Chapter 15

Days had passed with no word from Triss. Ford was keeping himself as busy as he could, catching a petty thief here and there, roaming the streets of St. Giles in search of more leads concerning the murder of the aristocrats. Nothing seemed to bring him peace of mind.

He was constantly restless. Triss hadn't contacted him since the night of the Porter's dinner party, which was over a fortnight ago. He hadn't returned the part of her logbook she was so precious about, and he had expected her to reach out soon. The fact that she hadn't bothered him on more than one level.

As more days passed, his worry only intensified. At first, he came up with excuses for why she hadn't reached out yet. Perhaps she didn't want to see him after what she'd had to do in order to get them out of Porter's house. She was a harlot, and he had assumed she wouldn't have issues with it, but what if she had?

What if she'd noticed his deeply disturbing infatuation with her and decided to give them some distance? Perhaps she was watching him and knew that there was no news of the murderer and didn't want to risk herself by appearing on his doorstep. The Brotherhood of the Crimson Fist had declared a bounty on all the harlots' heads, after all.

And another possibility kept him up at night.

What if the Brotherhood had found her? What if they had ambushed and abducted her? He wouldn't even know!

He'd given her plenty of time to show herself.

He needed to be certain that she was alive and well. Perhaps then his mind would rest easier.

Besides, he'd wanted to talk to the other harlots who had found shelter inside Grace's house anyway. It would serve as a great excuse.

Donning his heavy wool coat, he ventured to Grace's house. He rarely used his horse unless he was going out of town or to Mayfair. He enjoyed the walks, but it also helped him stay in touch with his surroundings. While trotting along the street, it was harder to notice if someone was lurking in the shadows, following his every move.

He didn't notice anyone following him this time; still, he made a few circles around the buildings to make sure.

He reached Grace's house a few minutes after three in the afternoon. Perhaps it wasn't the best idea to appear on her doorstep in broad daylight. However, his impatience wasn't to be bargained with.

He rapped on the door, and after a few moments, it creaked open to reveal a woman, wild black curls framing her face.

"Grace isn't here," she stated flatly.

Ford straightened his posture. "My name is Ford Gunning." He looked around the street, double-checking that no one was watching him. "The thief-taker."

She hesitated.

"I am the one working on solving the murder that happened at The House of Pain and Pleasure. May I come in? I would love to speak to you and the other occupants of the house." At the woman's prolonged silence, he added, "Grace told you who I am, yes?"

"Yes, she did," the woman answered timidly. "And she said we have no reason to speak to you."

Ford was taken aback. William was the one who'd asked for his help on Grace's behalf, and now she didn't want it? "I am trying to exonerate the owner of the brothel from the murders. I am trying to make certain that you get your…" he paused uncomfortably, "jobs back."

"We know nothing."

She was about to close the door, but Ford wedged his boot in. "I have a suspect. All I need to know is if you've seen him and if you can tell me more about him."

She hesitated again, her hand still gripping the edge of the door. Ford watched as she glanced back inside the house, her eyes darting nervously as she worried her lower lip with her teeth.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the muffled sounds of the rustle of fabric and the creaking of floorboards coming from inside the house.

This woman wasn't alone, then.

Grace was obviously the decision-maker of the house, which wasn't surprising; it was her house. Without her presence, this woman—and likely the others—seemed adrift, uncertain how to handle unexpected situations.

The woman's eyes flicked back to him. "You will only ask questions about this man you suspect?"

More or less. "Yes. That's all I need to know."

The woman opened the door wider, and Ford carefully schooled his expression, hiding the smile of relief that threatened to emerge. He followed her into the house as she led him through a narrow hallway.

They entered what Ford assumed was the kitchen. The room was smaller than he expected but surprisingly cozy. A large hearth dominated one wall, the dying embers of a fire casting a warm glow across the space. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the low ceiling, filling the air with a mix of savory and sweet aromas.

A sturdy wooden table occupied the center of the room, and the woman gestured toward one of the chairs surrounding it. "Please, sit." Her hands continued to fidget nervously, twisting the fabric of her skirt as she watched Ford take a seat.

"Would you like something to drink?" the woman asked, already moving toward a row of earthenware jugs on a nearby shelf.

Ford nodded, realizing this offer was as much about giving her something to do with her nervousness as it was about hospitality. He watched her pour, noting the slight tremor in her hands. Clearly, she was out of sorts, and he felt a pang of guilt for putting her in this position.

The woman walked to the corner of the room, her back to Ford. The soft clink of dishes and the gentle hiss of steaming water filled the air.

