Chapter 14

Triss.

Her name and her face were the first things that came to Ford's mind. Clearly, the fog had not lifted. What kind of sorcery was she employing on him to make him consumed with thoughts of her? Ford could not remember ever thinking about a woman this much. And he didn't even know her real name. Hell, he hadn't even seen her true face beneath all that powder and rouge!

Her soft voice and the fluid way she moved were enough to drive him mad, somehow.

He rolled off the bed and went to take his morning ablutions. He needed to concentrate on something else. The cold water on his face did not temper his thoughts. Was she thinking of him just as much?

Rap. Rap. Rap.

Thank God!

A distraction.

Ford wrapped his banyan over his half-naked form, walked to the door, and pulled it open. A liveried footman stood on his doorstep. "I have a missive from Lord Payne," he said with a deep bow.

About time. Ford stretched his arm and took the missive. The footman bowed out and left, obviously not instructed to collect an answering note. Was that a good sign or bad?

Ford shut the door and opened the missive right there in the hallway. He was too curious to find out what his friend had found. As he scanned the message, his face turned grim.

The Erebus whose name was in the logbook didn't match the handwriting of the real Erebus. It didn't match William's hand, either. Not that Ford had expected it to, but it was good to know that Blake was thorough.

According to Blake's ‘friend,' the description of the man who signed Erebus's name also didn't match the one of the real Erebus.

There was no need to speak in code. Ford knew who said ‘friend' was—Viscount St. John. Perhaps Blake was being overly cautious.

Nonetheless, another dead end.

Blake had promised to continue looking, though. Perhaps he would come across the culprit by accident. For that reason, he said he'd keep the papers from the logbook unless Ford needed them back.

He didn't. What was he to do with them other than return them to Triss?

Triss…

She would not be happy about this.

Ford slowly made his way to his study, his nose still buried in the note.

He frowned before walking to the hearth and burning it. How was he supposed to keep Triss appraised of this development? She had never left him any instructions on how to keep in touch. She knew where he lived, so perhaps she'd sneak into his house again whenever she felt like it.

He hoped it would be soon.

* * *

Grace flipped through the logbook for the thousandth time, going through each name one by one, committing each one to her memory. She'd brought it from her brothel to her home in hopes she would uncover secrets there she hadn't seen before. The pages she had given Ford were the most valuable, or so she assumed. But it didn't mean she couldn't find the nuggets of truth in the rest of the book.

For example, she'd found the first time "Erebus" came into the brothel.

She looked at the signature, committed it to her memory. And every time she flipped through the book and came across it, she remembered the man who signed it.

She set the book aside and picked up her sketchbook and a pencil. She remembered a bit of his features, and she hoped that sketching him would help her memory, or perhaps the memory of other harlots working that day. Perhaps they would help her complete her sketch.

She had tried sketching him a few times before but always came up short.

He had a long, straight aristocratic nose, full, firm lips… Her pencil glided down the paper, manifesting her images onto the page.

She didn't remember his eyes, but if she were to draw them, they'd be deeply set, surrounded with thick lashes, the gaze penetrating, staring straight into her soul.

Add a bit of stubble, change the shape of the lips a little bit to make them softer, wider…

No, she was changing too much. He didn't look like the mystery man at all anymore. She held the drawing away from her face and squinted.

A sigh.

She was sketching him again.

Ford.

He seemed to have invaded her mind and refused to vacate the premises. Every time she thought about a man, any man, his face appeared before her eyes. It was like a curse!

Grace believed in curses. And if she didn't know Ford, she'd think he bound her to him by magic. What else could explain her constant thoughts about the man?

There was nothing special about him.

Certainly, he was strong, clever, witty, and rather handsome. His body was appealing, and his hands were large and hot and…

She shook her head. She needed to stop the useless musings.

He was also arrogant and condescending. Hard and unyielding. Except, he wasn't, was he?

He had listened to her ramblings and changed his mind based on her opinions.

If he were hard and unyielding, it was only in his body.

Grace huffed out a breath. Would she ever cease thinking of him?

If she were lucky, she'd never see him again.

