Reckless was a word often used to describe a woman paid to pry into other people’s affairs. Tonight, foolish and desperate were accurate descriptions of Daphne’s character too. Why else would she invite Mr Thorpe into her home? Why else would an independent woman agree to his offer of assistance?

A shiver raced through Daphne’s body at the thought of Thorpe’s commanding figure swamping her private space.

Time spent in Mr Thorpe’s company proved exhausting. Disapproval was an expression he wore to intimidate. As a consequence, Daphne was always armed, always alert and ready to challenge his critical opinion. Yet despite her initial anger at finding him camped outside Madame Fontaine’s shop, his presence brought her peace. Indeed, as he followed her into the narrow hallway, his confident aura enveloped her like a cloak of invincibility.

With a gentleman like Thorpe at one’s side, what would a lady have to fear?

“I assume Madame Fontaine is in bed?” Thorpe’s question disturbed her reverie.

Daphne stopped on the second stair leading up to her rooms. Even from her elevated position, Thorpe was still an inch taller. “Betsy rises at five each morning and works until her eyes ache from squinting in the candlelight. At this hour, a bull on the rampage would struggle to wake her.”

Thorpe frowned. “Betsy? Did the woman not train in Paris?”

“Paris? What a lazy assumption. Do you not scrutinise the background of every person you snoop on?” Daphne couldn’t help but tease him. “As a skilled enquiry agent surely you know she hails from Spitalfields and learnt her trade with the Huguenot silk weavers.”

Thorpe’s intense gaze bored into her. “Why would I know that when I am not here to spy on the modiste?”

“So you admit you are here to snoop on me.”

“Snooping is a woman’s hobby,” he said with some disdain. “Spying is a man’s profession.”

“So you’re here purely in a professional capacity?” she said, knowing that he no longer considered her a friend. Thorpe had no friends — other than Mr Bostock.

A dark shadow passed over his face. With his mouth hidden behind the full beard, she imagined his lips drawn thin. “I am here out of concern for a colleague. You may make of it what you will.”

Daphne sighed. The next hour would be long and painful. At least he’d not made a derogatory comment about a woman working. Had that been the case, she’d have thrown him out, which would have been a foolish thing to do under the circumstances.

“Whatever the reason, I am grateful to have someone to talk to.” Daphne turned and climbed the stairs. Fear was the last emotion he would see swimming in her eyes.

The trudge of heavy footsteps confirmed he was following. Daphne led him into the small parlour, a place clean and comfortable yet sparse. One sweeping glance around the room and she knew Thorpe’s mind was engaged in making an assessment.

“Pray, take a seat.” Daphne waved to the chair next to the hearth. “I can light a fire if you’re cold.”

“That won’t be necessary. I have a strong constitution. Nights spent trawling the streets thickens the blood.”

His narrow gaze travelled down the front of her pelisse and lingered on the sturdy brown boots. A man with an eye for detail would note the lack of stockings. With the hour being late, one did not need Aristotle’s grasp of logic to know she wore nothing but a nightgown beneath the coat.

The absence of his greatcoat proved intriguing. Thorpe wore it as a priest did a ceremonial robe. It was a symbol of his work, acted as a means to hide his weapons. The heavy garment conveyed a sense of strength and mystery necessary when dealing with scoundrels.

“Yet you have not been walking the streets tonight, Mr Thorpe.” She inhaled the exotic scent of incense, cheap perfume, and some strange tobacco that lingered in the surrounding air. Despite her skill in deduction, any woman would know where he had been. “Is it true what they say?”

“About what?”

“That one must have a cold heart to bed a whore.”

Despite his blank expression, the muscle in his cheek twitched. “One must have a cold heart and an empty mind. The latter is the reason I left before seeking satisfaction.”

His honesty was refreshing. The comment held a wealth of information that would keep her awake for hours. “Thankfully, there are many ways to achieve fulfilment,” she said, though couldn’t imagine his dark eyes ever glowing with desire. “Your work has always brought contentment.”

“At the risk of sounding patronising, they are entirely different needs.”

Daphne moved to the side table and pulled the stopper from the decanter. As soon as he heard the clink of crystal, he would know her fingers trembled. “I understand passion, Mr Thorpe.” It was a lie. She knew kindness and consideration, but not the burning force that was said to be all-consuming.

