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.”