Chapter 10

Ford borrowed a carriage and a set of horses from Blake to arrive at Porter's house looking as though he belonged. Refusing to give him her address so he could collect her, Madame Tricheuse arrived at his doorstep wearing a gorgeous velvet black gown, a bit too revealing for polite society and possibly too modest for the place they were going. It did accentuate the beauty of her figure, hugging her curves at all the right places, cut low at her bosom with frills on her bodice teasing her perfect skin.

For a brief moment, Ford wondered if she had walked to his house looking like this. It couldn't have been safe. Mayhap, she resided somewhere nearby. He looked down the dreary street. He wasn't living among the criminal element, but that kind of element was never too far.

It was more likely that she had been dropped off by a hackney, or perhaps a set of her own horses and a lacquered carriage.

He didn't know exactly how wealthy she was. Considering she still worked at a brothel, he'd guess not very. Judging from her exquisite gown… She was far from a pauper. He'd known no harlot who could afford such luxuries.

"This is a beautiful carriage," she noted when he helped her inside.

"Yes, it is. It's my friend's." He settled across from her and rapped the roof of the carriage. Then as his gaze continued scanning her form, he added, "That's a beautiful gown."

Madame Tricheuse briefly glanced down at her body before her lips curved in a smile. "Yes, it is. It's mine."

Ford smiled. "Well, it fits you perfectly."

"It is custom made."

"I can tell." Then he added in a poor attempt at a compliment, "Must be quite expensive."

His compliment wasn't received as well as he'd hoped. She paused, her eyes slightly narrowed. "It's made of materials of great quality, and it has taken a considerable amount of labor to make, so yes, it is priced accordingly. Are you surprised that a simple harlot can afford a gown like this?"

It was not his intention to insinuate such a thing. But since she'd brought it up… "Honestly? Yes. Even most madams and proprietresses of brothels cannot afford to dress in such an expensive way, much less a simple harlot." He'd had a feeling she wasn't a simple harlot from the start. But was she the illusive owner or simply one of his or her most loyal disciples? He wished to goad her into telling him the truth.

Perhaps she was the owner's mistress… Somehow, that thought angered him.

"Then you'll be surprised to know that The House of Pain and Pleasure is not at all like most brothels."

Ford's brow furrowed. "In what way, exactly? As far as I saw, it looked the same to me. Unless your clientele is not only more wealthy but also more generous…" He paused, a thought seeming to strike him. "Perhaps, a little more inebriated, as well."

"Oh, absolutely," she agreed easily. "The bar wenches at the main hall are masters at getting our patrons drunk before they send them to us. The more inebriated the men are, the less work it is for us."

He let out a chuckle. He couldn't fault the women for coming up with this system. His aim, however, was to goad her, to ruffle her into saying something she wouldn't otherwise. To tell him the truth. He looked her up and down as salaciously as he could muster. "And how many clients does it take for someone to earn enough for a gown such as this?"

She lifted her chin. "Considerably less than you think if one is good at one's job."

Ford narrowed his eyes, an inkling of an idea scratching at the back of his mind. "And what job is that exactly? Satisfying your clients or stealing from them?"

She didn't seem surprised or ruffled by his question. She folded her lips in an innocent pout and said, "Both."

Ford couldn't help the chuckle that left his chest. This woman was shameless. Quite arrogant and forward. He never thought he'd enjoy trading barbs with someone like this. "I should have known this brothel isn't too different from others after all. The only difference, perhaps, is the caliber of your clientele."

It was quite a testament to how stealing and whoring went hand in hand that she didn't even deny it. Not even to a thief-taker. He couldn't have cared less about that, though. The men who came to these brothels knew exactly what they were signing up for. "Should I be watching my pockets around you?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly, the annoyance evident on her face. "As far as I recall, it is you who stole from me."

Ford leaned back and propped an ankle on his knee. "Touché."

"Besides, you have nothing of value that I might crave, mon grand chou." He raised his brows. Grand? "As you see, I can afford a place to live and as many beautiful gowns as I please. Can you say the same?"

"No," he said dryly. "I do not own even a single gown."

Her lips twitched in the beginnings of laughter. "Perhaps you should consider owning one."

