Chapter 2

By the time Ford reignited the candle, Miss Tricheuse—or whatever her actual name was—was nowhere to be found. Damn it all to hell.

There went his prime suspect.

He should have known to watch her more carefully. The playful and flirtatious act was just that—an act. Every harlot was a master of deceit, and every brothel had secret passageways and peepholes.

Ford looked around the empty, dimly lit room. Leather contraptions hung on the wall, waiting for someone to be strapped. Ford smirked. He should have tied the harlot to it before she could make her stealthy escape.

Whips of different lengths adorned the walls and other—ahem—accessories, if one could call them that.

What in the world was this place?

Hell, the room didn't even have a bed! How did the men get the pleasure they paid for? His gaze returned to the leather straps on the wall. Surely not like that? Why would anyone want to have their wrists tied to the wall while being pleasured was beyond him.

Ford had been to quite a few brothels in his time as a thief-taker. This place, however, was strange even for him. Some "instruments" on the wall he couldn't even identify or imagine what to do with.

He stepped closer and noticed tiny circles placed discreetly around the hanging items as if meant not to be noticed. Ford took off his glove and touched the ridges.

I knew it!

Those were carved out. Nobody inside the room would notice them, but anyone within the walls could observe the occupants.

Clever. And rather wicked.

Ford walked around the room, running his calloused hand against the aged wooden panels, but couldn't feel any more ridges or indentations that would indicate a secret passageway. He was certain he could find it, given time. But time was something he couldn't waste. Madame Tricheuse was already gone. Even if he found the passageway, he wouldn't be able to find her.

He paused in the middle of the room, his gaze dropping to the dead man once more.

He didn't think Tricheuse was the one who killed this man. Not that he thought she wasn't capable. On the contrary. She hadn't broken down in tears like a few other harlots he had passed before entering the room. She was calm, collected, and had cold, calculating eyes and a rather icy, uncaring demeanor.

Gunning could boast the same iciness himself. He was a thief-taker, after all. He was used to witnessing death and destruction. Perhaps she was, too. She had to be, to brazenly flirt with him while a man's stiff body lay before her, covered in blood.

He didn't trust the harlot—he wouldn't trust any harlot—but there were no indications that she was the one who killed the man.

If she were guilty, she could have easily slipped away through the secret passageway earlier, evading detection and avoiding capture. If she didn't have time to escape, he imagined she would have appeared more disheveled, less poised, and possibly covered in the dead man's blood.

Something else had been peculiar about her. Despite her efforts to blend in, acting as though she belonged and even wearing the same clothes and disguise as the other harlots, she truly stood out among them.

Her speech, despite the faux French accent, was sophisticated. Her movements graceful, she held herself as regally as a queen. Perhaps that was another reason for him to suspect her. Yet, he considered it indicative that she was above such things as murder. At least, above committing it herself.

Perhaps she enlisted the help of the brothel workers, and then—

A realization struck him like a bolt of lightning.

Fuck!

There were other secret passageways, no doubt. He strode out of the room and down the dimly lit corridor, quickening his pace toward the hall where the constables stood. Their hands in their pockets, their stances were relaxed, laughter lingering on their lips.

"Where are the whores?" Ford asked brusquely, his voice laced with impatience.

"What?" The constables looked around, confusion spreading across their faces.

"Open the doors, now!" he barked.

The constables fumbled with the keys before opening the doors to the rooms one by one.

Gunning stared at the empty rooms, scratching his jaw. He let out a self-deprecating laugh. "Well done."

He turned on his heel and leisurely retraced his footsteps.

He had been foolish enough to fall into a simple trap, locking the brothel workers in the places they were most familiar with—daring them to escape.

No matter. Now, there was no point in hurrying. He could conduct his investigation in a thorough and careful manner.

Ford's stomach growled loudly, and he had to shush it with a stern glare. As if it'd listen.

He was hungry, like a starved beast. He had spent the entire day running around the winding cobblestone streets, catching thieves for the smallest commissions. At the end of the frustrating day, all he had wanted was to get home, clean himself in a nice, hot bath, and feed himself a hearty bowl of lovely potato soup.

Instead, he had run into the brothel as people dashed out of it with looks of horror etched on their faces, screaming for a constable. And he had to stick his nose in, as always.

He didn't have to solve this murder. At least, not until the bounty was declared on the murderer's head, which he was certain it would be. Ford couldn't wait until then. All the evidence would be washed away.

It was a rare luxury to be the first person on the scene, which gave him an advantage, especially since the constables rarely put much effort into solving murders. Their primary duties were maintaining order, making arrests, and executing warrants. Murder investigations weren't their strong suit, and they knew it. Being paid a pittance by the Crown, the constables were more than willing to let thief-takers like Ford take charge of such cases. In St. Giles especially, they deferred to him without hesitation.

He shook his head and returned to the room where the murdered aristocrat still lay on the floor. Maybe ‘poor' wasn't the right descriptor for the man. Maybe he shouldn't feel pity toward him at all. This wasn't the first murder of an aristocrat that had happened under mysterious circumstances in the last few months. And all of them had something in common.

Ford yanked at the dead man's shirt and inspected his body closely.

Just as he predicted, the man had a mark on his body—hidden just beneath the collarbone was a tiny, dark red mark.

The mark of a deadly and nasty secret society—the Brotherhood of the Crimson Fist.