Thorpe snorted. “To use the word passion suggests you don’t understand at all. A man feels nothing when he pays for services rendered. Satisfaction is but a fleeting moment.”

“Forgive the error. Lust would have been a more appropriate term.” The blood rushed to her cheeks. Heavens, this would not do. “Even so, as your colleague it is not for me to pry into your personal affairs.”

Glass in hand, Daphne crossed the room and offered him the drink. He gripped the vessel awkwardly around the rim to avoid touching her fingers. Never in all their previous meetings had she noticed the marks on his hand. One raised white line ran from thumb to wrist. A patch of pink almost silvery skin covered one knuckle. They were the hands of a man who’d fought for his position. Was his body littered with similar scars? Was his hollow heart battered and bruised, too?

Thorpe cleared his throat. “As your colleague, I have nothing to hide. If I’m to help give perspective on your case, it is important we understand one another.”

It took all the willpower she possessed not to laugh. The man was a mystery. Opaque. Completely unreadable. Scholars skilled in cracking codes would struggle to decipher his intention.

Daphne gestured to the chair once again. “Then let us sit and get to the matter at hand.”

Only once they’d taken their seats did the size of the room feel inadequate. With barely a few inches between their knees, Daphne focused on his face and the silly beard that hid the sculptured jaw she found far more appealing.

Thorpe swallowed a mouthful of brandy. “Are you moving house?”

Daphne followed his gaze around the room. “Why do you say that?”

“You love to read I recall, yet the shelves are bare. You adore the countryside and yet dusty paintings of fruit hang on the walls. Nothing in this room fits with what I know of your character. Everything is dated, dull and uninspiring.”

Like a naive debutante responding to her first compliment, Daphne’s heart fluttered. Did he think her intelligent and interesting then? “How astute of you. I’m sure if you delve deeper you will find the answer you seek.”

Thorpe inclined his head at the challenge. “When considered in context to what I know of our profession, I’d say you never remain in the same place for long.”

“This is my current abode, not my home. As I’m sure you’re aware, I must be ready to leave at short notice. Personal possessions can be a hindrance. Everything I hold dear fits into a reticule.” Daphne assessed his stern expression. Only a satisfied sigh revealed the true nature of his thoughts. “Am I to assume you approve of my logical approach to work?”

“Regardless of your approach, I have never approved of your work,” Thorpe replied bluntly, his eyes as cold and lifeless as the ash in the grate. “But when one understands the dangers, as you obviously do, one can avoid any mishaps.”

It was Daphne’s turn to sigh. Despite taking numerous precautions over the years, her quarry always found her. The stranger never approached her directly, never sent threatening letters or hid in dark doorways waiting to pounce. Even so, she knew the moment he’d entered her house. The faceless creature touched nothing, took nothing. Like a ghost, he breezed in and out without a trace though his ominous energy lingered.

“What happened to Madame Fontaine’s window?” Thorpe’s voice drew her attention.

“Someone threw a stone and smashed the glass.”

Thorpe shuffled in the chair. “Someone?”

“We were in our beds and woke to the sound of it shattering.” Whilst in a dreamlike state, Daphne had thought it was thunder.

“What time was this?”

“Around six o’clock. The costermongers were passing through with their barrows, and the milkmaid was delivering to a house in the street. A penny each bought a description of the culprit. The man was tall, lithe, staggered along the pavement mumbling to himself.”

“And his clothes?”

“Clean. Neat. Those of a gentleman.”

“And what conclusion did you draw?” Thorpe swallowed a mouthful of brandy, his beady gaze watching her intently over the rim of the glass. Possessing the power to unnerve with a single look, the man should have donned a wig and taken the bench. “Do you believe it a drunken prank?”

“I rather hope so. But you would be surprised what secrets ladies tell their modiste. As you know, information from Madame Fontaine assisted me in our last case. But disclosing personal information can be dangerous.”

“That does not answer the question.”

Daphne shrugged. “The truth is I have no idea. It could have been a drunken prank. It could have been someone with a grudge. Madame Fontaine is making a gown for an important client and has until tomorrow to finish it. Consequently, I have not had an opportunity to question her fully on the matter.”

“But you do not think it is the same person who broke into Madame Fontaine’s shop earlier this week?”

