A Simple Case of Seduction

by Adele Clee

These overwhelming emotions were the reason he stayed away.

  “Come, we can’t wait here,” she took his arm, “although the man would be a fool to attempt to shoot at us again. Hopefully, we’ll not have to walk too far to find a hackney.”

  The mere mention of the shooter dragged his mind from his fanciful musings. “I think it’s fair to assume we were followed here. Unless the chandler keeps a pistol under his bench and is disgruntled because we didn’t buy more than a length of twine.”

  “I told you, someone has been following me about for years.”

  “Yes, but during that time you’ve hardly known he was there. And now, in the space of a day, you’ve almost been killed twice.” Daniel considered both events: the accident in Covent Garden, and the shooting in the alley. Was Daphne the target?

  Daphne tutted. “When you say it like that it doesn’t make any sense.”

  “There is another explanation.” He knew she would overreact when he told her. “The Turners informed me that there’s a price on my head.”

  Daphne stopped abruptly. “A price? You mean someone wants you dead?” Her eyes grew so wide they were liable to burst from their sockets. “Someone wants you dead, and you only think to tell me now!”

  “Hush. Keep walking,” he said, practically dragging her along the road with him. “Death threats are nothing new to me.”

  She mumbled something incoherent. “Why on earth would you walk the streets at night when you know your life is in danger?”

  “Daphne, if I panicked every time someone threatened to harm me, I’d never leave my bed.” He sighed. “Besides, you were the intended victim in Covent Garden, and we cannot know for certain who was the target in the alley.”

  Daniel cursed. He was missing a vital piece of this puzzle.

  They found themselves on Tower Hill and had no difficulty hiring a hackney there. Once safely inside the cab, Daniel tried to use the time to think. But for some reason, the analytical part of his mind could only focus on trying to guess what Daphne was thinking.

  A curious hum left her lips but seconds passed before she spoke. “What if the stalker has no preference over which one of us he kills? What if the point is to force us apart?”

  “For what purpose?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps together we stand a better chance of finding the truth.”

  “I need time to think,” he said, patting his arm gently to check his coat sleeve wasn’t damp with blood. “Can I look at the list of names?”

  “Certainly.” She fumbled about in her reticule and handed him the folded note.

  He knew two of the men on the list. Marcus Danbury was a friend of Dudley Spencer; the latter was as adept at discovering information as any skilled enquiry agent. To the best of his knowledge, Danbury lived in France and hadn’t set foot on English soil for years.

  “I’ve never met any of the men mentioned,” Daphne said.

  “Lord Gibson I know of, but not Captain Lewis.” He handed the paper back to her. “Danbury’s not our man. He’s a bit of a rogue by all accounts but loyal and trustworthy.”

  “We should not rule him out of the investigation. People change. Circumstances change.”

  “You have a valid point,” he agreed. “But we’ll leave Danbury until last. Tomorrow we’ll make some enquiries into Captain Lewis’ background.”

  Daphne sat forward. “But I’m going to Witham tomorrow.”

  “You’re still going to the wedding after what has just occurred?” Was the thought of travelling alone not terrifying? What if the stalker followed her to Elton Park? Damn it. He would have to go too if he could not persuade her otherwise.

  “I must.”

  “What about my injury?” He’d play the wounded soldier if he thought she might reconsider.

  “But you said it was just a graze.”

  “There’s too much to do here.” Daniel crossed his arms in defiance, the wound throbbing just to aggravate him some more.

  “Time out of town might help give us a new perspective on the case.” Daphne smiled at him sweetly. Oh, this lady was skilled in manipulation. “Time in the country might rejuvenate our spirits.”

  Two days and nights spent alone with her would leave him fit for Bedlam. It was becoming increasingly more difficult to keep his rampant thoughts to himself. But what choice did he have?

  “Are you certain I cannot persuade you to stay?” he said, clutching the last thread of hope.

  “I made a promise, Daniel. But I understand if you want to remain here.”

  “No,” he groaned. “I shall accompany you to Elton Park.”

