by Adele Clee
“You are here at Tranmere’s behest?” she asked weakly, her limp hand resting palm up on her forehead. “Forgive me, I am suffering from a strange malady and cannot sit up. It is a sickness of the heart no doubt.”
Daphne suppressed a grin. When Miss Cartwright wasn’t bedding married men, perhaps she took a turn on the stage.
“We’re here with an offer,” Mr Thorpe said bluntly.
Miss Cartwright squinted out of one eye, the corners of her mouth curling up when noting Mr Thorpe’s thoroughly masculine form. “Please, if you will assist me, sir, I may be able to sit.”
“For goodness' sake,” Daphne muttered under her breath, keen to observe the line of Daniel Thorpe’s gaze.
Did he find such overt displays of femininity attractive?
Despite his austere facade, did the frivolous lady before him speak to his most primal needs?
For some odd reason, Daphne’s throat grew tight when Mr Thorpe stepped forward, took Miss Cartwright’s hand and assisted her into a sitting position.
“What large hands you have, sir.” Miss Cartwright looked upon Thorpe as one would a juicy piece of plum pie. “I’m sure your sister is grateful to have someone so strong to offer his protection.”
Sister? The veiled insult did not slip past Daphne. What the woman meant to say was spinster. “That is why introductions are made before conversation commences,” Daphne snapped. “It prevents either party from making foolish assumptions.”
Miss Cartwright scanned the muddy hem of Daphne’s plain dress with some amusement. “It could have been worse. With your inappropriate attire, I might have mistaken you for a maid.”
Her inappropriate attire? This woman had gall. Forgoing a coat was not nearly as vulgar as greeting guests in a robe.
“I heard you find excessive clothes an encumbrance.” Daphne could feel Mr Thorpe’s gaze searching her face but ignored it. “For once it appears the gossips were right.”
Miss Cartwright gave a light, airy chuckle as she trailed her fingers across the exposed skin at her collarbone. “From her stuffy manner, am I to assume she’s your wife?”
“Mrs Chambers is my business partner,” Thorpe informed in the tone of a schoolmaster quick to put an end to his pupils’ childish banter.
“How quaint. I would ask you more about your business, sir, but I’m more interested in what you do when at your leisure.”
Lord above. Surely Thorpe wasn't duped by her insincere flattery.
“Your interest must be great indeed,” Daphne interjected, “since you appear to have forgotten all about your ailment of the heart.”
Miss Cartwright moistened her lips as she studied Thorpe’s impressive form. “If presented with a muscular stallion would one mourn the loss of a shabby pony?”
Thorpe cleared his throat. “As you currently have no claims on either, Miss Cartwright, I suggest we get to the matter at hand.”
A smile formed on Daphne’s lips and she squared her shoulders. A warm feeling filled her chest at Thorpe’s complete lack of interest in the brazen beauty before them.
“If Tranmere wants me to take him back, he will have to make it worth my while. The humiliation alone is worth a substantial increase in allowance.”
“Are you speaking of your humiliation or that of his wife?” Daphne said.
Miss Cartwright ignored the comment. “Well, how much is he offering?”
“The offer is not from Tranmere,” Thorpe said. “It is I who wish to strike a bargain.”
Like water breaching a dam, the blood rushed to Daphne’s face. What in heaven’s name was Thorpe going to offer?
“Oh, I am all ears, sir.” The hussy moistened her lips. “A lady rarely gets such a welcome proposition. I am inclined to say yes before hearing your terms.”
“Then I shall not keep you in suspense any longer. You will explain why you saw fit to enter Madame Fontaine’s shop and steal two gowns. Else I shall hand over the evidence to the constable.”
Miss Cartwright blinked. Her hand flew up to her throat as her complexion turned a deathly shade of grey.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, her voice a strangled whisper.
“Don’t you? You more than anyone should know that gentlemen like to boast of their conquests,” Thorpe replied. “The poor blighter you persuaded to pick the lock has told everyone you’re lovers. It seems true love makes a man do wild and reckless things, Miss Cartwright.”