Thorpe was speaking of the theft, not of the mysterious shadow-of-a-man who followed Daphne from place to place.

“Logic would suggest they are different men,” she said. The thought of three unidentified gentlemen with revenge in their hearts proved unsettling. “The thief entered the shop at night under a blanket of darkness. He stole two of Madame Fontaine’s gowns, slippers and gloves to match. The gentleman who smashed the window did so in front of witnesses. Such erratic behaviour suggests anger, resentment, an irrational person.”

Thorpe straightened. His broad, impressive shoulders filled her line of vision. A lady would have nothing to fear in his company. Wrapped in his arms, one would fall into a deep and peaceful slumber.

“Tell me about your last case.” Thorpe’s business-like tone shook Daphne from her fanciful musings. “The one prior to the work we did for Lord Harwood and Mrs Dempsey.”

“What, you think a previous client is responsible for the incidents that have occurred here this week?” Daphne had considered the possibility. In their line of work, one expected a level of animosity.

“Perhaps.”

“While I am happy to disclose information, for obvious reasons I shall be vague.” Clients insisted on anonymity. If she broke a trust or confidence, she’d never work again. “My client hired me to gather written proof of her husband's infidelity, proof he kept a mistress in town. The lady—”

“I want names and places,” Thorpe interjected.

Others did his bidding without question. Out of loyalty. Out of fear. She was not so easily intimidated.

“You know I cannot divulge the name of my client.” Daphne stared into his dark eyes, determined to remain resolute. In the warm glow of candlelight, the faint amber flecks accentuated his wild, feral appeal.

Thorpe stood abruptly. The sudden movement caused Daphne’s heart to shoot up to her throat. “Then there is little point me being here.” He stomped over to the side table and placed his glass on the tray. “I’m not in the habit of investigating ghosts.”

Ghosts!

Did Mr Thorpe possess the ability to read her mind?

“Why … why do you say that?” Daphne rose slowly from the chair. “Do you know something? Is that the real reason you watch the house?”

The deep frown marring his brow answered her questions. Confusion and then suspicion flashed in his eyes. “There is something you’re not telling me.” With a sense of urgency he scanned her from head to toe. His assessing gaze moved past her shoulder and swept the room once again. “Despite your efforts to hide it, you’re frightened.”

Daphne sucked in a breath. “As you’ve said many times before, though I work in a man’s world I am still a woman.” His gaze dropped briefly to her breasts swaddled in the thick pelisse, and for a moment she struggled to breathe. “What is the point of pretending I have your strength and hardened heart? Yes, I’m frightened, Mr Thorpe. Is that what you want to hear?”

Thorpe stepped closer, his menacing aura replaced by something else though she knew not what. “Then trust me. Let me help you. Together we will discover who stole Madame Fontaine’s clothes, who smashed her window.”

Would he find the man who haunted her, too?

Though loath to admit it, she needed him. Recent events had left her mind muddled.

“But you must be honest with me,” Thorpe continued. “If I’m to help find the thief, I need to build a full picture of your life. I need names, details of previous cases.”

Daphne shook her head. “Would you divulge personal information if I asked about your work?”

“Colleagues may share notes. Equally, if you hire my services, I guarantee utmost discretion.”

“Hire your services?” Daphne smiled. “And remind me of your fee, Mr Thorpe.”

“What I want money cannot buy, Mrs Chambers. All I ask is that you trust me with the truth.”

The cryptic comment intrigued her. Thorpe didn’t strike her as a man who craved material possessions. So what was he searching for? How did he define happiness when he appeared detached from all emotion?

A vision of him sitting alone in a dark room, his brooding gaze focused on the dying embers in the hearth, flashed into her mind. The life of an enquiry agent was often lonely, one fraught with mistrust and suspicion. No one would blame him for having a cynical view of life. But that was not the reason he wore an impenetrable suit of armour.

“If the truth is the price I’m to pay for your expert opinion, then so be it.” Daphne resisted the urge to place her palm on his chest. Would she feel his heart beating beneath the shield of steel? Or was it buried so deep not even he knew it was there? “But you must allow me to invite you to dinner by way of thanks. I am considered quite a good cook, and from the breadth of your chest and shoulders I imagine you have a healthy appetite.”

For a fleeting moment his eyes brightened, but he blinked and it was gone. “I have yet to meet a servant who's happy to share her chores with her mistress.”

