most people, your modiste will no doubt consider me rude.”
Daphne resisted the urge to chuckle. Never had she met a woman as direct as Betsy. The personae of elegant modiste was so opposed to her true character. Not that Thorpe would care. The man was adept at handling any situation. Even so, Daphne welcomed the opportunity to test his resolve, to see surprise or any other emotion spark to life in his eyes.
“Very well, I shall warn Betsy of your stern disposition.”
Thorpe brushed a hand through his dark hair and covered the few steps to the door. “Stay inside. There is no need to see me out.” He glanced at her boots. “A lady should not stand at the door in her nightdress, even if a pelisse covers her modesty.”
“And a gentleman would have left the moment he noted the state of her undress.”
“I am not known for my gentlemanly qualities.”
“And as a working woman, I am not considered a lady.”
Thorpe raised a brow. “Don’t press me on the topic. I doubt you want to hear my opinion.”
“Then I shall bid you goodnight.”
Thorpe opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. “I have an early appointment but should be finished by eleven. I trust Madame Fontaine can spare the time.”
“Eleven is perfect.”
He lingered in the dim corridor. “Should there be any new developments, send word to the Museum Tavern on Great Russell Street. Tell the landlord that your father worked at The Dog and Duck. He’ll ask for a description. The answer is Blackbeard. Tell him you have a design for a new dress and I shall know where to come.”
Daphne stared at him, impressed by the system he used to protect his identity. Taking precautions was an inevitable part of their business.
“Thank you, although I doubt we’ll need to pester you further.”
Thorpe inclined his head. “Goodnight, Mrs Chambers.”
“Goodnight, Mr Thorpe.”
Daphne watched him descend the stairs. He stopped halfway down and looked at her through the gap in the balusters. “Perhaps you too should take the time to prepare yourself for an interrogation. Once I’ve spoken to Madame Fontaine, you will tell me the real reason you struggle to sleep at night.”
Chapter 3
The heavy scent of perfume in the air almost choked him. Daniel put his clenched fist to his mouth and coughed. Madame Fontaine’s parlour reminded him of Mrs Cooper’s brothel, and of the stuffy rooms in the molly-house where he'd once questioned gentlemen wearing powdered wigs and an excessive amount of rouge.
“Don’t sit there,” Madame Fontaine snapped, shooing him away from the chair. The woman pulled the pins from the padded arm and stuck them into the cushion in her hand. “Sit on the sofa.”
Daniel glanced around the room. Luxurious fabrics, reams of ribbon, and an assortment of silk slippers cluttered every available space. The row of wig stands on the sideboard had painted faces and sat
watching the proceedings like disapproving jurors on a bench.
Mrs Chambers stepped forward and assisted the modiste in clearing the seats.
Daniel couldn’t help but sigh while he waited.
“Trust me, Mr Thorpe,” the modiste said, reacting to the sound of his impatience, “if I ruin these fabrics there’ll be little point investigating the theft and broken window. Lady Arnshaw will have me strung up outside Newgate if her gown isn’t ready on time.”
“Surely you have room to store your work elsewhere.”
Madame Fontaine straightened though still only measured an inch over five foot. While her height and slight frame gave an innocent, childlike impression, the woman had the sharp tongue of a seasoned market seller.
“Do you know how much material it takes to make one gown?” Madame Fontaine pushed a strand of golden hair behind her ear like a man seeking satisfaction would cock a pistol. “Only thing is ladies don’t want to see one dress. No. They want a choice of designs, of colours and—”
“Yes, yes.” Daniel waved his hand to silence the woman. “I’ve not come here to discuss dressmaking.” Were it not for his concerns regarding Mrs Chambers’ safety, he’d not have bothered with the modiste at all.
Mrs Chambers appeared at his side and touched his arm. “Let us sit on the sofa, take tea and hear Betsy’s theory about the thief.”
The inquisitive part of his character longed to examine the modiste’s logic, to pick fault, find flaws. Yet the warm hand resting on his sleeve served as a distraction. The gesture was supposed to calm him. So why did the feel of Mrs Chambers’ fingers ignite a fire in his belly that robbed him of all sense and reason?
Daniel fought the urge to stalk from the room, climb into his carriage and race through the streets at breakneck speed, to distance himself from temptation. Only when she dropped her hand and took a seat was he able to think clearly again.
“I shall stand.” He clasped his hands behind his back as men often did when they needed to think.