"I'll have to content myself watching you wearing one instead," he retorted with a grin.

"Believe me, I have a lot more than one."

"All that from emptying toff's pockets?" He tsked. "Their pockets must be deep indeed."

"We have a salary as well," she said with a shrug.

"You mean the owner pays you for your labor beyond what you earn from your clients? That is unprecedented."

"Yes. I know it can be unfathomable, to share with one's employees so that they can afford housing, food, beautiful clothes, and"—she gasped dramatically—"even entertainment. I know you don't deem harlots to be humans worthy of life outside their profession—"

"I never said that."

"But you implied it. We are not slaves to work for an ‘owner' and be able to afford nothing but food."

He tended to agree that workers doing any work deserved a proper wage. But in his time working as a thief-taker, harlots were perhaps the most abused type of workers. At least, they were in the top ten. "Yet, experience teaches us differently, doesn't it? Most other brothels don't operate this way. If yours indeed does that—"

"Do you still doubt me?"

"—for all the harlots, then it is in the minority. In fact, the only one in London. I agree that the pay for harlots should be fair. But should it be as high as you're implying?" He shrugged. "I do not think I do."

"See?"

"Not because I think harlots are less deserving. I just think that sort of work shouldn't exist in the first place. I think women should be able to find other work, worthy of their time and talent. Something where they'd contribute to society." Just like he did. Ford was a self-made man. When his parents passed away and didn't leave him much in the way of inheritance, he used his skills and talents to catch criminals instead of becoming one.

She let out an airy laugh. "Contribute to whom, exactly? The wealthy? Is that what you would rather I do? Become a maid? Scrub the floors dirtied by aristocratic men? Work from dusk till dawn until my hands are raw and my knees collapse for a pittance and barely any rest days? How is that better?"

"That's not the only type of work available." How did their conversation take this turn? He'd wanted to tease her, to goad her, to ruffle her. And he had achieved his goal. But she was far cleverer than he gave her credit for. She was able to argue her point without letting any unnecessary facts slip. Still, she didn't speak like a harlot. She spoke like a woman in charge.

"Oh, yes, there's also work in factories, where women sew their hands bloody, or taverns where they carry heavy trays for hours on end while contributing to the inebriation of the working population."

"Perhaps that sort of work is more grueling—"

She huffed a breath. "You do not say."

"But women in those occupations have a future. A possibility to find a match, to have a family."

She snorted. "You think all women dream about is to have a match. Perhaps all we want is beautiful gowns and free nights to attend the opera. To be able to buy art supplies and books and spend quiet evenings by ourselves."

"I do not pretend to know what women want. But I suppose it is a common human desire to have a person to share their life with. A family. Children. I am more than certain that most working men dream of coming home to a warm hearth, to have a spouse, a companion to spend the evenings with instead of constant loneliness and the cold." He knew he did.

She paused for a little while, her features unreadable. "Firstly, it is easier to say from the male perspective as you lose nothing when you marry. Women, if we have anything, lose everything to our husbands and become property ourselves in the process. But let's say you're right, and a harlot might want a family at some point in her life. Do you truly think no one would take her for a wife?"

He shrugged. "I wouldn't." The words left his lips without thought. Those words truly didn't require thought, at least they hadn't before now. He realized that he had offended her, and he wished he could've taken the words back. Not because he hadn't meant them. He did. But because he didn't want to hurt her.

She shouldn't have been offended, surely.

Ford always wanted to have a family. And when he imagined his wife, he always thought of a pastor's innocent daughter or a shy seamstress across the street. Innocent. Shy. Untouched.

Only now did he realize that those words were always a part of his ideal future wife. Why did it matter if his wife was a virgin? He sure wasn't.

Perhaps he needed to reconsider. Even if he did, it was a far cry between a woman who had had a couple of lovers in her life and a professional harlot.

As if reading his thoughts, Madame Tricheuse picked up his train of thought. "So, you've never been with a harlot? Or are you implying that harlots are good for a night but somehow not beneath you for a lifetime?"

He pursed his lips. "I've been with a harlot once, but it was a lapse in judgment as a youth. I mean no disrespect. But I could never kiss my wife at the end of the night without wondering how many men she'd pleasured with her mouth." He was being crass. But Madame Tricheuse didn't even flinch.

