Chapter 1

Adead man lay at Grace's feet.

She wished she could say this was the first time this kind of thing had ever happened—it wasn't. Neither was it the second time nor the third.

In her four and thirty years of existence, Grace had come across a lot of death. She had mourned the loss of loved ones unjustly taken away too soon. She had seen her enemies vanquished, finally paying the price for their heinous misdeeds. She had even come across the lifeless bodies of people on the streets, people she hadn't known before stumbling upon their corpses.

After all this, she wished she could say that death didn't bother her anymore.

It still did.

And perhaps the moment it stopped affecting her would be the moment she, too, would be no longer alive.

Death was supposed to be a part of her past, however. Not that she expected to live forever and be surrounded by eternal creatures… Perhaps she had worded it wrong.

Murder was supposed to be a part of her past.

She had moved on. She had built a life of relative luxury. And yes, she was still surrounded by dangerous elements, but she had never expected those elements to follow her to her establishment.

Grace watched the lifeless body of the man before her, the light of the candelabra in her hand casting ugly shadows on the already gruesome scene. Gasps of terror and horrified whispers filled the corridor. The guards tried to keep everyone away from the room as Grace waited for…. what?

With this many witnesses, how was she to dispose of the body or explain the poor man's plight?

She recognized him despite his lifeless eyes and the pool of blood that surrounded his body and marred his face.

He was one of the regulars. Lord Portsmouth.

An aristocrat.

A death that could not be ignored.

Harmony, who now cowered in the corner of the room, hugging herself as loud sobs exited her chest, was supposed to be the one to service him tonight. Instead, she had found his lifeless body.

A crowd of onlookers kept peering into the room, speculating in hushed tones, whispering their suspicions.

Had a harlot killed her client? How curious, indeed!

Clients weren't left alone in the rooms for long. One, two minutes at the most.

The pristine condition of Harmony's clothes indicated that she hadn't come into contact with the murdered man's blood. So, she couldn't have killed him.

Not that Grace had thought she did, but others would. It was logical to suspect the person who discovered the body first. It was easy to suspect a whore.

Harmony was a dainty woman, too. She would never be able to overpower a man twice her size. Would people take that into consideration before wrapping a noose around her neck?

Grace's eyes flicked to the wall with leather straps. Perhaps if he was tied down…

That wall was a good few feet away from the body, and there were no blood marks on the floor to suggest he had been dragged.

No. This man was killed right here, in the middle of the room, in the few minutes between the time Patience—the hostess—had led him to the room and when Harmony had arrived.

He was attacked, gutted, and left to die. Then, the murderer simply disappeared into thin air. Grace glanced at the secret passage behind her. Or rather, into thin walls.

A limited number of people knew about the existence of the secret passage and fewer still knew how to access it. And all of them worked at the brothel. All of them were gathered in the corridor, their clothes clean, their coiffures in place—they simply wouldn't have had time to commit the murder with that kind of efficiency. More importantly, all of them were harlots—therefore, they would not be believed by officials and aristocrats.

Loud footsteps echoed down the corridor, an authoritative voice commanding the crowd to disperse.

Terrific. Constables! Just what she needed.

Grace turned to Patience. "Lead everyone out of the building."

Patience nodded and started herding everyone away.

Grace uttered a quick prayer under her breath. Perhaps her luck hadn't run out yet. Many constables were easily bribed with earthly delights. A few coins and they might be persuaded to forget where exactly they had found the body of the dead aristocrat. Add an offer of free patronage of her brothel and they might even toss the man's lifeless body into the alley nearby, then issue a statement that The House of Pain and Pleasure had nothing to do with the murder, and perhaps Grace's business would survive.

Perhaps death had stopped affecting her. After all, she was able to so easily disregard the situation as long as her business was safe.

But did she have another choice?

Grace didn't have an easy life. She had learned that one needed to make quick, uncompromising decisions to survive in this world.

Running a brothel as a female in St. Giles was hard enough. Making it notorious was even harder.

Surviving a scandal after a murder had occurred there? Impossible.

"Stop!" the booming voice echoed through the corridor. The hurried shuffle of feet followed the hushed words and murmurs.

Then silence, except for the clicks of the shadowy figure's heels sounding in the stillness of the night, each step sending chills up Grace's spine.

Grace had navigated London's dirty streets since she was a young girl. She had slept beneath the open sky, dealt with bandits and drunken sailors—hell, she'd worked side by side with the most feared man in town, whom people called Hades. She used to be his advisor, a friend. It took a lot to make Grace shiver.

