by Adele Clee
Daniel reached into the inside pocket of his coat, removed the folded banknote, grabbed Mr Harrison’s hand and thrust it into this palm. “That should cover all expenses. You’re to call in at the modiste’s and pay for the repair to the window as a matter of urgency. Ten pounds should suffice.”
Mr Harrison unfolded the note and gasped. “Heavens above. But what shall I do with the change?”
“Spend it. Madame Fontaine’s dresses are too expensive for your moderate income, so I suggest you call on Mrs Wilson on South Moulton Street, number fifty-nine if my memory serves me. She is a skilled dressmaker, but her prices are fair.”
Mr Harrison’s eyes brightened. “You’re giving me the money to buy a new dress? You do not wish to call a constable and report the incident?”
“There is no need to involve anyone else.” Daniel could show compassion when necessary. What was the point of punishing a man who spent his days punishing himself? “May I suggest you find a way to control your sudden outbursts? Accept your fate and make the best of it. As we have all had to do.”
“Oh, thank you, sir.” Mr Harrison bowed and then curtsied. “I’m a man of modest means, but should you need any assistance in the future you only need ask.”
Now Daniel’s interest was piqued. “And what is your profession, Mr Harrison?”
“I work as a clerk for—” He stopped abruptly. “I draw up contracts and legal papers.”
“Excellent.” Daniel inclined his head. “I shall bear that in mind should I be in need of such services. Now, if you will excuse us, we have important business elsewhere.”
Daniel placed a hand on the small of Mrs Chambers’ back and guided her towards the stairs. Her penetrating gaze never left his face, and he had to grab her arm when they reached the top step for fear of her falling.
“Despite my years investigating the strange and unusual, I’m shocked to find that some things still surprise me,” she eventually said.
Most ladies had no idea what went on inside a molly-house. Most ladies were unaware of their existence. “So you’ve never seen men parading as women before?”
“I’ve heard about them but never seen them in the flesh,” she said with a little chuckle. “But that is not what I found most surprising. It is something else entirely.”
“And what is this astonishing discovery?” he said with some amusement.
“It is not a discovery, merely what I always suspected — that beneath your austere facade, you have a kind and forgiving heart.”
Chapter 6
“Will you not admit to having a generous nature?” Daphne stepped out onto Maiden Lane and turned to face Mr Thorpe. “Kindness is an admirable quality, not something to be ashamed of.”
“Some people think it’s a weakness.”
She stared into dark brown eyes that too often looked cold and empty. “But you don’t believe that.”
“Punishing Mr Harrison serves no purpose,” he replied avoiding a more direct answer. “You saw the man. He could barely hold my gaze. It is evident this was his first offence. As long as he reimburses Madame Fontaine for the window, I see no need to pursue the matter.”
“Why did you not simply give Betsy the money yourself?” Daphne knew the answer, but the opportunity to probe Thorpe’s mind proved too tempting.
“Because if I ever need to call on Mr Harrison, I must be certain of his character.”
Surely Thorpe was aware of the discrepancy in his tale. He’d given Mr Harrison the money before learning of his profession. “You mean you require validation,” she clarified. “You want to know that your faith in him is not unfounded.”
“Something like that.”
Large drops of rain landed on Daphne’s face. One glance at the black clouds moving overhead confirmed the heavens were about to unleash a torrent on the mere mortals below.
Thorpe glanced up at the sky. “Come, if we’re quick we might miss the worst of the weather.” He cupped Daphne’s elbow and prompted her to walk back to the bustling Covent Garden market.
“So if Mr Harrison fails to pay for the window and spends the money on gin, what then?” Daphne’s words were lost in the din as they navigated the boisterous crowd rushing to finish their chores.
As expected, a succession of loud rumbles above brought a deluge of rain. Panic ensued. Sellers shouted, desperate to hawk their wares and be heard above the sound of the storm.
Two men barged between them, forcing them apart. A trader’s cries of a sale for the first twenty customers caused a sudden frenzy. Wet or not, everyone wanted a bargain. Everyone wanted to finish their errands and find a dry place to shelter from the downpour.