"Her past activities would matter that much to you?"

"I believe one's past informs the future."

"What a narrow point of view"—she waved her hand airily—"judging someone for their past. Not even their past mistakes, but the things they had to do to survive."

"These are called consequences of their actions, darling. I am a thief-taker. What did you expect me to think?"

"I did not expect you to be this righteous."

"I am not. I understand the life led by harlots perhaps more than anyone. Harlots and criminals go hand in hand. And I cannot admire either. Indeed, you have just admitted to stealing."

"From the rich and undeserving. And if you are to condemn whoring, then condemn the men who seek out our services, not us."

"Can't I condemn both?" He shook his head. "Here you are creating your own morality when we have established rules. Who are you to decide who is deserving? The laws are created for a reason and one must obey. Otherwise chaos ensues."

She raised her brow. "Are you saying all laws are to be abided by without exception?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I am saying."

She leaned back and folded her arms over her chest, as a panther would settle down in the grass before attacking its prey. "And obviously, all crime is bad and every misstep warrants a punishment?"

"Absolutely." He knew she was getting ready to make a point. He was curious to find out what. "If you're breaking a law, you should be held accountable."

"Or—oh, great upholder of the law," she said in a mocking tone, "perhaps the law is stupid."

Ford blinked in surprise. That wasn't the setback he thought she'd deliver. "You can't be serious."

"I am serious. Let me explain. If you caught a hungry boy stealing a piece of bread, what would be his punishment?"

"Pillory. Whipping. Imprisonment. Depending on how many times the little devil stole."

"And you think that's fair?"

"Yes. It teaches the boy not to steal. And if he continues to do so, the punishment becomes more severe with time."

"Even if he's hungry?"

"Everyone is hungry at one point or another. If stealing was condoned, there would be no reason to work."

"A small boy shouldn't be the one to work."

"This we agree on. Little boys should be taken care of by their parents."

"What if he doesn't have parents?"

"Then he'd have to go to the orphanage. There is an entire system created by law to take care of issues like this."

She snorted. "Oh, yes, because the system of orphanages is perfect. Have you ever stepped a single foot in one? Are you assuming that an orphanage is a place of abundance of food and clothes? Because it isn't. It's a place with overcrowded walls and single beds filled with two to three children who are forced to work in the factories in order to earn their keep, while their so-called patrons enjoy full bellies of food three to four times a day and their pockets are full of gold. You speak out of a place of privilege. You think the law is absolute, while I think the criminals here are the people who let the child starve. Including the person who would put the boy in prison." Ford flinched. She was including him with the people she thought of as villains. "You say it's a crime to steal from a gentleman? I say it's a crime to have money, stability, and respectability just because you happen to be birthed by a woman married to a titled man."

"Despite what you might think," Ford said slowly, leaning closer to her, "I was not born into privilege. My parents were working people. And they died when I was barely fifteen. I was left to fend for myself with a little sister in my arms. And yet I managed to dig myself out of the rubble and make sure to feed and clothe my sister and get a respectable job."

A pause. For a moment, he thought he'd won the argument. He should have realized by now it was the calm before the storm.

"So, you came from hardship and you find it difficult to understand how people of the same background didn't reach the same influence you did? You managed to get ahead. Félicitations. Not everyone is dealt the same cards in life. Do not say that you succeeded without the luck of the draw. You were fifteen, not five. You had loving parents until that point, who taught you skills, who gifted you connections. You knew what it was to have a stable home and a roof over your head and strived to model the same environment for your little sister. I wasn't so lucky. I was taken from home when I was ten or eleven; I do not remember. I did not have a brother to look after me. I was not even left on the street to try and carve out a place I could call home. I was placed in a brothel for depraved men.

"Oui, Monsieur Gunning," she said, seeing his grimace of pain, and leaned in closer. Her words were like a dagger through his heart. Her eyes shone with the pain of the past. "I can barely remember my existence before that life. Sometimes, I think I was born into this. So, don't tell me how I should have worked to earn my keep because I did. I escaped a few years later and went to work in a factory, and let me tell you this… It was almost worse. Almost. And yet, I did not have it the worst.