A few moments later, she returned to the table, placing a cup before him. Ford's eyes widened slightly as he took in the contents. The liquid had a deep greenish-yellow color, steam rising from its surface.

He eyed it suspiciously. "What is this?"

"It's tea," she replied, her smile innocent and disarming. Something in her expression made Ford even more cautious.

"What kind of tea?" he pressed, not reaching for the cup.

She shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. "The best kind. Trust me. Grace knows her teas and this one is excellent."

Ford's eyebrow arched skeptically. "Then why aren't you drinking any?"

A flicker of something—amusement? concern?—passed across her face. "I will. Just let me tell the others that we have a guest. Do you wish to speak to me only?"

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. "Let's just take this one step at a time."

She nodded and left the room, her skirts swishing softly as she disappeared down the hallway. Ford turned his attention back to the mysterious brew before him. Cautiously, he lifted the cup to his nose and took a careful sniff. The aroma that met him was… appetizing. It smelled like boiled grass, with undertones of something earthy and familiar.

Though the greenish-yellow color did little to inspire confidence, Ford frowned, trying to recall what little he knew about tea. Wasn't it supposed to be red? Or at least a darker brown? He'd never claimed to be a tea expert, but this concoction before him seemed to defy all his limited expectations.

The woman returned a few minutes later and immediately poured herself a cup of the green brew. As soon as she settled into the chair across from him, she took a sip, easing his earlier suspicions. He took a sip of his tea, which tasted quite pleasant to his surprise.

"What would you like to know?" the woman asked, placing her cup on the table.

"A name would be nice."

"A name?" She seemed confused.

"Your name, Miss."

Her expression softened. "I have a lot of names." She let out a shuddering breath. Obviously, she wanted to seem nonchalant, but the involuntary tremble gave away her unease.

"What would you like me to call you?" Ford clarified.

She worried her lip between her teeth. "Colette will do."

Colette. He'd heard that name. Triss had told him that she was supposed to service Erebus at least one of the times. Ford asked if she remembered the man by that name and she frowned.

"Erebus? No, I do not remember meeting such a man." Raising the teacup with a trembling hand, she took a nervous sip, clearly trying to occupy her fidgeting fingers and calm her rampant thoughts. "But it is possible he didn't disclose his name to me."

"He asked to spend a moment in the room alone, and then bowed out without indulging in your… charms," Ford reminded.

"Ah! That man." She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "Yes, I remember him. He said his wife had passed away recently, and he wasn't ready to move on. A sad, sad situation."

"Yes." Ford leaned forward. "Do you remember what he looked like?"

She frowned in thought, her lips pursed in concentration. "He was tall."

A flash of golden curls in his peripheral vision drew Ford's gaze toward the partially open door. A young woman hovered in the corridor beyond, stealing furtive glances into the room before ducking back out of sight.

"He was wearing a white wig," Colette continued. "One of them elaborate ones the aristocrats wear. A faux mustache covered half his face. He had deep-set eyes." She shook her head as if exiting a reverie. "I don't remember much else."

That wasn't anything he hadn't heard before. "Please, think. It's quite possible this man was the one who murdered the aristocrat. If I find him, you might be able to return to your brothel, return to work."

"Arresting an aristocrat on the word of a harlot." She scoffed. "That will be the day."

"I will find more things to tie him to the murders, don't you worry. I just need to figure out who he is first."

Her nose twitched, and her gaze took on a concentrated look as she stared into space. Finally, she met Ford's gaze once more. "He didn't have a pouch."

Ford blinked. "Pardon me?"

"Most of the aristos who come to our brothel have a pouch for a belly." She drew a circle on the table with her finger. "They are unkempt, and by the time they get to the private chambers rather drunk."

"And he wasn't?"

"He didn't smell of alcohol." She lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "And he had no pouch. He was fully dressed, so I cannot say for certain, but he seemed to be built like Zeus. Come to think of it, even his faux mustache resembled the Greek God."

Ford raised his brows. "I am impressed you are familiar with Greek Gods."

Colette waved a hand. "Grace has books. Some of them have pictures in them. It's quite boring hiding from everyone, being stuck in this house with nothing to do. I might even learn how to read soon." She let out a cackle.

Ford couldn't help but chuckle alongside her. He knew a lot of people who struggled to find a place that would teach them to read. Aside from a church, few places offered that luxury for the poor. Those people strived to learn, and here a harlot was making fun of resorting to learning to read in her boredom, as if this was a punishment.