Daphne watched Daniel Thorpe intently. He had based his comments on nothing more than speculation, yet he had such an inherent confidence about his tone and manner he could persuade the Devil he was misguided.
Pride blossomed in her chest. Mr Thorpe was an expert investigator, and intelligence was a quality Daphne found highly attractive.
“Must I reveal your counterpart’s name to hear your confession?” Thorpe continued. “Once his name leaves my lips, I fear my business partner may alert Lord Tranmere of your infidelity. Indeed, the magistrate will be interested to hear how you tricked a man into committing a crime.”
Miss Cartwright jumped to her feet. “I did not trick Mr Reynolds. For heaven’s sake, it was Tranmere’s money that kept him out of debtors’ prison. He had no choice but to help me. I should have known the fool had a loose tongue. One sip of brandy and he’s staggering about the place like a drunken buffoon.”
“In taking the dresses I assume your intention was to punish Lord Tranmere,” Thorpe said. “Stealing the mourning gown was simply a means to avert suspicion.”
“I believe Miss Cartwright’s intention was to punish both Lady Tranmere and her husband,” Daphne added. Having spent five minutes with the woman it was obvious manipulation was her game.
Miss Cartwright snorted. “Imagine the scowl on Lady Tranmere’s face when she sees me wearing the lilac gown. She knows full well her husband bought it for me. She will believe Tranmere and I are still lovers. He will want rid of me and will pay handsomely to secure my co-operation. And she will suffer humiliation in front of her precious friends.”
“One’s imagination can often run away with them,” Thorpe said with a smirk. “Even the best plans go awry. So allow me to give you a realistic view of what will occur.” He straightened to his full height and clasped his hands behind his back. “Your maid will bring the items you stole from Madame Fontaine and put them in my carriage. You have until tomorrow to be out of this house. I’m sure Tranmere will allow you to keep any gifts he purchased. But once he hears of your plan to drain him dry, I sense he will beg Lady Tranmere to forgive him.”
“You’re asking me to leave my home?” For the first time since they’d set foot in the drawing room, Miss Cartwright’s arrogant countenance faltered.
“No, I’m telling you to leave.” Thorpe reached into his pocket, withdrew a banknote and gave it to Miss Cartwright. “Tranmere will cover a month’s stay at The Burlington. I suggest you accept else I’ve no doubt you’ll face transportation, perhaps even the noose.”
Miss Cartwright tightened the belt on her wrapper and with a disgruntled huff snatched the note from Mr Thorpe’s hand. “What choice do I have?”
“None.” Thorpe inclined his head. “We shall leave you to pack and will wait in the carriage for your maid to bring Madame Fontaine’s items. Rest assured, I shall have words with Mr Reynolds. Good day, Miss Cartwright. And may you find another gentleman foolish enough to fall for your womanly wiles.”
With a tug of the bell pull strong enough to free it of its moorings, the courtesan summoned her servant.
Mr Thorpe touched Daphne lightly on the elbow and escorted her back to the carriage. One might have assumed it was anger at Miss Cartwright’s disparaging remarks that caused Daphne’s hands to shake and her breath to come quickly. But witnessing Thorpe’s lack of interest in the courtesan, his cold and rather blunt tone when dealing with the ravishing creature, roused a strange sensation in her chest.
Thorpe was renowned for his abrupt manner and frosty tone, yet when with Daphne there wa
s a warm, caring side he rarely showed anyone else.
As he assisted Daphne into the carriage, their gazes locked. Good Lord, her heart fluttered so erratically it was about to take flight. Their earlier kiss stemmed from a need to test a theory, to prove a point. Now, she imagined kissing him for an entirely different reason.
“I think Miss Cartwright fancied you as her new benefactor,” Daphne said as they waited for the maid to bring the stolen garments out. A lump formed in her throat at the thought of Thorpe taking the strumpet in his arms and kissing her tenderly. “The woman was practically drooling.”
“Some women find authority attractive, though I doubt I possess the refinement necessary to warm her bed.”
“Nonsense,” Daphne blurted. “You may not have a title, but you are every bit a gentleman.”
He shuffled uncomfortably in the seat. “Are you suggesting I make Miss Cartwright an offer?”