"Some children are born on the street or plucked right out of the crib. What if those were the cards your life dealt you? Where would you have ended up? If your sister went hungry for days and you had no prospects for work, do not tell me you wouldn't steal to feed her. If your sister was in danger, do not tell me you would not protect her with your life or at the expense of someone else's. Do not tell me you would not go against the law, your morals, and everything you know to keep her safe because if so, you're not half the man I thought you to be. Now stop being a hypocrite and open your eyes to the possibility that the laws you're upholding are criminal."

Somehow, they leaned even closer together with her every word. The pain on her face, the anger in her voice—he wanted to take it all away and soothe the little girl she'd been. She pulled at the strings of his heart, and somehow, it manifested in their physical closeness, only for the carriage to jostle and send them flying into each other's arms.

Grace's hands clutched at his sturdy shoulders to keep herself upright, but she quickly let go as if scorched by fire. He helped her back onto her seat, then leaned back against the cushions and clapped his hands slowly. Once. Twice. Three times. "Well done."

"I don't need your praise," she said quietly. "I know I am right."

He let out a chuckle. "I shouldn't have expected you to be modest."

"Modesty is just another falsehood. Not to say that I am an entirely honest person, but I pick my battles, Monsieur Gunning. And I win them all."

"Not an entirely honest person," Ford said with a thoughtful hum. "Now, that is an understatement."

She looked out of the window, her chest still furiously rising and falling with the strength of her breaths. She was still out of sorts. That speech had taken a lot from her. He wondered how long she'd waited to say something like this to a man in power—or at least, with more power than her. What impressed him more was how easily she had understood him. This was the third time they'd met. Yet, still, she read him like a book and spat out the facts about his character many others wouldn't have dared. For he would have stolen and killed for his sister. Yes, he was the upholder of the law. But flip the circumstances and he would easily be on the wrong side of the fence.

"I suppose I would have to slightly revise my beliefs," he said thoughtfully. "You've made some excellent points. Although, I do not completely agree with you and am not quite comfortable arguing the details yet."

She turned to him, surprise shining in her eyes, and slowly, her lips spread into a beautiful smile. "To be honest, I didn't expect you to declare defeat so easily. I am glad I was wrong about you. I took you for an unbending force."

The images that phrase conjured in this mind weren't exactly innocent. For if she thought him unbending, he thought of her as… quite flexible. At least, physically. He attempted to tamp down his thoughts.

"I'll take what I can get. But we can't have you brooding at the dinner party." She reached into her cloak pocket and, after fumbling for a moment, extended her arm toward him, a bundle of cloth nestling in her palm.

He raised a brow. "Is that a peace offering?"

She smiled. "Think of it as a bribe."

He eyed the offering wearily. "I'd rather not."

She nudged the bundle toward him once more. "And yet?"

"I don't take bribes," he said, reaching toward her hand warily.

She smiled. "I promise you, you will like this one."

He unwrapped the handkerchief only to find a piece of bread and cheese.

He raised a brow, not certain she could see his questioning expression.

"I thought you might want a bite of food. You never know how long we are going to be there."

She wasn't wrong. He hadn't eaten in quite a few hours. "I should probably start the same habit of carrying around a piece of bread with me," he said. "I don't always have enough time to stop and eat." He took a bite of food and said around the bite, "Or perhaps I should just carry you around."

She laughed. "Let's hope our partnership will not last that long. I'd like to get back to my normal life."

The sound of Madame Tricheuse's laughter was a complex mixture of mirth and melancholy that stirred something within him. He studied her profile as she gazed out the carriage window, noting the tension in her jaw, the slight furrow of her brow.

Her words stung more than he cared to admit. Of course, she wanted to return to her life—why wouldn't she? Still, a part of him had begun to enjoy their unlikely alliance, dangerous as it was.

The carriage lurched to an abrupt halt. Ford swallowed the last piece of bread, barely tasting it in his haste. Grace turned toward him, laughter pulling on her lips. "You have a little… let me—" She reached out and brushed the crumbs that clung to his chin, the gentle touch of her gloves and warmth of her skin beneath causing a tickle to appear low in his belly. "All done." She pulled away, just as the door opened before them.

Ford cleared his throat. "Shall we?"