ever forget a face. I’ll find him even if I have to camp here for a week.” He took her hand and pulled her towards the carriage, his head whipping left and right as he scanned the area. “Get in,” he snapped with some frustration as he held the carriage door open. “Get us the hell out of here, Murphy.”
“Where to, sir?”
“To the house on Church Street,” Thorpe said as he followed Daphne inside and slammed the door.
The vehicle jerked, jolted and trundled on a few paces. A silent minute passed while Murphy negotiated the crowd and until they were rattling along the road at a steady pace. Thorpe shrugged out of his greatcoat and used a handkerchief to wipe rainwater and splashes of mud off his face.
“Remind me to avoid Covent Garden in the afternoon,” Daphne said removing her filthy coat, rolling it into a neat package and placing it on the seat. The hint of amusement in her tone was intended to settle her companion. In truth, she had to sit on her hands to stop them shaking, had to smile to stop her lip from trembling. The image of a giant horse bearing down refused to leave her. Those cold black eyes would revisit her in her sleep.
Thorpe removed his hat and threw it onto the seat next to him. “How the hell are you able to remain so calm when that bloody idiot almost killed you?”
Daphne swallowed. The sound of her erratic heartbeat echoed in her ears. “I doubt the fellow could see where he was going in the rain.”
Thorpe shot forward. Anger emanated from every fibre of his being. “You may be capable of fooling other people, but you cannot fool me. You know damn well he swerved into you intending to cause you harm. The question remains why.”
“Perhaps his hands slipped on the wet reins.” Her tone lacked the conviction necessary to persuade him.
“Or perhaps you’ve not told me everything about this invisible intruder that has stalked you for nigh on three years.”
With a frustrated huff, Thorpe threw himself back in the seat, the carriage rocking violently on its axis. The depth of contempt in his voice was enough to send most men scurrying for cover, but she’d seen enough of fear to know anger was merely a mask.
A tense silence filled the air.
What was she to say — that she suspected Thomas spied for the Crown? Lengthy trips to France stemmed from more than a need to avoid intimacy. Daphne was convinced his appointment at the tavern on that fateful night held the key to the mystery. If only one of the blasted sailors had talked, but loyalty was as ingrained as the sea-salt on their skin.
“My stalker has never threatened physical violence.” No, he preferred to abuse her mind, invade her thoughts.
“So what are you telling me?” He threw his hands in the air. “That the person who stole Lady Hartley’s hat pin hired a man to murder you in Covent Garden?”
“Of course not. The accusations against the staff proved to be unfounded. Lady Hartley suffers from—” Daphne stopped abruptly and drew her head back. “How do you know the lady hired me to find the thief at Hampton Hall?”
Thorpe grunted and glared out of the window.
“Mr Thorpe,” she said to get his attention. “That case was three months ago, long before we were both hired by Lord Wellford and consequently renewed our acquaintance.”
“Lord Wellford hired me,” he corrected. “You were hired by Mrs Dempsey.”
“Does it matter? Together we solved the case.” She offered the sweetest smile she could muster. “Have you been spying on me, sir?”
After a brief look of surprise at her direct approach, he offered an arrogant smirk. “I feel it my duty to keep abreast of your business activities.”
“Your duty?” Oh, how that word irritated her. It brought to mind the letter he’d written after making his marriage offer. The word duty had left her cold then too. “To whom? To your childhood friend who, through his stupidity, can no longer protect his wife? Or does your prying stem from a need to keep ahead of the competition?”
“You’re no competition when it comes to gaining clients.” He folded his arms across his chest. “When it comes to those needing protection, it stands to reason I’d be the obvious choice.”
“I see. You mean a simple case of a stolen hat pin is nothing compared to storming a smugglers’ hideout brandishing a pistol?”
Thorpe’s eyes widened. “How the hell do you know about that?”
“It is my duty, sir, to keep abreast of your whereabouts should you ever need assistance.” It was pure guesswork on her part. Daphne had read about the case in The Times. No names were mentioned, but few men were willing to take on a gang single-handedly. No one else fitted the description of a dark, brooding fellow wearing a billowing greatcoat. Of course, Mr Bostock would have accompanied him. “Had you not taken Bostock, you could have called on me for help.”
A range of emotions flitted across his face: confusion and suspicion being the most obvious. “It seems I’m not the only one with an interest in the competition. But with all due respect, a woman is no match for a man in those situations and certainly no match for Bostock.”
The obstinate oaf had no measure of her skill. “I can assure you, my ability with a blade and pistol surpasses that of most men of my acquaintance.”
“What men?”
“Excuse me?”