Yet tension crackled in the air, making her hair stand on end.

The footsteps slowed as the man reached the threshold. There was a beat of eerie silence as blood rushed to Grace's ears. She felt deep in her soul that she was in trouble.

Then the man stepped forward, revealing his dark features inch by terrifying inch. Grace's heart lodged in her throat.

Not a constable.

She should have known. They had never struck fear into her heart. They had never posed a threat. But this man did.

For standing before her was the famously meticulous, incredibly tenacious, and notoriously unbribable thief-taker, Ford Gunning.

Oh, yes, and he had a deep-seated hatred for all the brothels and gaming dens, especially since his only sister had married the most infamous Hell owner in London, the King of London's underbelly, and Grace's former employer—Hades.

Mr. Gunning glanced at the prone dead man for a moment before his gaze slowly glided up her body until he met her eyes, his own gaze devilish in his directness. His dark hair was pulled back in a neat queue as if even his hair wouldn't dare disobey his commands.

"Who found him?" he asked gruffly.

He didn't seem to recognize her. Good.

They'd met before, but there was no reason he'd remember. It was a few years ago, and only for a few hours while his sister was recovering after the drowning incident, and Grace had been taking care of her.

Grace wasn't wearing a disguise back then, either. Currently, she had a ton of powder and rouge obscure her face, her lips outlined to make them appear thinner, and kohl over her eyes to make them appear wider. She was also wearing a tall, white wig and ridiculously bright red attire with white ruffles. In short, she looked like every harlot in her brothel.

"I did, Monsieur," she lied, affecting a faux French accent. She would not betray Harmony; the poor woman would crumble under pressure. It was better if everyone suspected her—a her in disguise, a her that didn't exist in real life. That way, she could shed her disguise and disappear into the night, with no one being the wiser.

"And you are?" Gunning barked, as if he were incapable of asking full questions in a polite manner. She shouldn't have been surprised. Nothing about this man indicated he was polite.

Uncivilized was more like it. Wild, even. Or perhaps he didn't want to waste his breath on a harlot.

"Madame Tricheuse," she lied easily and dipped into a curtsy, her body swaying sensually as she let her gaze linger appreciatively on his form.

One thing Grace had learned during her life was that it was easier to escape from a man's grasp using flirtation rather than force.

Her tactic seemed to be working as Gunning's eyes lingered on her bosom. He quickly tore his eyes away, red spots appearing on the crest of his cheeks, obviously embarrassed that he had so easily fallen into the trap and lost concentration, if just for a moment.

Grace always enjoyed getting the upper hand in confrontations with big, frightening men who aimed to intimidate. And intimidate was exactly what this man wanted to do—with his lowered brows, his lips thinned into a line, his curt phrases, and his towering physique.

They both drew their weapons: she—flirtation, he—intimidation. Both were determined not to back down, waiting to see who would flinch first in their duel of wills.

Grace had much higher stakes on the line. For if she lost, she could be hanging on a noose in a few short days.

"And you are?" she asked softly.

His shoulders straightened, surprise flickering across his features. He couldn't even fathom not being recognized. Conceited. "Ford Gunning," he finally said with an incline of his head. "The thief-taker. Two constables are out in the hall, making sure nobody exits this…" he paused, disgust twisting his features, "establishment."

The thief-taker dropped his eyes to the dead body on the floor, then crouched down to examine it closely. Grace glanced at the corridor, where the panicked crowd was being directed away from the room by the constables. She briefly locked eyes with Collette, one of her trusted colleagues, and nodded affirmatively.

Leave. Go quickly but silently, her gaze commanded.

With a quick nod, Collette grabbed Harmony by her sleeve and disappeared into the crowd. Grace moved across the room, shielding the fleeing women from the thief-taker.

"Please, do not move, Miss Tricheuse," Gunning warned. "Wouldn't want you leaving this room too soon."

"Madame," she corrected him. "And I wouldn't dream of leaving." Not through this door, anyway.

"The constables will apply force if necessary," he continued his threats. "They will ensure no one leaves this place until I say so. And I won't say so until I am satisfied with my findings."

"Of course, Monsieur Gunning." She dipped her head. "We always make sure our guests leave… satisfied." She coupled a salacious lilt to the last word with a deliberate, lingering glance down his body before meeting his eyes again.

His gaze narrowed as he watched her carefully. Grace boldly stared back. The thief-taker knew she had something up her sleeve, and by the look in his eyes, he was frustrated he couldn't figure out exactly what. She wasn't going to reveal her cards this easily, however. She was rather enjoying their little stare-down.

