A Simple Case of Seduction Read online

  A Simple Case of Seduction

  Adele Clee

  Contents

  Also by Adele Clee

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Thank you!

  The Mysterious Miss Flint

  Chapter 1

  Also by Adele Clee

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.adeleclee.com

  A Simple Case of Seduction

  Copyright © 2017 Adele Clee

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9955705-2-8

  The Mysterious Miss Flint (excerpt)

  Copyright © 2017 Adele Clee

  All rights reserved.

  Cover designed by Jay Aheer

  Books by Adele Clee

  To Save a Sinner

  The Secret To Your Surrender

  What Every Lord Wants

  A Curse of the Heart

  Anything for Love Series

  What You Desire

  What You Propose

  What You Deserve

  What You Promised

  The Brotherhood Series

  Lost to the Night

  Slave to the Night

  Abandoned to the Night

  Lured to the Night

  Chapter 1

  The thick smoke wafted through the Turkish-inspired bedchamber. The heavy scent of spice and strange tobacco clawed at the back of Daniel Thorpe’s throat. He waved his hand in front of his face in a bid to breathe clean air, resisted the urge to cough and splutter. The sound of raucous laughter, coupled with the satisfied grunts of other patrons in the rooms adjacent, made it impossible to listen to his inner voice.

  The ebony-haired woman sat on her knees and gestured to the bed. “Are you going to stand there all night? Do you not like what you see?”

  Daniel shook his head and tried to focus on her bare breasts, hoping to rouse a sliver of enthusiasm.

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  Many times he had sated his lust in a similar way. Many times he had buried himself deep inside a woman, thrust long and hard to eradicate the image of Daphne Chambers.

  But the time spent in Mrs Chambers’ company these last two weeks had taken its toll. The widow’s alluring essence had penetrated his skin, seeped into his blood. Whenever his mind was quiet, he could hear the seductive lilt of her voice, the sound like a siren’s song singing to his most primal of needs.

  Bloody hell!

  Had he not learnt anything over the years?

  Like a fool, he believed his forged armour strong enough to withstand her attack. But he failed to appreciate the power of her mystical presence.

  “Damn it all.” The bitter words burst from his lips.

  In response to his sudden outburst, the naked woman crept across the red satin sheet like a panther stalking its prey. She grabbed the waistband of his breeches and tried to pull him closer to the bed. “Nerves is it? Do you want a helpin’ hand?”

  Masculine pride forced him to take hold of her chin, claim her lips and thrust his tongue into her mouth. The act did nothing to ease the deep sense of longing filling his chest. It did nothing to flame his desire, to banish the ghosts of the past.

  He broke on a curse. “Damnation. I must leave.”

  “Leave? Leave!” The woman palmed her breasts as though he had failed to appreciate their magnificence. “I’ve never had a man leave once he’s paid.”

  “Keep the money,” Daniel snapped. “My decision bears no reflection on your ability to please. I have pressing business elsewhere.”

  “That’s all well for you to say. What if other men hear you left without so much as a grunt or groan?” She gathered the sheet to cover her modesty though the action conveyed contempt as opposed to bashfulness.

  Daniel dragged his hand down his face. He took his coat from the chair and shrugged into it. “Here.” Taking two sovereigns from his pocket, he threw them onto the bed. “They should ease your concerns.”

  Without another word, he strode from the room and descended the stairs as if late for an appointment. As always, his carriage was waiting outside. The streets were not safe for a man of his profession although a fight would ease the deep-rooted need clawing within. One man, or even two, would not prove to be a problem for someone skilled with his fists. But those intent on revenge often used dishonourable methods to achieve their goal.

  “New Bond Street,” he called to his coachman, Murphy.

  “Aye, sir. Same place as last night?”

  The innocent question caused anger to flare. Why could he not stay away? Why could he not push Mrs Chambers from his thoughts and be done with it?

  “Indeed,” he said, knowing he would not sleep until dawn, until certain no one entered Madame Fontaine’s shop uninvited. “The fog has lifted. I shall need you to wait a little further along the street tonight.”

  Murphy nodded. “Right you are, sir.”

  Daniel climbed into the carriage, threw himself back into the seat and buried his head in his hands. The rhythmical rocking of his conveyance did little to soothe his irate mood.

  Although loath to admit it, Daphne Chambers was an accomplished enquiry agent. So why did she insist on living above the modiste shop? Why did she not understand the importance of privacy? Why was she so damn stubborn?

  If only he had been outside Madame Fontaine’s on the night the thief entered the premises. The matter would have been dealt with swiftly. And he would not be consumed with the need to protect the one woman he desperately wanted to avoid. The thought of Mrs Chambers waking to find the rogue in her home caused his heart to thump wildly in his chest.

  Why would she not accept that London was a dangerous place for a lady on her own?