“God damn,” Thorpe cursed. “Watch where you’re going, man.”
A sea of people swept past them, jostling for a position at the front of the queue as they surged towards the market stall. Hunger made men desperate, but it was the women who abandoned their morals to nudge and elbow others out of the way.
“Thorpe!” Daphne stood on tiptoes, blinked away the rain from her lashes and scanned the crowd looking for a black hat towering above all others. She saw him on the opposite bank of this flood of eager customers.
“Keep moving forward,” he shouted pointing to his carriage parked beyond the market square.
She tucked her arms into her chest — all the bumps and bangs were sure to leave ugly blue bruises — and did as he asked. Having much longer strides, and a frame large enough to make the Devil think twice before taking a swipe, Mr Thorpe reached his carriage before her.
Forced to push and shove, Daphne broke through the crowd. She heaved in a breath, more out of relief than a need for air, and moved towards Thorpe’s vehicle.
Thorpe took two steps towards her but his sharp gaze shot to a point on her left. He shouted something, but the cries of the crowd rang loudly in her ears.
Bless him, he did worry so. With a torturous expression, Thorpe waved for her to hurry but then took to his feet and ran towards her.
The squelching sound of horse’s hooves as it moved from trot to canter on the muddy thoroughfare was the only thing she heard before glancing up and seeing a cart charging towards her. The driver’s broad-brimmed hat obscured his face, probably as a means of protection from the rain, yet he seemed determined in his course.
Could the man not see her?
Did he not realise she was there?
“Look out!” Thorpe cried, but the driver kept his head bowed. “Bloody hell, are you deaf?”
Out of fear of being trampled by the horse, Daphne picked up her skirt and ran. When the driver was but an inch from her shoulder, he glanced up. But it wasn’t shock or fear she saw in his cold eyes — it was determination. The discreet swerve into her was deliberate and sent her flying forward.
Time slowed.
Anticipating the crack of broken bones when she hit the ground, Daphne squeezed her eyes shut as though that would somehow lessen the pain, and waited for the unavoidable impact.
But instead of landing with a thud, strong arms enveloped her and cushioned the fall. Held tight against Thorpe’s hard chest they rolled in the mud — twice, three times, before coming to a stop. They lay motionless for a moment, Thorpe’s huge frame pressing down on her, acting as a shield. Daphne heard his ragged breathing. She gasped to catch her breath and caught the aromatic scent of nutmeg and exotic wood. A faint whiff of lavender added a hint of sophistication. Mr Thorpe smelt divine — so good, it took every effort not to press her lips to his neck and inhale.
When he stood, Daphne felt the loss of his warm body instantly. Blinking to clear her vision and to banish all amorous thoughts of Mr Thorpe, she grabbed his outstretched hand and came to her feet.
“My pelisse is ruined.” She glanced down at the dirty, brown splodges and flicked away remnants of rotten vegetables. “I’ll never get the stains out.”
“Forget about your coat. I’ll buy you a new one.” Thorpe’s voice was hard, stern. “There’s no sign of the cart, but I n
ever forget a face. I’ll find him even if I have to camp here for a week.” He took her hand and pulled her towards the carriage, his head whipping left and right as he scanned the area. “Get in,” he snapped with some frustration as he held the carriage door open. “Get us the hell out of here, Murphy.”
“Where to, sir?”
“To the house on Church Street,” Thorpe said as he followed Daphne inside and slammed the door.
The vehicle jerked, jolted and trundled on a few paces. A silent minute passed while Murphy negotiated the crowd and until they were rattling along the road at a steady pace. Thorpe shrugged out of his greatcoat and used a handkerchief to wipe rainwater and splashes of mud off his face.
“Remind me to avoid Covent Garden in the afternoon,” Daphne said removing her filthy coat, rolling it into a neat package and placing it on the seat. The hint of amusement in her tone was intended to settle her companion. In truth, she had to sit on her hands to stop them shaking, had to smile to stop her lip from trembling. The image of a giant horse bearing down refused to leave her. Those cold black eyes would revisit her in her sleep.