Lord no! She would rather jump off a bridge into the Thames with an iron ball shackled to her ankle.
“That all depends. Do … do you want to warm her bed?”
“I wouldn’t bed Miss Cartwright if she were the last woman in London.” Thorpe’s intense brown eyes studied her. “Intelligence and integrity excite me far more than fluttering lashes and a seductive pout.”
For once, Daphne didn’t know what to say. While she stared at him, her mind conjured a whimsical daydream, where the gentleman opposite did all sorts of amorous things whenever she offered an insightful argument or comment. The sudden need for Thorpe to see her as physically attractive pushed to the fore. She wanted to see those dark eyes filled with desire as he studied her naked form. She wanted to see his cool facade falter as he ran a hand over her bare skin.
Heavens above!
Daphne coughed and cleared her throat to banish her lustful fantasy.
Thankfully, the maid stumbled down the steps with the garments draped over her arm while she carried a tower of boxes. The coachman climbed down and offered his assistance.
Thorpe opened the door. “Put the parcels in here, Murphy. Arrange the boxes on the seat and lay the gowns flat on top. Mrs Chambers will sit next to me for the duration of our journey.”
Despite the odd tickle in her belly at the thought of being squashed next to Thorpe’s muscular frame, Daphne moved across to the opposite side of the carriage, sat down and assisted the servants in organising Madame Fontaine’s stolen apparel.
“Do you know the gentleman Miss Cartwright mentioned?” Thorpe asked as the carriage trundled along on its way back to New Bond Street. “The one who broke into Madame Fontaine’s shop?”
“Mr Reynolds? No, but Betsy might know of him.”
“Pay it no mind. I shall find his address soon enough.” Though said in a casual tone, there was a dangerous air about his countenance that prickled the hairs at her nape.
“What do you intend to do?”
One corner of his mouth twitched arrogantly. “Oh, I intend to visit him in his room at night and scare him half to death. To let him know it is never a good idea to frighten a lady in her home. When I’m done, he’ll kiss my knuckles and thank me for not reporting his nefarious deeds to the magistrate.”
The second comment was lost on her for it was his first statement that made her shiver. It was a poor choice of words on Mr Thorpe’s part. Memories of nightmares flooded her vision, of imagined figures lurking at the end of her bed — of the ghostly intruder with the power to walk through locked doors.
In some respects, Mr Reynolds’ crime paled in comparison. Daphne would rather her stalker stole something, emptied drawers, knocked over chairs and cupboards. To do nothing, to touch nothing, proved far more troubling.
“What is it?” Thorpe swivelled to face her, their legs brushing together in the process. As always, his instincts were in tune with her thoughts.
“Nothing.” She shook her head too many times — a sure sign that her words and actions were not aligned.
Thorpe looked into her eyes, stared deep into her soul. “It’s so hot in here one can hardly breathe, and so I imagine your sudden shiver stems from feelings of apprehension.”
“Apprehension?”
“Now that we’ve solved two very simple cases, we are free to find your mysterious intruder.”
If only it were that easy. Like the last wisps of cigar smoke disappearing from a room, the fellow left nothing behind but an odd lingering smell.
“Where will we start?”
“We’ll start by taking you home so you may bathe after your ordeal in Covent Garden. I shall send word to Bostock as he will be your escort when you need to run errands in town.”
“Is that because you will be otherwise engaged?” She had taken up far too much of his time already. It was foolish to think he would act as chaperone as well.
“I will visit The Mariners Tavern. By all accounts, it is the last place Thomas was seen alive.”
“So you do think my mysterious visitor is involved in Thomas’ death?” Her eagerness for answers was evident in her voice.
“The timing cannot be a coincidence.”
In spite of Mr Thorpe’s fearless heart and robust countenance, a sense of foreboding settled over her. “Then take Bostock with you if you’re going to the docks,” she said knowing Thorpe’s companion had fists as hard as mallets. “Indeed, perhaps it is best I come too.” An hour spent waiting for him to return would feel like a lifetime.
Thorpe gritted his teeth. “Have you ever been to a dockside tavern? The only women welcome are those who sell their souls for a penny.”