  Her emerald-green eyes brightened. “You will? It will mean an overnight stay in a coaching inn and then a night mingling with the aristocracy.”

  “I can hardly contain my excitement.” Was there anything he wouldn’t do for this woman?

  “Excellent.” She clapped her hands together. “I hired a post-chaise, but we can meet at the coaching inn.”

  Did she honestly think he would allow her to travel in one of those ramshackle vehicles? “We’ll travel in my carriage.”

  “But I’ve already paid Mr Butteridge. He insists on payment in advance. Only last month, he took a man as far as Stratford and the blighter absconded when they stopped to change the horses.”

  “Butteridge can keep the money.” Daniel smirked. “Don’t worry. I’ll not charge you to ride with me.”

  “Perhaps I should charge you for the pleasure,” she countered playfully.

  “And I would gladly pay.”

  A blush touched her cheeks. She struggled to hold his gaze and glanced absently out of the window. “We’ve just turned into New Bond Street.”

  Good. The conversation had served as a distraction, but he was eager to see the extent of the damage to his arm.

  The cab rattled to a halt outside the modiste shop. Daphne alighted first and pulled the key from her reticule while Daniel paid the driver.

  “Betsy can heat some water while I look at your wound,” she said as they entered the shop. Noting a flicker of light from the parlour she called out to the modiste. “Betsy! Betsy!” Mild panic infused her tone. “Mr Bostock, are you here?”

  Both people burst from the parlour as though the drapes had caught fire, although they looked guilty rather than concerned.

  “What is it?” Betsy patted her golden locks and brushed the creases from her dress as she walked over to Daphne. “What’s happened?”

  “It’s Daniel … I mean Mr Thorpe. Don’t worry. He’s fine. But he’s been shot.”

  “Shot!” Bostock boomed. “Bloody hell!” The man turned to the ladies. “Forgive a fellow for cursing.” Two large steps and Bostock was at Daniel’s side, his frantic gaze searching for evidence of the injury.

  “It’s my right arm,” Daniel said gesturing to the tear in his coat. “But it’s nothing serious. Just a graze I suspect, but find Murphy and take me home.”

  “Home?” Bostock frowned. “To Rainham Hall?”

  “No,” Daniel snapped. If only Bostock would engage his brain before speaking. “Take me to the house on Church Street.”

  “There’s no need to leave.” Daphne straightened. “I can tend to the wound here.”

  “No.” To feel her warm hands on his bare skin would be the end of him. Besides, there was a chance it needed a stitch or two, and he’d not put her through the agony of doing that. “Bostock will see to it.”

  Daphne placed her hands on her hips in defiance. “I have seen a man’s bare chest before if that’s what concerns you. Granted, it may not have been one so large and impressive but—”

  “Bostock knows what he’s doing, and I need a change of clothes. If we’re to go to Witham, there are some matters I need to attend to.”

  While his explanation appeased her somewhat, the two lines were still prominent between her brows. “But how will I know if everything is all right?”

  “Bostock will return within the hour.” After what had o
ccurred in Covent Garden and the alley near the docks, Daniel could not leave her without protection. “And he’ll stay here with you until I return tomorrow.”

  Betsy’s beaming smile meant she was either glad to have Bostock for company, or glad to be rid of him.

  Daphne sighed. “Very well. We must leave at noon.” She glanced at his arm. “Now go quickly. Heaven knows the extent of the damage beneath that coat.”

  “Lock the door behind us and do not open it until Bostock returns.” It crossed his mind to kiss her cheek, to do something to ease the sudden ache in his chest caused by his impending departure. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and handed her the pistol. “An extra precaution. Perhaps use the time to teach Betsy how to wield a weapon.”

  Chapter 14

  Thorpe was late.

  Daphne stared at the busy street below and scanned numerous parked carriages in the hope of spotting a black unmarked vehicle. Panic flared. Had he misled her over the wound to his upper arm? Was he too weak to send a note? Was he lying stretched on a chaise in a pool of blood, the life draining from him drip by drip?

