The news that the Turners had provided the information necessary to proceed with their investigation — and so there was no need to interrogate the landlord of The Mariners — brought a pang of disappointment.

Daphne sighed

Not that she wanted to sneak around the filthy docks at night, or jostle with drunken sailors. But the need to discover the truth surrounding Thomas’ death burned in her chest, now more than ever.

Since leaving The Compass Inn, Thorpe had said little, other than insist they all return to the modiste shop despite the late hour. Shoulders hunched, he stared out of the carriage window, tugging and reshaping his beard while contemplating heaven knows what. When they reached New Bond Street, he hung back in the shadows and scoured the street with keen eyes before following her into the house.

Perhaps he’d discovered something unsavoury and had important information to impart but required privacy to do so.

Perhaps the near fatal accident with the cart in Covent Garden — an event Daphne banished from her mind every time the memory surfaced — gave him serious cause for concern and so he planned to act as her chaperone, planned to stay the night.

The muscles in her core pulsed at the thought of seeing his huge frame sprawled in her bed. Daphne shook her head. Why on earth had she pictured such a thing? Why had her body reacted instantly?

Three years spent alone had taken its toll. But, truth be told, Daphne had been lonely long before that. Her father’s death left a hole in her heart that Thomas failed to fill. A marriage needed more than respect and friendship to satisfy on a deeper level. Consequently, the physical aspects proved awkward, unfulfilling.

So why did she feel a spark of desire in Mr Thorpe’s company? Was their relationship not based on respect and friendship too?

A growl emanated from Thorpe’s stomach as he removed his greatcoat and hung it on the coat stand next to the parlour door.

“Heavens, you’ve not eaten all day,” Daphne said, grateful for the distraction. They had been so preoccupied with gathering information they’d not considered food. “Well, you’ve had nothing during the time we’ve been together.”

“I find I have no appetite when working.”

Mr Bostock tutted. “It's important to keep up your strength. A man can’t think straight when he’s hungry.”

Thorpe snorted. “It’s not as though those eager for revenge will lure me into a dark alley with the promise of a meat pie.”

The mere mention of food roused a grumble from Daphne’s stomach too. “Betsy usually leaves something for me in the kitchen if I’ve been working late.” Indeed, the delicious smell of cooked root vegetables wafted up from downstairs. “I’m sure there’ll be enough for us all.”

“There’s no need to feed me, Mrs Chambers,” Mr Bostock said. “I’ve already eaten. The Cock serves the tastiest beef stew and dumplings for miles around.”

Judging by the width of the man’s neck, it looked as though he’d swallowed a whole hock of beef.

A loud thud on the door brought Betsy, her hands wrapped in towels as she carried an iron pot. “Sorry, I had no means of knocking and had to hit the door with my foot.” Betsy’s gaze turned indifferent as it drifted over Mr Thorpe. But her expression brightened as she scanned Mr Bostock’s towering frame.

Thorpe’s associate rushed forward to offer assistance. “Let me help you with that.”

“There’s a trivet under my arm.” Betsy jerked her head towards her right shoulder. “If you could put it on the table that would help.”

Measuring over a foot taller than Betsy, the man’s red face revealed his embarrassment at manoeuvring his large hand around her slight frame. In spite of Mr Bostock’s robust appearance, the fellow was timid around the fairer sex, more a gentle giant than an ogre.

“You’ve been out most of the day,” Betsy said, placing the heavy pot on the metal stand. “Knowing you, food will have been the last thing on your mind.”

Thorpe inhaled deeply and gave a satisfied sigh when Betsy removed the lid and the mouth-watering smell filled the room.

“There’s plenty of stew to go around.” Betsy brushed her hands down her skirt and moved towards the door. “I’ll just nip to the kitchen and fetch the bread.”

“I’ll come and help,” Mr Bostock said.

Betsy’s gaze travelled over the man’s broad chest. “If you want to,” she said with a coy shrug.

“Before you go.” Thorpe cleared his throat. “Did you have any visitors this afternoon?”

“Visitors?” Betsy glanced at the ceiling as she considered the question. “Well, Mrs Crowther came for her four o’clock fitting, and Mr Johnson delivered a box of threads.” Betsy pursed her lips. “Oh, and a gentleman called and gave me ten pounds to pay for the repair to the window. But I’m sure you knew that already.”