A memory swiftly appeared in Ford's mind, Triss telling him how they earned enough to eat and have a roof over their heads, to buy gowns and enjoy the opera once in a while. No job that required a person to read and allowed a former harlot to be hired would pay as much. Although many people enjoyed reading at leisure. Eloise did. She even used to read to Ford.

His eyes misted over. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed his younger sister. He had to shake off the memories. He had a job to do.

Once more, the golden-haired woman peeked around the door frame. This time, Ford sprung to his feet and dashed after her. "Miss, miss?" She paused on the staircase. "Would you like to join us for a conversation?"

"I don't think so." She didn't even turn toward him, her fingers gripped the banister tightly, until her knuckles grew white.

"It seems you're quite curious about my presence here. You might as well ask your questions." And answer mine.

She turned toward him slowly, worrying her lower lips between her teeth. "Are we in trouble?"

"No, you're not in trouble. On the contrary, I am here to help you."

She looked down. "Grace said we couldn't trust you."

Ford couldn't blame her. "You have to trust someone. And I am your best bet. I am one of the few people who is not looking to give you up to the Brotherhood or the Crown. I am looking for the truth."

"The truth?" She timidly met his gaze once again.

"Yes, about the night that man was murdered in the brothel."

The woman flinched.

"Do you know anything about that?" Ford pressed.

Colette appeared behind him. "You don't have to talk to him, Harmony, dear," she said gently.

Harmony swallowed audibly. "I saw him, the dead man. It was terrible. I don't want to see anything like that ever again." Then she added in a terrified whisper, "I don't want that to happen to me either."

He took a step closer and stretched out his hand, trying to soothe her like one would a spooked horse. "My job is to help you, to keep you safe. I promise."

With a good amount of hesitation, Harmony finally stepped down the staircase and eventually joined them in the kitchen.

"Colette," Ford addressed the other woman. "Would you mind giving us a private moment?"

Colette glanced between Ford and Harmony, looking uncertain.

"Just for a moment," Ford assured her.

"Harmony?" Colette arched her brow until Harmony gave a little nod.

"I will be just outside the door," Colette said and left the room. Everyone was protective of each other in this house, distrusting intruders. He supposed they had no other choice.

"You can ask me anything you want," Ford said, his voice gentle but firm. "Just like I promised."

There was a beat of silence. "I heard that there's a price on our heads," Harmony said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Is that true?"

Ford nodded slowly, understanding the weight of her question. "Yes," he admitted, "but I am not one of the people looking to catch you, or I would have done it already. I don't work for the criminals. I work for the law."

Harmony's brow furrowed, her grip on the edge of the table tightening until her knuckles turned white. "The Crown has also put out a reward for the brothel owner's head."

Ford leaned forward, his elbows on the table, trying to project an air of calm reassurance. "That's true," he acknowledged. "But the difference is, the Crown doesn't want the owner dead, only arrested. They want to find answers, just like I do."

"So…" She paused. "If the Crown arrested the owner, would the rest of us be safe?"

He cocked his head, studying the woman. Was she contemplating giving up the name of the owner to him? "Perhaps. Do you know who the owner is?"

She shook her head vigorously. "She… He did not kill anyone. The Crown is wrong."

"Perhaps," Ford agreed, taking note of her little slip-up.

"I want to be safe," she whispered.

Ford nodded. "I promise to protect you. All of you."

She ducked her head, hiding her eyes. "What do you want to know?"

"I want more details about the night the aristocrat was murdered. If I understand correctly, you were supposed to service him that night."

She nodded, a little sob leaving her body.

"How well did you know the man?"

She shrugged. "Well enough to know what his naked body looks like, not well enough to know his name." Her lips still trembled; she seemed distressed by the memories.

"Did he ever talk to you about his enemies? Someone he was afraid of?"

She shook her head. "No. He didn't tell me much of anything like that. But he was rude and boastful. Telling me how he would be the best client I ever had." She shuddered. "He wasn't. I am not sorry he died. But I wish I didn't have to see it."

Interesting. "What about the man who called himself Erebus. Do you know him?"

She wrinkled her brows. "I don't recognize the name."

"He was tall," Ford parroted the description Colette and Triss provided. "Very tall, wearing a wig, and a fake mustache."

She shook her head again. "I don't remember."

He wouldn't get much from this woman about the potential murderer, but he might get his suspicions confirmed about Triss. He was certain Harmony had been about to give up the identity of the brothel owner if she didn't catch herself.

"Do you know every harlot in the brothel?"

"Of course." She frowned.

"Do your customers know your names?"

She let out a chuckle. "Harmony is not my real name. But depending on what service I perform, I have different names."

