“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?”