“Ten pounds?” Thorpe rubbed his chin. “Is that not a little steep?”

Betsy shrugged. “He said it was for the inconvenience.”

“I see.”

There was an awkward moment of silence.

Through a series of odd facial expressions, Daphne reminded her friend that Mr Thorpe deserved recognition for the return of the stolen gowns. And for solving the crime of the broken window.

Betsy pursed her lips. “You have my thanks, sir, for bringing the matter to a swift conclusion. Although I’ll not be able to sell Miss Cartwright’s gown, I can reuse the material. I sent word to Mrs Armstrong-Clarke this afternoon, and she is happy to take receipt of the mourning dress.”

Thorpe’s expression remained impassive. “And I trust you feel more at ease here at home. A lady’s safety is always a priority.”

He glanced at Daphne. Strength radiated from every fibre of his being. She wondered if touching him would be akin to caressing the marble statues one found at the museum. Would he respond as her fingers slid over the muscled contours? Or would he be as cold and detached as those lifeless classical figures?

“Well, the stew will be cold before you’ve taken a mouthful?” Betsy opened the parlour door and jerked her head to Mr Bostock. “We’d best go and get the bread.”

The couple left the room and closed the door.

Left alone, the surrounding air in the parlour thrummed with nervous tension. It was not her imagination. Mr Thorpe looked about the room, at the empty grate, at the pot of stew on the table, at anything to avoid catching her eye.

There was something he wished to say, but it was not like him to be hesitant.

“While you made it clear there was no point questioning the landlord, you failed to mention what you learned from the Turners.” Daphne watched him intently, in the hope his reaction would reveal something of his inner thoughts. “From your solemn mood, am I to understand it was not good news?”

Thorpe gestured to the chair. “May I sit?”

“Of course.”

He waited for Daphne to sit in the chair opposite before dropping into his seat. The wooden legs creaked under the pressure.

“As you rightly said, a gentleman of Thomas’ status must have had a reason to drink in a lowly tavern like The Mariners.” Thorpe shifted uncomfortably in the seat. “The quality of his bloodline did not go unnoticed. The landlord recalls his visits clearly. The nature of Thomas’ death, coupled with his aristocratic breeding, make him an easy man to remember.”

Thorpe had never looked so anxious, so uneasy. “Did the landlord share any insight as to why Thomas might have been there? Was he to meet with someone?”

Thorpe dragged his hand down his face. “You’re acquainted enough with my methods to know I speak my mind. Before I reveal what I discovered, I want to tell you that while the truth is often painful to hear, the heart is happier for it in the end.”

Daphne shuffled to the edge of the chair. “Thomas has been dead three years. The passage of time lessens the blow, makes the truth more bearable. Whatever you have to say, do not spare my feelings.”

An uncomfortable silence ensued.

“Thomas met a woman at The Mariners. It was a regular arrangement by all accounts.” He sucked in a breath, his broad chest expanding before her eyes. “As to the reason for their business, no one knows.”

Daphne chuckled albeit weakly. There were few possibilities to account for Thomas’ actions. “There are only a handful of reasons why a man of his quality would spend time slumming at the docks. Smuggling, spying, and seducing tavern wenches. One thing I can say with certainty is that Thomas was not a criminal. Whatever he was doing there had to be legitimate.”

“And if adultery was the motive?” He seemed almost sorry the words had left his lips.

“Then I must accept that he sought satisfaction elsewhere.” Even though she’d made a tremendous effort to be happy in her marriage, Thomas knew they were not suited in a physical way. “Perhaps I was not enough for him.”

Thorpe shot out of the chair. “Then Thomas was a bloody fool. There’s not a man alive who’d think you inadequate.”

Daphne’s throat grew tight at his uncensored outburst. The compliment touched her. Did Thorpe really hold her in such high regard?

“Forgive me,” he continued though struggled to hold her gaze. “I spoke out of turn. It is not for me to comment on the nature of your relationship with your husband. He loved you. That much I can attest to.”

Daphne could no longer allow ignorance to form the basis of Thorpe’s opinion.

“We were not in love, Daniel.” His given name slipped easily from her lips, yet she noted the look of surprise in his eyes. “Thomas was my friend, and in a strange way my saviour. He was a good man, and I cared for him deeply.” For some reason, she stood too and placed her hand lightly on Thorpe’s chest. “But our marriage lacked the soul-deep love that lasts a lifetime. I have never felt an all-consuming passion. Never felt the ache of physical desire.”