  After charging off into the night, Bostock and Murphy had returned without him. Under strict instructions to ensure no one entered Betsy’s premises, and with pistols half-cocked, both men remained at their posts until sunrise. Murphy left at nine o’clock. After visiting Mr Butteridge to cancel the post-chaise, he was to return to Church Street to collect Mr Thorpe. Bostock was to stay with Betsy until Daphne returned from Lord Harwood’s wedding. Grateful for the company and even more grateful to have a man about the house, Betsy had made a list of jobs to keep him busy.

  The clock on the mantel struck one, the single chime more like an ominous warning.

  Damn the man.

  Where the hell had he got to? She’d specifically said they were to leave at twelve. Did he not think she’d be worried?

  The journey to Witham took five hours, assuming there were no accidents on the road, and she wanted to reach the coaching inn long before nightfall. The thought of sitting alone with Thorpe for such a length of time proved just as unnerving. Would their petty quarrels turn to passionate kisses? Would she be able to keep her ever-growing need for him at bay?

  Another fifteen minutes had passed before she noticed the pair of muscled black stallions pulling an equally intimidating carriage.

  Relief surged through her when it stopped outside the shop and the occupant vaulted to the pavement. Daphne pressed her nose to the window, hardly recognising the gentleman in a black billowing coat marching towards the front door. She turned and listened to the thud of booted footsteps mounting the stairs and coming to a halt outside her door.

  Thorpe knocked once and opened the door when she called for him to enter.

  “Forgive me, I had every intention of arriving on time but had a few errands to run first. It appears Lord Gibson’s estate is near Chelmsford, some sixteen miles from Witham. If we stop at the coaching inn at Great Baddow, we’ll have time to pay Gibson a visit.”

  Open-mouthed, Daphne stared at him. The fluttering in her stomach raced up to her throat. “What … what happened to your beard?”

  Thorpe stroked his clean, chiselled jaw as the corners of his mouth curled up into a half-smile. “It was time for a change.” He was a handsome man with the beard. Without it, he stole her breath.

  He looked younger, not nearly as sombre. The dimple on his chin only heightened his appeal. “It’s a vast improvement. And I see you’ve tied back your hair.” The dark locks that skimmed his shoulders were held back in a queue.

  “I cannot mingle in society looking like a man who’s been lost at sea for six months.”

  Daphne chuckled. “There is to be a small gathering, nothing too formal. I doubt you’ll have to make polite conversation with pompous lords and ladies.”

  Thorpe raised a challenging brow. “You could have told me that before the barber sharpened his blade.”

  “I’m rather glad I didn’t,” she said, noting the fullness of his lips. Everything about his countenance appeared brighter. Then it occurred to her that she’d not asked about his arm, or why he’d decided not to return to her last night. “How is your arm? I suppose you took to your bed as soon as you got home. Did Bostock stitch the wound?”

  Thorpe shook his head. “It wasn’t deep enough to warrant a stitch. Two large gulps of brandy helped numb the pain.”

  “I never thanked you for pushing me out of the way last night.” A grazed hand was better than a lead ball in the back. “Everything happened so quickly. I didn’t hear the shooter approach. Thank heavens you responded so quickly.”

  “Had we kept walking as I suggested he would have found it difficult to take the shot.” Thorpe sighed and rubbed his eye with the pads of his fingers. “We were like sitting ducks on a pond. But come, we are already late. On the journey, we can discuss how we intend to confront Lord Gibson.”

  Intrigued by the proposition, she nodded. “But if we find Lord Gibson at home, he can't be the man who shot at us in the alley.”

  “A man of Gibson’s status hires people to do his bidding.” Daniel glanced at the mantel clock and then the floor. “Do you need help with your luggage?”

  “Oh, Bostock carried my trunk downstairs.”

  “Trunk? Lord help me, Daphne, I won’t stay more than a night at Elton Park.” He seemed flustered. The man was not afraid of a gang of knife-wielding smugglers yet the thought of spending time with the aristocracy filled him with dread. “One night at a coaching inn and one night at Harwood’s estate,” he clarified. “You gave your word.”

