“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.”
Chapter 3
The heavy scent of perfume in the air almost choked him. Daniel put his clenched fist to his mouth and coughed. Madame Fontaine’s parlour reminded him of Mrs Cooper’s brothel, and of the stuffy rooms in the molly-house where he'd once questioned gentlemen wearing powdered wigs and an excessive amount of rouge.
“Don’t sit there,” Madame Fontaine snapped, shooing him away from the chair. The woman pulled the pins from the padded arm and stuck them into the cushion in her hand. “Sit on the sofa.”
Daniel glanced around the room. Luxurious fabrics, reams of ribbon, and an assortment of silk slippers cluttered every available space. The row of wig stands on the sideboard had painted faces and sat
watching the proceedings like disapproving jurors on a bench.
Mrs Chambers stepped forward and assisted the modiste in clearing the seats.
Daniel couldn’t help but sigh while he waited.
“Trust me, Mr Thorpe,” the modiste said, reacting to the sound of his impatience, “if I ruin these fabrics there’ll be little point investigating the theft and broken window. Lady Arnshaw will have me strung up outside Newgate if her gown isn’t ready on time.”
“Surely you have room to store your work elsewhere.”
Madame Fontaine straightened though still only measured an inch over five foot. While her height and slight frame gave an innocent, childlike impression, the woman had the sharp tongue of a seasoned market seller.
“Do you know how much material it takes to make one gown?” Madame Fontaine pushed a strand of golden hair behind her ear like a man seeking satisfaction would cock a pistol. “Only thing is ladies don’t want to see one dress. No. They want a choice of designs, of colours and—”
“Yes, yes.” Daniel waved his hand to silence the woman. “I’ve not come here to discuss dressmaking.” Were it not for his concerns regarding Mrs Chambers’ safety, he’d not have bothered with the modiste at all.
Mrs Chambers appeared at his side and touched his arm. “Let us sit on the sofa, take tea and hear Betsy’s theory about the thief.”