“Never?” He stared at her lips. “You’ve never lost yourself in a moment of unbridled lust?”

Heavens, her body reacted instantly to his rich tone. All she could think about was kissing him, running her hands over his impressive chest, taking him into her willing body.

“Perhaps once,” she said recalling the amorous interlude in his carriage, “in a moment of madness when I was eager to prove a point.”

“Did this passionate event happen to take place recently?”

“It happened only this afternoon.”

His eyes brightened. “Then I must tell you that a single event is not enough to deem a person mad. One must experience the sensation numerous times before a more definitive diagnosis can be made.”

Daphne couldn’t help but smile. “And so, in your expert opinion, are you suggesting I repeat the experience?”

Thorpe moistened his lips. “I am. Though as with any experiment, the conditions must be the same.”

“But I am not in a carriage, Daniel.” She liked the sound of his name. “I am not sitting astride your muscular thighs.”

“It would take but five minutes to run to The Cock Inn and drag Murphy from his supper.”

“You would do that in the name of science?”

“No. I would do it for you.”

Those words were like a potent aphrodisiac. Blood flowed through Daphne’s veins at so rapid a rate she could hear it thundering in her ears. As soon as she stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his, the spark in her belly ignited.

His hand cupped her neck as he deepened the kiss, his groan of appreciation was perhaps the sweetest sound she’d ever heard. So lost in the magic of the moment, she failed to hear the trudge of Bostock’s footsteps coming up the stairs, not until he was almost at the door.

“Bostock …” The word was accompanied by a gasp as Daphne dragged her mouth away and took a step back. “Mr Bostock is at the door.”

Betsy burst into the room carrying a loaf of freshly baked bread. “And so Lady Fairweather said the bigger the skirt the better as she needed somewhere to hide her lover should her husband come looking.”

Betsy loved to gossip.

Mr Bostock snorted. He placed the knife and board on the table. “Those fancy folk still amaze me.”

Daphne glanced up at Thorpe and their gazes locked. Were his thoughts aligned with hers? If this overwhelming need for him continued to grow, it was inevitable they’d become lovers.

But what then?

“Don’t stand there gaping. Come and get your supper, else it will be cold.” Betsy beckoned them over, took charge and portioned the stew between four plates. Bostock took a plate even though he said he’d not long eaten. “You don’t mind if I take my supper here with you?”

“Of course not.” Daphne was glad of a chaperone else she was in danger of giving Thorpe more than her opinion on the case. “We’re incredibly grateful to you for providing such a hearty meal when you’ve had Lady Arnshaw’s gown to finish.”

“Consider it a gesture of my appreciation.”

They all took a seat around the small oak table. Daphne tried to focus on her meal but whenever Thorpe opened his mouth or moistened his lips, her stomach performed strange flips.

“Mr Bostock says they’re to stay the night.” Betsy raised a coy brow at Thorpe’s man seated across the table. The man looked down at his stew though a smile touched his lips.

Daphne almost choked on a piece of beef. It was what she’d expected after the accident in Covent Garden. But after yet another amorous interlude with the brooding Mr Thorpe, how would she sleep knowing he was but a few feet away?

Thorpe cleared his throat. “Bostock can sleep on the sofa in the parlour if Madame Fontaine agrees.”

“You can call me Betsy, Mr Thorpe, or Miss Betsy if you prefer.”

Thorpe nodded. “I shall take a chair and sit outside Mrs Chambers’ door.”

“You can’t sit out in the hall all night. Sleep on the sofa in here.” Daphne gestured to the small blue damask seat. There would be plenty of room if he dangled his legs over the arm. “It will be far more comfortable.”

“Comfort is not a consideration, Mrs Chambers.” Thorpe’s formal tone revealed nothing of his inner emotions. “I want to be certain no one enters your apartments. The best way to do that is to block the only entrance.”

“Why would anyone enter the house?” Betsy frowned. “You said there was nothing to fear now we know who smashed the window and stole the gowns.”

When Thorpe caught Daphne’s gaze, she hoped the inconspicuous shake of the head would communicate her reluctance to involve Betsy in their current investigation.

“While Miss Cartwright confessed to the theft and returned the stolen goods,” Thorpe began, “I have yet to speak to the courtesan’s accomplice, Mr Reynolds. Until I have confirmed her story, I prefer to be cautious.”