Most places where men drank to excess posed a danger to women, but for some reason, Daphne couldn’t cope with the thought of Thorpe going alone.
“I’m familiar with the docks if you remember,” Daphne said. “I was the one who lured the guard to the shed so you could punch him on the nose.”
Thorpe raised a disapproving brow. “And God only knows what would have happened if I’d not arrived when I did.”
“The situation was under control.”
“Was it? I recall the guard’s wandering hands may have been a problem.”
“Must we go round in circles?” she snapped. “Must I boast of my ability to protect myself while you attempt to prove me wrong?”
“I would not advise any further discussion on the matter else you might be inclined to demonstrate your skill in persuasion.”
“My skill in persuasion?” Oh, he was referring to the kiss. Daphne bit down on her lip for the idea of securing his submission was deliciously tempting. “Have no fear, Mr Thorpe. I would not be so presumptuous as to ride roughshod over your delicate sensibilities again.”
A sinful smile touched his lips. “Madam, you may ride roughshod over me whenever you please.”
Chapter 9
“Get out of the blasted road before I run yer man down.” Murphy’s cries were accompanied by a violent jolt as the carriage ground to a halt.
During the day, the streets around the London Dock teamed with industrious workers going diligently about their business. At night, those with a penchant for vice littered the dirty thoroughfares scouting for a different class of patron entirely. Amid the bustle of drunken revellers, many of them sailors returned to port, half-naked women wandered the grim streets selling their wares.
“Heavens, that woman will catch her death in this weather.” Daphne frowned as a buxom wench with breasts bursting from her flimsy gown tapped the window and winked. “Her skin has a mottled, bluish tint. Can she not afford a shawl?”
Daniel smiled to himself. Was Daphne that naive? “Would you buy an apple from a market seller without seeing the produce?”
Daphne shook her head. “A shawl can be removed. I imagine one can use it rather inventively. Would a flash here and there not prove more tempting?”
“Most men who walk these streets are too drunk to notice anything unless it’s thrust in their face. Hence the reason she is shaking her flesh at the window.”
Taking up most of the seat opposite, Bostock sat forward and waved her away with his chubby fingers. “I think you’ll find the grey tint is dirt, Mrs Chambers. Most of them are numb to the cold.”
“No doubt they are numb to most things, Mr Bostock,” she said with a resigned sigh.
The carriage pulled away again, turned right into Rosemary Lane and rumbled to a stop outside The Compass Inn.
“What are we doing here?” Daphne’s head shot between Daniel and the window. “Thomas was last seen at The Mariners, not The Compass. The Mariners is further—”
“I know where the tavern is,” Daniel interjected. “But if we’re to make any progress this evening, it will take more than a few probing questions to persuade the landlord to speak. The Turners frequent this alehouse and they owe me a favour.”
“The Turners?” Daphne wrinkled her nose.
“Businesses pay them a fee to keep trouble away,” Bostock replied. “No one wants on the wrong side of the Turners.”
Her eyes widened as she searched Daniel’s face. “And why would they be indebted to you?”
Bostock snorted. “It has something to do—”
“Thank you, Bostock, I can answer for myself,” Daniel said. When speaking to ladies, his friend was incapable of censoring his thoughts. “The Turners like to gamble, boxing mainly. There was a plot to drug their best fighter, to make sure they lost heavily. I was lucky enough to stumble upon the information.”
“I doubt luck played a part,” Daphne said, her tone conveying a hint of admiration.
“Perhaps not,” he replied modestly. “Wait here with Bostock. I shall be but a few minutes.” The hairs on his nape prickled to attention. “No one is to leave this carriage, Bostock. Is that clear?”
Daphne huffed. “Trust me, Mr Thorpe. I have no intention of pushing through a crowd of drunken debauchers.”
“That’s exactly how I feel at the thought of mingling with the aristocracy.” Daniel inclined his head. “Don’t be alarmed if Murphy moves on. He knows what to do in dangerous situations.”
The lady swallowed visibly and bit down on her bottom lip. She had no need to worry and would be perfectly safe with Murphy and Bostock.