Thorpe removed his hat and threw it onto the seat next to him. “How the hell are you able to remain so calm when that bloody idiot almost killed you?”
Daphne swallowed. The sound of her erratic heartbeat echoed in her ears. “I doubt the fellow could see where he was going in the rain.”
Thorpe shot forward. Anger emanated from every fibre of his being. “You may be capable of fooling other people, but you cannot fool me. You know damn well he swerved into you intending to cause you harm. The question remains why.”
“Perhaps his hands slipped on the wet reins.” Her tone lacked the conviction necessary to persuade him.
“Or perhaps you’ve not told me everything about this invisible intruder that has stalked you for nigh on three years.”
With a frustrated huff, Thorpe threw himself back in the seat, the carriage rocking violently on its axis. The depth of contempt in his voice was enough to send most men scurrying for cover, but she’d seen enough of fear to know anger was merely a mask.
A tense silence filled the air.
What was she to say — that she suspected Thomas spied for the Crown? Lengthy trips to France stemmed from more than a need to avoid intimacy. Daphne was convinced his appointment at the tavern on that fateful night held the key to the mystery. If only one of the blasted sailors had talked, but loyalty was as ingrained as the sea-salt on their skin.
“My stalker has never threatened physical violence.” No, he preferred to abuse her mind, invade her thoughts.
“So what are you telling me?” He threw his hands in the air. “That the person who stole Lady Hartley’s hat pin hired a man to murder you in Covent Garden?”
“Of course not. The accusations against the staff proved to be unfounded. Lady Hartley suffers from—” Daphne stopped abruptly and drew her head back. “How do you know the lady hired me to find the thief at Hampton Hall?”
Thorpe grunted and glared out of the window.
“Mr Thorpe,” she said to get his attention. “That case was three months ago, long before we were both hired by Lord Wellford and consequently renewed our acquaintance.”
“Lord Wellford hired me,” he corrected. “You were hired by Mrs Dempsey.”
“Does it matter? Together we solved the case.” She offered the sweetest smile she could muster. “Have you been spying on me, sir?”
After a brief look of surprise at her direct approach, he offered an arrogant smirk. “I feel it my duty to keep abreast of your business activities.”
“Your duty?” Oh, how that word irritated her. It brought to mind the letter he’d written after making his marriage offer. The word duty had left her cold then too. “To whom? To your childhood friend who, through his stupidity, can no longer protect his wife? Or does your prying stem from a need to keep ahead of the competition?”
“You’re no competition when it comes to gaining clients.” He folded his arms across his chest. “When it comes to those needing protection, it stands to reason I’d be the obvious choice.”
“I see. You mean a simple case of a stolen hat pin is nothing compared to storming a smugglers’ hideout brandishing a pistol?”
Thorpe’s eyes widened. “How the hell do you know about that?”
“It is my duty, sir, to keep abreast of your whereabouts should you ever need assistance.” It was pure guesswork on her part. Daphne had read about the case in The Times. No names were mentioned, but few men were willing to take on a gang single-handedly. No one else fitted the description of a dark, brooding fellow wearing a billowing greatcoat. Of course, Mr Bostock would have accompanied him. “Had you not taken Bostock, you could have called on me for help.”
A range of emotions flitted across his face: confusion and suspicion being the most obvious. “It seems I’m not the only one with an interest in the competition. But with all due respect, a woman is no match for a man in those situations and certainly no match for Bostock.”
The obstinate oaf had no measure of her skill. “I can assure you, my ability with a blade and pistol surpasses that of most men of my acquaintance.”
“What men?”
“Excuse me?”
“Who are these men you’re acquainted with?”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know.”
“Then I suggest you check your notebook. That is where you keep a record of your spying activities, is it not?”
He raised a brow and snorted. “Though I have serious doubts over your physical strength in battle, your mind is sharper than a knight’s sword.”