She threw the sketchbook onto her desk, closed the logbook, and moved to the center of her room. She removed the rug and the planks from the floor. Within the floorboards hid her most important possessions: a pouch with money and a few important documents.

She placed the logbook there, leaving no room for anything else. Then she replaced the planks and covered the floor with the rug.

How was she to solve her woes without the thief-taker? How was she to get her brothel back?

Perhaps she needed to put her feelings aside and seek him out. He didn't care about her feelings toward him. From his point of view, their relationship—including their passionate interlude—was strictly professional.

She turned and noticed the shadow move past her room.

Grace frowned and peeked out of her room to see Harmony moving away.

"Harmony?" she called. "Did you want something?"

Harmony turned with a sheepish smile. "Oh! I wanted to talk with you, but you seemed busy."

"Yes, I was. I didn't even notice you walking by. But I am free now."

Harmony's features turned concerned. "That is unlike you not to notice me. You always see and hear everything." The last sentence was said with a slight smile, in a good-natured jest.

Grace smiled back. "Right. Well, I've been out of sorts lately."

"Yes," Harmony agreed. "Me too. That's what I came to talk to you about."

Grace waved a hand toward her room. "Come in."

Harmony shuffled inside and looked around the room curiously.

"You can sit by the desk," Grace offered the only chair in the room as she walked toward the window. She propped her hips against the windowsill. "What is bothering you?"

Harmony lowered her eyes. "There's talk. Rumors that there's a price on each of our heads."

"Yes, but we've already known that." Grace had told them what she'd overheard while hiding inside the walls of her brothel.

Harmony grimaced. "It's one thing to know someone wants us dead, it's another thing when the entire town is talking about it. Anyone could give us up. All those aristocrats we've serviced, they know what we look like!"

"That is the reason we always paint our faces with rouge and powder; that is the reason why we wear wigs and have several names when we're working, Harmony. Nobody would recognize you even if they saw you. And how would an aristocrat even wind up in this part of town?"

Harmony fidgeted with her fingers, unconvinced. "What about other brothel workers?"

"I trust all of them with my life, however, even they don't know where we live. They've all scattered to their own safe places. It's only the four of us who know where we live. But I agree, we are not completely safe. No one can be. So, we need to be even more careful, leave the house only when completely necessary, and never leave the house on our own."

"Are we prisoners then?" Her lips pursed in a pout, Harmony's voice was quiet.

"Not for long, I promise you," Grace said evenly. "But as I said, the possibility of someone recognizing us is slim. As long as we act carefully and don't say anything to strangers, we'll be fine."

Harmony's brows drew together into a frown. "Are you certain?"

"Quite." Grace nodded, a lie easily slipping off her tongue.

She wasn't completely certain. She couldn't be. There was always a chance they could be recognized. Despite her thorough methods of picking out the workers of the brothel, she had employed criminals. And they were not exactly known for their loyalty.

Her only saving grace was that nobody knew where her house was situated. She had spent most of her nights in her brothel apartments. There was a chance no one even knew she had a house. Meeting someone randomly in this area was highly unlikely, although not improbable.

"What about your friend, the thief-taker?"

Grace raised her head sharply, meeting Harmony's worried gaze. "He is not my friend."

"And yet he's been to this house. Is he also after the money or is he the one offering it for our heads?"

Grace licked her lips. Neither. Both? She wasn't quite certain. On the one hand, he aimed to profit from apprehending the true murderer, earning acclaim and potential rewards. But if he uncovered Grace's secret identity as a brothel owner, who was to say he wouldn't be tempted to betray her and give her up to the authorities? "He isn't looking for you," she finally said. "The King is only offering a bounty on my head."

"And yet you're the one who spends so much time with him."

"I want to solve the murder and point the arrow somewhere else, Harmony. And I have to take risks to do so. Perhaps, when the murder is solved, the Brotherhood will give up the pursuit of us, as well. We can trust the thief-taker to protect us from the Brotherhood in the meantime. However, I would not trust him with much else. It is better to assume we have no friends in this world, dear. Easier way to live."

Harmony pursed her lips thoughtfully, then she nodded, her features resolute. "I shall be certain to remember that. Good night."