A few gentlemen passed by the room in the opposite direction from the constables. Of course, the aristocrats would be allowed to leave.

Most clients had already fled the premises at the first signs of trouble, scurrying to alert the constables before running away like the cowards they were.

Those who remained—the curious, drunken, and slow—were being swiftly let go. The rich and titled would never be confined in a brothel under suspicion of murdering one of their own. Only the brothel workers would be rounded up and locked away like animals in the very chambers where unspeakable depravities had occurred just moments ago.

They would be the ones under suspicion, and more than likely, held responsible for this murder. Unless Grace drew all the attention to herself.

"Locked all the suspects in a couple of rooms, Chief." One constable poked his head in.

"Good," Gunning said without raising his head. "Guard the doors. Make sure no one leaves. I shall be right there to question them."

With a nod, the constable slunk away, but not before throwing a lingering gaze down Grace's body. And then he blew her a kiss for good measure.

Grace was used to being regarded as an object of one's lust and nothing more. She just hoped she could use that to her advantage with the thief-taker. So far, he didn't seem to pay her any heed.

Still crouching by the body, Gunning raised his gaze to hers. "When did you find him?"

Grace plastered a pleasant smile. "Just a few moments ago, Monsieur."

"And he was already dead," he stated rather than asked.

"Oui, just like this." She spread her arms, the flames of the candelabra dancing with the sharp movement. "Dead."

The thief-taker was studying the ugly gash across the murdered man's abdomen as if the wound would tell him how it got there and who did this to the poor man.

Grace brought a candelabra closer to the thief-taker as if to illuminate the wound, taking this opportunity to bend low before him, exposing her slight bosom.

Her distraction seemed to have worked as his gaze glided across her exposed flesh for a moment before he brought his eyes up to her face.

"You do not seem disturbed by this," he noted.

Grace swallowed. "I am a whore, Monsieur. I did not live to my age without seeing worse than this."

Gunning dropped his gaze once more.

Damn.

The man was too absorbed with the body of a dead man to notice hers. Perhaps she needed to use a different technique.

"That is a terrible gash," she said. "How do you think he was killed?" She hoped to stir the thief-taker's pride, his need to explain to a foolish harlot how his investigative mind worked. To distract him from the distant suspicious sounds within the walls.

It didn't work, at least, not the way she had intended.

"I shall be the one to ask questions, Madame," he said tartly. "Did you see anyone leave the room before you entered?" He froze for a moment and cocked his head as if trying to decipher the sounds.

"Non, Monsieur. I have seen nothing, heard nothing, and done nothing. Can I go?"

"I am afraid not. You—" He stopped abruptly as something caught his eye. He squinted, his gaze traveling from the dead man's abdomen up to his chest. The man still had his shirt on, although it was unbuttoned fully, showcasing his hairy chest. Grace squinted, hoping to see what the thief-taker noticed, but his shadow obscured it from Grace's view.

"I… what? Did I do something wrong?"

"You are the primary suspect." He stood and dusted off his gloved hands, the leather of his gloves making a dull sound. "And you are not going anywhere."

His gaze penetrated hers, sharp and direct. She did not remember the color of his eyes, but in this dim lighting, they seemed devilishly black.

He slowly tore his eyes away, his gaze gliding down her body, slowly, sensually, almost like a caress. Grace swallowed—the urge to wriggle was nearly uncontrollable.

What was he doing? Why was his gaze so heated? And how come his gaze had such a profound effect on her? Had her wiles suddenly worked?

Or was he beating her at her own game?

Either way, her skin hummed and her blood warmed in her veins.

Perhaps it wasn't the man eliciting such a reaction from her. It must have been the excitement and nerves of being suspected of murder. Yes, that must be it.

"Do you have any weapons?"

Grace almost jumped from the sharpness of his voice. Ah, that's why he was studying her form. He was not being flirtatious; he was trying to see if she was armed.

Grace took a step back and twirled, sweeping her arm in the air, indicating the numerous whips and knives displayed on the wall behind her. There were other items there, none of which she would describe as "weapons," but perhaps the thief-taker would. It was called The House of Pain and Pleasure for a reason, although a murder involved a little too much pain for Grace's liking.

"I meant on your person," he clarified.

Without taking her eyes off him, Grace slowly bent down and retrieved a tiny dagger neatly strapped to her thigh. The blade glinted in the candlelight as she flipped it in her hand, then, holding it by the blade, offered it to the thief-taker.

He took it by the handle and studied it carefully. "Any other weapons?"