“Oh.” Betsy swallowed deeply. “When you came back with the gowns I thought …”

“There is no need for concern,” Daphne said. “Mr Thorpe is nothing if not thorough.”

They ate the rest of their meal in silence.

“Would you mind helping me move a cupboard before you retire, Mr Bostock.” Betsy eyed the man’s muscular arms. They were so large the threads on the seam of his shirt were liable to split at any moment. “It’s too heavy for me, and I’m tired of seeing clutter lying about the place.”

“Of course, Miss Betsy.”

“The wooden frame on the back window is swollen, and it gets ever so hot in the dressing room.” Betsy was determined to make use of having a man on the premises. “Would you mind seeing if you could open it?”

“Not at all, Miss Betsy.”

“Then there’s no time like the present.” Betsy stood, and Bostock followed her to the door.

“Do you need me for anything else this evening?” Bostock directed his question at Mr Thorpe.

“No, but if you could make sure all the doors and windows are secure before you retire I’d be grateful.”

“Right you are.”

Betsy and Mr Bostock left the room. Their animated chatter faded leaving nothing but the constant tick of the mantel clock to fill the silence.

“Let me find you a pillow and a blanket,” Daphne said though she doubted either of them would get much sleep. “A draught blows in through a gap in the window, and it can get cold in here at night.”

“That won’t be necessary. I have no intention of using the sofa.”

Oh, this was ridiculous. His sullen mood was beginning to grate. She was a grown woman who managed her own affairs, not a simpering miss naive enough to succumb to temptation. She had no intention of creeping out in the dark to seduce him.

“Mr Thorpe, why is it that whenever our lips meet, you turn into a brooding beast? Why should one simple kiss cause you to fall into a bout of melancholy?”

“Two kisses,” he corrected. “You’ve kissed me twice, Daphne.”

Daphne stamped her foot in frustration. “Must you be so pedantic?”

“Minute details are important. Surely you know that. One kiss could be considered a mistake. Two kisses might lead a man to jump to other conclusions.” Thorpe tugged at the sleeves of his coat. “But this is a conversation for another time. Now, I ask that you lock the door behind me.”

Lord above, the man was as stubborn as a mule. “But you can’t sleep outside.”

“I have no intention of sleeping.”

Daphne jerked her head back. “But you must be exhausted. No. I’ll not allow you to sit on a hard chair in a dingy hallway while I sleep in a plush bed.”

Thorpe raised an arrogant brow. “Do you know you’re the only woman who has ever attempted to tell me what to do?”

“That’s because most women are too frightened to approach you.”

“But you’re not frightened.”

Daphne considered the comment. In Thorpe’s company, she felt safe. There was no one she trusted more. “No, Daniel. Fear is not the emotion I feel when I think of you.”

His dark gaze softened. “Then know you’re the only woman I would ever listen to. Indeed, the sofa would be more appealing if my intention was to rest my weary bones. But there is no need for concern because I’m going out.”

“Out? At this time of night?” Her tone was that of a jealous wife. “Where are you going?”

“The odd prickling in my gut forces me to go to The Mariners.”

“The Mariners?” Now she sounded like Mrs Montague’s parrot. She knew better than to question the motive of a man who relied on instinct. “Must you go tonight?”

“No doubt it will be a wasted journey.” He took his coat from the stand and shrugged into it. “But I cannot wait until tomorrow.”

“But you told Mr Bostock he could retire for the evening.” The thought of Thorpe going to the docks alone terrified her.

“Bostock will remain here as instructed.”

“Have … have you arranged to meet someone there?” Was he intent on speaking to the woman who’d lured Thomas to drink in the sailors’ den? The last person to see Thomas alive. Daphne looked him in the eye. “Is it the mystery woman the Turners spoke of?”

Jealousy flared. How odd? She’d felt nothing when she discovered Thomas had met with the wench numerous times.

“Her name is Lily Lawson. The Turners said she waits for the Carron whenever it docks. That’s tomorrow by all accounts. But the weather can alter the best-laid plans. As I’ve heard she rents a room in the vicinity, logic says I might find her there tonight.” He brushed his hand through his hair. “I can’t sit around idle when there’s a lead to follow.”

“Then I am coming with you. I shall go out of my mind sitting alone waiting for news.”

Thorpe smiled. “I’d not have it any other way.”