A Simple Case of Seduction

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?”