  “And I shall keep it. Obviously, you know nothing of a lady’s wardrobe.” Then again he might have sisters, most definitely had a mother. Educated at the best school, he knew of the complex rituals otherwise known as etiquette. “I shall need at least three dresses for one overnight stay at Elton Park, not to mention petticoats and fripperies.”

  “All the unnecessary fuss is one reason I decided not to attend. The pomp and ceremony turns my stomach. There is every chance I’ll say something derogatory and offend a guest.” Thorpe mumbled something incoherent. “Be warned. Should anyone attempt to discuss the merits of a racing curricle or offer advice in the art of driving, I’m liable to punch them on the nose.”

  Thorpe made no secret of his disdain for the privileged.

  “Why do you despise them so much?” she asked.

  “Because they’d sell their offspring rather than suffer a stain on their precious reputation.”

  Daphne gave a challenging smirk. “They are not all like that. You speak of a minority.”

  “I speak from experience,” he snapped. It was evident from his wide eyes and pursed lips he wished he’d not let the words fall.

  How interesting?

  To press him further on the matter would mean being met with a wall of silence. No. She would bide her time, wait for an opportunity to discover more about the elusive Mr Thorpe.

  “Well, we cannot stand here all day exchanging quips,” she said. From his relieved sigh, it was clear he was grateful she’d not pursued that particular line of enquiry. “And you know what happens whenever our emotions get the better of us.”

  “You mean you might kiss me again?”

  She refused to lie. “Now you’ve lost that ridiculous beard it’s a possibility.”

  He rubbed his chin again. “Then your emotions must have been running high when you kissed me so passionately before.”

  All this talk of kissing left her mind muddled.

  “I think we have more important things on our mind than kissing.” She tried to sound confident, but her conflicting feelings for Thorpe dominated her thoughts of late. “After the shooting last night it's obvious we’re on the hunt for a murderer. A clear head is a must if we have any hope of catching the culprit.”

  This time the smile almost reached his eyes. “I’ve not had a clear head since the day I met you.”

  Chapter 15
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  They’d travelled three miles on their journey to Witham, and still Daphne couldn’t tear her gaze from Thorpe’s square jaw. There was something superior about his countenance now, dare she say something aristocratic.

  Lord, he’d curse her to the devil if she ever said that aloud.

  Seated opposite with his eyes closed, Thorpe exhaled deeply. He seemed so content in sleep, not nearly as intimidating. Not that she found him to be so anymore. During the last two days he’d mellowed, his tone conveying warmth and humour whenever he spoke to her. With others, he was still abrupt and cold of manner. The beard had served to enhance his menacing aura. Would he behave differently now stripped of his disguise? Would he still use arrogance as a shield?

  Would the real person reveal himself?

  Occasionally, and for the purpose of work, Daphne had worn a wig. And it was true. A mask of any sort gave one a sense of invincibility, gave them licence to be daring, to be someone new. Did Thorpe don his disguise to help with his work? Or did it stem from a need to distance himself from the man inside?

  Perhaps he’d loved someone once, and the lady had broken his heart? It would certainly explain his obsession with duty, his need to ease his frustration with women paid to give pleasure rather than seeking commitment.

  It all proved puzzling.

  Even Lily Lawson failed to attract his attention. What did Daniel Thorpe dream about if not a golden-haired beauty with porcelain skin?

  Daphne stared at his handsome features. He had incredibly long lashes for a gentleman.

  “Is there something you wish to say?” His voice startled her. The corners of his mouth curled up although he didn’t open his eyes. “I can feel the heat of your penetrative gaze.”

  Thank heavens he’d not got the ability to read thoughts. In a moment of fancy she’d imagined running kisses along that smooth jaw.

  “I was just thinking …”

  “Is that not a dangerous pastime?” he teased.

  Daphne sighed. “Do you think there was more to Lily’s relationship with Thomas than she led us to believe?”