“And you certainly won’t meet one here. I have no use for a maid or housekeeper.”

“Are you telling me you live here alone?” The hard edge to his tone spoke of disapproval.

“Not entirely alone. Betsy occupies the rooms downstairs.”

Thorpe stared at her, his expression unreadable. “A lady should not be without an attendant.”

“In the same way it is objectionable for a lady to work?”

“Indeed.” Thorpe muttered something, the words incoherent. “Thomas would never have permitted you to wander the streets at night without a chaperone.”

The mere mention of her husband brought a host of memories flooding back. Was the ghost haunting her the same man who’d killed Thomas and discarded his body in the Thames?

“Thomas is dead, Mr Thorpe. As his oldest friend, I would expect you to share his concerns, but there is little point dwelling on the way things should be. I am a widow without means and must make my own choices.”

“The man I know would not have left you in such a financial predicament.”

Daphne raised her chin. “Some things are unavoidable. But you’re right, he would be livid to learn I work for a living.” Now was not the time to reminisce. “And regarding the matter of servants, is it not a rule of business never to form emotional attachments?” Caring for other people was considered a weakness. “A servant or paid companion would be an easy target for a man with a mind for revenge.”

Thorpe’s cheek twitched. “Unless one’s companion is Bostock.”

“Regardless of what others perceive, Mr Bostock is your friend and associate, not your servant.” Even so, she imagined Bostock’s hulking frame and meaty fists proved useful when dealing with scoundrels. “And yes, I would sleep easier in my bed knowing so capable a man was but a few feet away.”

“I can arrange for Bostock to accompany you on your outings, to keep guard at your door, though I must advise against taking another case until we have confirmed that the incidents regarding Madame Fontaine bear no real threat.”

“Surely Mr Bostock has more important things to do.” Taking a new case was the last thing on her mind. Renting new rooms was her priority — and ensuring no one wished Betsy any harm.

Thorpe took a step closer. “Nothing is as important as your safety.”

The hint of sincerity in his tone stole her breath. Did he care? Or did he feel duty bound to protect his friend’s widow?

“And so I shall return mid-morning,” he continued. “In the meantime, you should prepare Madame Fontaine for questioning.”

“Prepare her?” Daphne snorted. “Is it to be an inquisition? Should I ready a potion that loosens the tongue?”

“As you know, I am not a man to mince words. Most people find my approach intimidating. Like most people, your modiste will no doubt consider me rude.”

Daphne resisted the urge to chuckle. Never had she met a woman as direct as Betsy. The personae of elegant modiste was so opposed to her true character. Not that Thorpe would care. The man was adept at handling any situation. Even so, Daphne welcomed the opportunity to test his resolve, to see surprise or any other emotion spark to life in his eyes.

“Very well, I shall warn Betsy of your stern disposition.”

Thorpe brushed a hand through his dark hair and covered the few steps to the door. “Stay inside. There is no need to see me out.” He glanced at her boots. “A lady should not stand at the door in her nightdress, even if a pelisse covers her modesty.”

“And a gentleman would have left the moment he noted the state of her undress.”

“I am not known for my gentlemanly qualities.”

“And as a working woman, I am not considered a lady.”

Thorpe raised a brow. “Don’t press me on the topic. I doubt you want to hear my opinion.”

“Then I shall bid you goodnight.”

Thorpe opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. “I have an early appointment but should be finished by eleven. I trust Madame Fontaine can spare the time.”

“Eleven is perfect.”

He lingered in the dim corridor. “Should there be any new developments, send word to the Museum Tavern on Great Russell Street. Tell the landlord that your father worked at The Dog and Duck. He’ll ask for a description. The answer is Blackbeard. Tell him you have a design for a new dress and I shall know where to come.”

Daphne stared at him, impressed by the system he used to protect his identity. Taking precautions was an inevitable part of their business.

“Thank you, although I doubt we’ll need to pester you further.”

Thorpe inclined his head. “Goodnight, Mrs Chambers.”

“Goodnight, Mr Thorpe.”

Daphne watched him descend the stairs. He stopped halfway down and looked at her through the gap in the balusters. “Perhaps you too should take the time to prepare yourself for an interrogation. Once I’ve spoken to Madame Fontaine, you will tell me the real reason you struggle to sleep at night.”