  The carriage rumbled to a halt outside Brown’s pawnbrokers. From this location, he had a perfect view of the modiste shop. Yet what he saw hit him like a whip to the face. The wooden board covering the large front window had not been there last night. Curiosity burned. Anger flared. He suppressed the urge to pound the door and demand to know the reason behind this recent addition. But then an argument would ensue, and Mrs Chambers would shoo him away as one did a mangy dog.

  With hours to wait until dawn, he folded his arms across his chest and settled down to keep watch. Few people walked the streets at such an early hour of the morning. Every noise: the clip of shoes on the pavement, the closing of a sash, captured his attention.

  When a carriage rattled up and stopped outside Madame Fontaine’s, the blood rushed through Daniel’s veins so rapidly he could not sit still. Without thought, he pulled the pistol from the box under his seat, opened the door and vaulted down.

  Roundin
g the suspicious vehicle, he saw a figure lingering in the doorway. The gentleman’s top hat sat askew. His blue velvet coat was crumpled and creased. He stood but a foot from the door, his hands hidden from view.

  “What business do you have here?” Daniel’s blunt tone did not rouse a response.

  The gentleman burped, wobbled, but did not turn around.

  “Show me your damn hands,” Daniel insisted, “else you’ll feel my bullet in your back.”

  “W-what?” The man attempted to swing around but lost his balance and ended up in a heap on the ground. “Can a man not take a piss in peace?” He blinked, his eyes growing wide as he noted the barrel of a pistol aimed at his head. “I … I … don’t shoot.” With one hand raised he scrambled to his feet.

  Daniel’s gaze drifted to the wet patch on the wall, and to the thin stream trickling towards the gutter. “You have ten seconds to return to your carriage and be on your way. The streets are unsafe at night. Should your bladder prove weak in future, I suggest you carry a pot beneath your seat.” Gripping the pistol with one hand, Daniel removed his watch and flicked open the lid. “Now you have five seconds.”

  Clutching his top hat to his head the gentleman scurried to his vehicle, and the conveyance charged away.

  Left alone at Madame Fontaine’s door, Daniel contemplated knocking. But what would he say? Mrs Chambers would berate him for his interference.

  With a disgruntled sigh and pistol in hand, Daniel returned to his carriage.

  A long, lonely hour passed.

  Sleep beckoned.

  But his heavy lids sprang open at the sudden sliver of light in the upstairs window. He saw her then — Mrs Chambers. She peered out onto the street before closing the drapes.

  In the dark confines of the small space, his mind concocted a host of images to account for her movements. He imagined her undressing slowly, sliding in between crisp white sheets, her ebony hair splayed across the pillow. In his fanciful musings, she appeared vulnerable. She needed him — wanted him. Rather than hear her clipped words, he heard the sweet moans of pleasure.

  Bloody hell!

  He should have taken the wench at the brothel when he had the chance.

  Movement in the upstairs window caught his attention. Once again, she glanced out onto the street. With the absence of any light in the room beyond, he could not tell if she wore a dress or nightclothes. Not that it mattered.

  Minutes passed.

  The drapes twitched.

  Damn.

  He considered leaving.

  A shadow appeared in the doorway. The shapely figure lingered, glanced left and right before striding across the road towards him. As always, the lady presented an amusing contradiction. The pelisse buttoned up to her throat was so opposed to her black hair draped seductively over one shoulder.

  She ground to a halt at the door of his carriage and rapped twice on the glass.

  With a muttered curse he lowered the window. “Good evening, Mrs Chambers.”

  “Evening? I think you’ll find it is almost morning, Mr Thorpe. And this is the third night in a row that you have sat outside my door.”

  Daniel cleared his throat, purely because he did not know what to say.

  She raised a brow. “Now, either you’re in desperate need of funds and cannot wait for Mr Brown to open his shop, or you’re intent on snooping.”

  “Snooping? Madam, snooping is the pastime of a gossip or a debutante with her eye on a suitor.”

  “Then pray tell me why you’re here, Mr Thorpe.”

  What was he supposed to say? That he felt responsible for her. That in securing her safety he hoped for a night when she did not monopolise his dreams.

  “I heard about the theft.”

  She seemed surprised. “And you thought I might have use of your investigative services?”

  “Do you need my services?” Perhaps he’d gone about this the wrong way. Perhaps the best way to keep the woman safe was to work alongside her. With any luck, he would grow tired of her company.

  Her bottom lip trembled. To disguise it, she wrapped her arms across her chest and shivered. “That depends on your fee.”

  A black cloud descended to darken his mood. Did she think so little of him? “For you, I would waive my fee and any expenses incurred. A lady must feel safe in her home.”

  Fear flashed in her eyes. It hit him like a barbed arrow to his heart. So much for his blasted armour.

  “As much as I hate to admit it, I would value your opinion,” Mrs Chambers said.

  “Sometimes you can be too close to a case to think objectively.”