Interesting. "So, what are your other names then?"

She looked down and refused to answer.

"And who goes by the name Madame Tricheuse?" Ford pressed on.

Her eyes darted to the side, and she shifted in her seat uncomfortably. "I can't tell you that."

"You can't tell me, or you don't know?"

She opened her mouth to say something, but then footsteps sounded behind them, and even the air shifted in the room.

Harmony gathered her hands on her lap, her gaze demure.

Ford turned toward the door only to see Grace on the threshold. "Mr. Gunning," she said in her calm, measured voice. Her features were impassive but he could feel her distrust, her apprehension from a few feet away.

Was Harmony afraid of Grace? Was that why she refused to say anything further?

The answer became rather obvious when Grace turned to Harmony and the harlot immediately got off the chair and hurried away.

Grace had an uncanny ability to communicate easily with her eyes. That was why, he mused, she often kept her features impassive or everyone would know all her innermost thoughts.

"How dare you," she said with the same casual tone, as though talking about the weather, "come into my house without my knowledge—and during the day at that!—interrogate my guests and thereby endanger the lives of everyone residing under this roof."

Ford couldn't help but admire her determination to keep the women safe, the women she had no obligation to.

"I wish you had a little more faith in me," he said evenly.

"I don't know you enough for that. As it is, I've put plenty enough faith in you already."

Ford bit back his smile. She had a fiery nature. He'd noticed that before; he'd just forgotten. It reminded him, oddly enough, of Triss. They were both strong and capable, not to mention biting with their remarks. Although their demeanor was opposite. Triss flirted her way through life while Grace cut anyone with her tongue like a knife.

"Speaking of…" Ford folded his arms over his chest, trying to appear uninterested. "Do you happen to know where Madame Tricheuse is?"

Her eyes flickered with surprise for a fleeting moment before returning to their usual cold facade. She tilted her head slightly, studying him with calculating eyes. "I've contacted her for you once before. It is not my issue if she doesn't want to see you again."

Ford's jaw tightened at the dismissive tone in her voice. "I just want to know if she is alive and well."

"Why do you care?" Her voice held a hint of curiosity but also a touch of suspicion.

"Contrary to what you might think, I do care about the people I put in danger. I know the risks associated with my job."

"You put us in danger just by appearing here during the day. You could have been easily followed."

"I am always careful," he growled, offended by the insinuation that he'd be reckless enough to not take any precautions.

"Yes, and then you'll leave, and if the breadcrumbs bring the members of the Brotherhood here, we shall be the ones to pay the price!"

He gritted his teeth. "I would never put you in danger."

"Easy for you to say when it is not you living under the threat of siege every day."

She was right, damn her. Even though she seemed far too relaxed for someone who was under the threat of siege every day. Her uncanny ability to stay poised under pressure was another thing he'd admired about her. A woman like her would make a perfect thief-taker's wife. He'd come home bleeding, and she'd patch him up without so much as raising an eyebrow.

He shook the thoughts from his head. "I can spare my colleagues to watch your house if you so wish. Would that make you feel safer?" He had toyed with the idea while watching the terrified women sit across the table from him. They didn't feel safe. Perhaps he could help.

"More thief-takers?" She scoffed.

"Yes. They can watch your house twenty-four hours a day, ensuring you won't get ambushed."

"And am I to trust them, too?"

"You can't have it both ways, Grace." He stepped toward her, and to his surprise, she didn't stand her ground, she immediately retreated. "Either you want me to protect you, or you want nothing to do with me, but you have to choose."

"If you didn't show yourself here in the middle of the day, I wouldn't need your protection."

"Is that so?" He raised a brow.

Grace glanced back, probably considering the safety of the women in her care. "Fine," she finally conceded. "Bring your men here. But please, tell them to be discreet. I don't want anyone following them here."

He nodded. "Consider it done."

Grace turned away, ready to leave. "So, about Madame Tricheuse," he called behind her.

She slowly turned back. "I don't know anything."

"It is better if you tell me the truth about her rather than the wrong people find it out before me." He was hoping she would tell him that Triss was the owner of the brothel, and that was why she was in hiding. But she was alive and well. Or perhaps, she would give him some indication of where he might find her. Why did he want so desperately to see her again? He couldn't quite answer that yet.

"I wish I could help you," she said instead.

Ford watched her carefully with narrowed eyes, then finally tipped his hat. "It's up to you. But I hope you know that I can keep you safe… And her."

She hesitated, and for a moment, Ford thought she'd give in and tell him something important. Something she had been hiding from him. But she just smiled and opened the door wider, urging him to leave.