The compliment made her smile. “And while I have no doubt you’re the strongest man I know, I find your logic lacking. Anyone who wields a weapon is a threat, regardless of gender.”
“That is where your lack of experience fails you. The desperate need to escape the hangman’s noose creates unpredictability. I’ve seen a man take a ball in the back so his comrades may escape.” He leant forward, his elbow resting on his knee. “Confronted by a woman, they would take their pleasure before leaving her for dead.”
Thorpe spoke with such conviction Daphne wondered what horrors he had witnessed during his time as an enquiry agent.
“After what I’ve seen of gentlemen’s habits at the molly-house, there is nothing to stop you from suffering a similar fate,” she replied.
Thorpe’s expression darkened. “Trust me, I’d rip their heads from their shoulders before they could rouse an immoral thought.” His penetrating stare travelled slowly down the length of her body. “You, I fear, would be helpless.”
Despite a burning need to prove him wrong, Daphne recognised the truth in his words. While a pistol worked as a deterrent, there were men savage enough, conniving enough, to manipulate events to their advantage. Still, she couldn’t help but tease the sour-faced gentleman sitting opposite.
“I do have some skill with my fists.” Monsieur Tullier insisted she tell no one of his private tuition in the art of pugilism, fearing he might be bombarded with feisty women too headstrong to do as they were told. “Probably not as powerful as the punches you throw.” An image of a hammer smashing down on an anvil sprang to mind. “But I’m confident I could break a man’s nose if necessary.”
Thorpe’s nostrils flared. The surrounding air sparked with a volatile energy. The temperature within the small space rose till Daphne thought the carriage might combust.
“Despite disapproving of your work, I’ve never taken you for a fool.” Thorpe had the look of a man doing Lucifer’s bidding. “So let us put an end to this matter once and for all. Let’s see how capable you are with a man intent on getting his way.”
Without warning, Mr Thorpe grabbed her wrist and pulled her to the opposite side of the carriage. There was no time to react as she tumbled into his lap.
“I am only holding one hand,” he said in a slow, arrogant drawl. “Let us see if your iron fist can r
ender me helpless.”
Anger should have been the primary emotion coursing through her veins. She was eager to prove her worth, equally frustrated at his high-handed approach. But sitting across his muscular thighs, inhaling the potent scent that clung to his clothes, his hair, his skin, proved too much of a distraction.
How quickly logical thought abandoned her when presented with an opportunity to experience close human contact.
“One’s weapon of choice must suit the circumstances,” she whispered, the seductive lilt in her voice evident as her mind raced two steps ahead. “And I do have another weapon in my arsenal, one you have not considered.”
The element of surprise was crucial in any form of attack. Pushing aside her doubts — for when in combat only the confident prevailed — Daphne pressed her mouth to his, leant into his hard body and kissed him.
The hair on his chin proved to be less irritating than expected. The lips hidden beneath were warm and surprisingly soft. Thorpe remained rigid, motionless, while she moved her firm mouth over his. The kiss was supposed to shock him. And so to that end, it served her purpose. But she wanted a reaction.
She demanded a reaction.
With that in mind, she altered the pressure, running featherlight kisses across his lips, nipping at the corners.
Still, he gave nothing.
Damn the man. Was it stubbornness that made him refuse to surrender? Was it his determination to prove a point?
Well, she had a point to prove too.
For fear of looking foolish, Daphne tried the only other option available — she ran her tongue over the seam of his lips hoping to delve deeper inside.
Daniel Thorpe reacted instantly.
The passion that lay dormant burst to life with a sudden flurry of activity. A deep groan resonated from the back of his throat. His free hand slid around her back, gathered the material of her dress in his fist and crushed her to his chest.
Responding in the way she hoped, he let her inside his warm, wet mouth, let her taste him as she wanted to. The wild dance of their tongues was accompanied by the sound of their ragged breathing. The sudden urgency to sate a physical need Daphne had denied for so long pushed to the fore. Before her mind could catch up with her movements, she was straddling Thorpe’s lap. Releasing Daphne’s wrist, his other hand crept under her skirt to caress her thigh.