  He inclined his head in agreement. “Then tell me when and where we should meet and I shall do my utmost to attend.”

  “There is no time like the present.” She gestured to the house behind her. “I find I cannot sleep and so, if you have no prior engagement, you are welcome to come inside.”

  Daniel swallowed. To sit next to her on the sofa and relax in her private residence would create a level of intimacy best avoided. A heart hardened to all emotion brought a sense of peace. Would time spent in her company disturb his equilibrium, force him to address feelings long since buried?

  Suppressing a sigh, he inclined his head. “Do you have something strong to drink?”

  “I have brandy, Mr Thorpe. It often helps after a difficult case.”

  No case had ever taxed him to that extent. But working with Daphne Chambers would test his resolve, lead him to question his sanity. “Then I accept your hospitality,” he said, despite grave reservations. “And you may tell me all about the pressing problem keeping you awake at night.”

  Chapter 2

  Reckless was a word often used to describe a woman paid to pry into other people’s affairs. Tonight, foolish and desperate were accurate descriptions of Daphne’s character too. Why else would she invite Mr Thorpe into her home? Why else would an independent woman agree to his offer of assistance?

  A shiver raced through Daphne’s body at the thought of Thorpe’s commanding figure swamping her private space.

  Time spent in Mr Thorpe’s company proved exhausting. Disapproval was an expression he wore to intimidate. As a consequence, Daphne was always armed, always alert and ready to challenge his critical opinion. Yet despite her initial anger at finding him camped outside Madame Fontaine’s shop, his presence brought her peace. Indeed, as he followed her into the narrow hallway, his confident aura enveloped her like a cloak of invincibility.

  With a gentleman like Thorpe at one’s side, what would a lady have to fear?

  “I assume Madame Fontaine is in bed?” Thorpe’s question disturbed her reverie.

  Daphne stopped on the second stair leading up to her rooms. Even from her elevated position, Thorpe was still an inch taller. “Betsy rises at five each morning and works until her eyes ache from squinting in the candlelight. At this hour, a bull on the rampage would struggle to wake her.”

  Thorpe frowned. “Betsy? Did the woman not train in Paris?”

  “Paris? What a lazy assumption. Do you not scrutinise the background of every person you snoop on?” Daphne couldn’t help but tease him. “As a skilled enquiry agent surely you know she hails from Spitalfields and learnt her trade with the Huguenot silk weavers.”

  Thorpe’s intense gaze bored into her. “Why would I know that when I am not here to spy on the modiste?”

  “So you admit you are here to snoop on me.”

  “Snooping is a woman’s hobby,” he said with some disdain. “Spying is a man’s profession.”

  “So you’re here purely in a professional capacity?” she said, knowing that he no longer considered her a friend. Thorpe had no friends — other than Mr Bostock.

  A dark shadow passed over his face. With his mouth hidden behind the full beard, she imagined his lips drawn thin. “I am here out of concern for a colleague. You may make of it what you will.”

  Daphne sighed. The next hour would be long and painful. At least he’d not made a derog
atory comment about a woman working. Had that been the case, she’d have thrown him out, which would have been a foolish thing to do under the circumstances.

  “Whatever the reason, I am grateful to have someone to talk to.” Daphne turned and climbed the stairs. Fear was the last emotion he would see swimming in her eyes.

  The trudge of heavy footsteps confirmed he was following. Daphne led him into the small parlour, a place clean and comfortable yet sparse. One sweeping glance around the room and she knew Thorpe’s mind was engaged in making an assessment.

  “Pray, take a seat.” Daphne waved to the chair next to the hearth. “I can light a fire if you’re cold.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I have a strong constitution. Nights spent trawling the streets thickens the blood.”

  His narrow gaze travelled down the front of her pelisse and lingered on the sturdy brown boots. A man with an eye for detail would note the lack of stockings. With the hour being late, one did not need Aristotle’s grasp of logic to know she wore nothing but a nightgown beneath the coat.

  The absence of his greatcoat proved intriguing. Thorpe wore it as a priest did a ceremonial robe. It was a symbol of his work, acted as a means to hide his weapons. The heavy garment conveyed a sense of strength and mystery necessary when dealing with scoundrels.

  “Yet you have not been walking the streets tonight, Mr Thorpe.” She inhaled the exotic scent of incense, cheap perfume, and some strange tobacco that lingered in the surrounding air. Despite her skill in deduction, any woman would know where he had been. “Is it true what they say?”

  “About what?”

  “That one must have a cold heart to bed a whore.”

  Despite his blank expression, the muscle in his cheek twitched. “One must have a cold heart and an empty mind. The latter is the reason I left before seeking satisfaction.”

  His honesty was refreshing. The comment held a wealth of information that would keep her awake for hours. “Thankfully, there are many ways to achieve fulfilment,” she said, though couldn’t imagine his dark eyes ever glowing with desire. “Your work has always brought contentment.”