She stared into dark brown eyes that too often looked cold and empty. “But you don’t believe that.”
“Punishing Mr Harrison serves no purpose,” he replied avoiding a more direct answer. “You saw the man. He could barely hold my gaze. It is evident this was his first offence. As long as he reimburses Madame Fontaine for the window, I see no need to pursue the matter.”
“Why did you not simply give Betsy the money yourself?” Daphne knew the answer, but the opportunity to probe Thorpe’s mind proved too tempting.
“Because if I ever need to call on Mr Harrison, I must be certain of his character.”
Surely Thorpe was aware of the discrepancy in his tale. He’d given Mr Harrison the money before learning of his profession. “You mean you require validation,” she clarified. “You want to know that your faith in him is not unfounded.”
“Something like that.”
Large drops of rain landed on Daphne’s face. One glance at the black clouds moving overhead confirmed the heavens were about to unleash a torrent on the mere mortals below.
Thorpe glanced up at the sky. “Come, if we’re quick we might miss the worst of the weather.” He cupped Daphne’s elbow and prompted her to walk back to the bustling Covent Garden market.
“So if Mr Harrison fails to pay for the window and spends the money on gin, what then?” Daphne’s words were lost in the din as they navigated the boisterous crowd rushing to finish their chores.
As expected, a succession of loud rumbles above brought a deluge of rain. Panic ensued. Sellers shouted, desperate to hawk their wares and be heard above the sound of the storm.
Two men barged between them, forcing them apart. A trader’s cries of a sale for the first twenty customers caused a sudden frenzy. Wet or not, everyone wanted a bargain. Everyone wanted to finish their errands and find a dry place to shelter from the downpour.
“God damn,” Thorpe cursed. “Watch where you’re going, man.”
A sea of people swept past them, jostling for a position at the front of the queue as they surged towards the market stall. Hunger made men desperate, but it was the women who abandoned their morals to nudge and elbow others out of the way.
“Thorpe!” Daphne stood on tiptoes, blinked away the rain from her lashes and scanned the crowd looking for a black hat towering above all others. She saw him on the opposite bank of this flood of eager customers.
“Keep moving forward,” he shouted pointing to his carriage parked beyond the market square.
She tucked her arms into her chest — all the bumps and bangs were sure to leave ugly blue bruises — and did as he asked. Having much longer strides, and a frame large enough to make the Devil think twice before taking a swipe, Mr Thorpe reached his carriage before her.
Forced to push and shove, Daphne broke through the crowd. She heaved in a breath, more out of relief than a need for air, and moved towards Thorpe’s vehicle.
Thorpe took two steps towards her but his sharp gaze shot to a point on her left. He shouted something, but the cries of the crowd rang loudly in her ears.
Bless him, he did worry so. With a torturous expression, Thorpe waved for her to hurry but then took to his feet and ran towards her.
The squelching sound of horse’s hooves as it moved from trot to canter on the muddy thoroughfare was the only thing she heard before glancing up and seeing a cart charging towards her. The driver’s broad-brimmed hat obscured his face, probably as a means of protection from the rain, yet he seemed determined in his course.
Could the man not see her?
Did he not realise she was there?
“Look out!” Thorpe cried, but the driver kept his head bowed. “Bloody hell, are you deaf?”
Out of fear of being trampled by the horse, Daphne picked up her skirt and ran. When the driver was but an inch from her shoulder, he glanced up. But it wasn’t shock or fear she saw in his cold eyes — it was determination. The discreet swerve into her was deliberate and sent her flying forward.
Time slowed.
Anticipating the crack of broken bones when she hit the ground, Daphne squeezed her eyes shut as though that would somehow lessen the pain, and waited for the unavoidable impact.
But instead of landing with a thud, strong arms enveloped her and cushioned the fall. Held tight against Thorpe’s hard chest they rolled in the mud — twice, three times, before coming to a stop. They lay motionless for a moment, Thorpe’s huge frame pressing down on her, acting as a shield. Daphne heard his ragged breathing. She gasped to catch her breath and caught the aromatic scent of nutmeg and exotic wood. A faint whiff of lavender added a hint of sophistication. Mr Thorpe smelt divine — so good, it took every effort not to press her lips to his neck and inhale.
When he stood, Daphne felt the loss of his warm body instantly. Blinking to clear her vision and to banish all amorous thoughts of Mr Thorpe, she grabbed his outstretched hand and came to her feet.
“My pelisse is ruined.” She glanced down at the dirty, brown splodges and flicked away remnants of rotten vegetables. “I’ll never get the stains out.”
“Forget about your coat. I’ll buy you a new one.” Thorpe’s voice was hard, stern. “There’s no sign of the cart, but I n