Grace responded by slowly widening her stance, legs shoulder-width apart, arms out akimbo. "You are free to search my person if you don't believe me, Monsieur Gunning."

Mr. Gunning's gaze held an unsettling intensity as if those piercing eyes could see straight through to her very soul. Yet Grace knew there was nothing there for him to find but darkness.

Without taking his eyes off her, he stepped closer and closer still until he was less than a foot away. Was he going to accept her challenge and pat her down?

Grace swallowed. He would not find anything on her body, either. But his closeness made her shiver once more.

Then he did something unexpected. He leaned in closer, so much so that she could feel his breath on her cheek.

For a moment, her fanciful mind conjured up the idea that he was going to kiss her. Worse still, she didn't think she minded. Something about this large man—the warmth of his skin, the intensity of his gaze—invited her closer.

And then something even more unexpected happened: his gloved hand touched her bare one, if just for a moment, grazing her wrist.

Her pulse drummed madly against her skin, and Grace tried very hard to contain it. He was beating her at her own game, the wretched man. She was supposed to sweep him off his feet with her coquettish smile and artificial charm, distracting him so that he would leave this place in a daze. Instead, she was the one who was dazed.

She took a deep breath to steady her nerves but failed miserably. Instead, she inhaled the fresh scent of rain and the outdoors that still clung to his cloak and beneath it, the raw, masculine scent of his skin.

More often than not, men's scents repulsed Grace. Most aristocrats who came to her brothel smelled of sweat, tobacco, and musty clothing mixed with the powder from their wigs and overly sweet perfumes.

But not this man.

She'd go so far as to call his scent pleasant. His words were not, though. "I don't believe you," he said gruffly. "But I'd be damned before I touch you." Then he grabbed the candelabra from her grasp and stepped away.

Grace tried to slow her accelerated breath and curled her fingers into fists. She inwardly cursed herself and her strange reaction to the man. He was an enemy, not a man to swoon over.

Annoyed at herself, Grace forced a coquettish pout as he stepped away. "How rude of you to play with my feelings." Letting out a quick breath, Grace schooled her features. She needed to concentrate.

It didn't matter that the thief-taker exhibited such a strong dislike toward her. It didn't matter either that he thought she was the murderer. Enough time had passed for her to make her escape. She just needed him to return to the center of the room and turn away from her.

Instead, Mr. Gunning walked toward the wall, studying the whips and leather straps. As his eyes ran over the faux phalluses strapped to the belts, his lips twisted in a grimace.

Grace swallowed a chuckle. Making the thief-taker uncomfortable was very satisfying.

He walked past the display of items designed to be inserted into a client and stopped beside the sharper items hanging from the wall.

"Any knives or daggers missing from this wall?"

Grace shook her head. "Non, Monsieur." She concentrated on any noises outside the room, but all they could hear was the laughter of two constables stationed in the hall.

Good.

"I need a list of every person who was here tonight," Gunning continued. "Every worker, every client."

"We keep a logbook that every client signs before entering the private chambers," Grace said evenly. "But it's only for accounting purposes—to track that every transaction was paid for. They are not required to use their real names. And," she said airily, "it is confidential."

"Nothing is confidential when a man is dead," Gunning murmured as he returned to the dead body and placed the candelabra next to it. Just the moment she was waiting for.

The candle wax slowly dripped to the floor, the light dancing, throwing shadows onto the corpse. He crouched back down and cocked his head, studying the body of the dead man carefully.

"We promise our clients complete anonymity," Grace said softly, silently inching toward him.

"I promise not to tell," the thief-taker drawled.

"I might require a concession."

"A concession?"

He raised a brow, his concentration once more on her. Good.

She stepped even closer, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers.

"Yes." She smiled. "I give you the logbook, and you let me go."

He tsked. "That's not how that works. There are more questions I need to ask you, preferably in the roundhouse."

Roundhouse! Grace swallowed a snort. No harlot had ever exited that place without a noose around her neck.

"You are a witness…" He paused. "A suspect."

Grace folded her lips in a pout, leaning toward him. She could swear he was leaning toward her as if pulled by a magnet. "A pity," Grace whispered, kicking the candelabra to the floor. The thief-taker jumped back as the candles fell, the light extinguished against the stone-cold floor.

Grace dashed past the thief-taker to the opposite corner of the room. He swiped his hand, trying to catch her, but Grace easily danced out of his reach in the complete darkness. She quickly found the latch that opened a secret passage.

"It was a pleasure, Monsieur Gunning," Grace murmured, and in the next moment, slunk inside the narrow tunnel within the walls, closing the door behind her.