Chapter 3

Adeafening clap of thunder made Grace shudder, her heart pounding wildly. Rain lashed against the windows as forks of lightning illuminated the dark bedroom. Her mother's grip on her shoulder tightened like a vise as she hurried Grace across the room, frantically looking back and urging her daughter to move faster.

But Grace could not move faster—her legs felt like lead, her body stiff and paralyzed with fear.

Her mother wrenched open the old oak chest and ushered Grace inside. On shaking legs, Grace stepped over the tall walls of the chest and crouched down, clutching her old, raggedy cloth doll tightly.

"Do not come out until I get you," her mother warned, her voice trembling. "Do you understand?"

Grace gave a weak, confused nod, and then the lid slammed shut, encasing her in complete darkness. The soft sounds of her mother's retreating footsteps faded until the only sound was the rumbling thunder.

An eerie silence fell, until—

Piercing screams shattered the air, making Grace jump, her head knocking against the lid of the chest.

Do not come out until I get you.

Do not come out until I get you.

Grace chanted her mother's words to herself as she burrowed deeper into the corner of the chest, wishing she could meld into the walls and disappear within them.

Boom… boom… Heavy footsteps approached, each thud reverberating through the floorboards. These were not her mother's steps. She walked so lightly as if stepping on soft clouds. Grace froze, her pulse thundering in her ears as the footfalls neared. A pause…

Do not come out until I get you.

The chest began rattling violently. Her sanctuary shook as something—someone—pounded on the lid, trying to break it open.

Grace squeezed her eyes shut, clutching her knees closer to her chest.

Do not come out until I get you.

The lid of the chest creaked open.

They found her hiding spot.

Crack! Thunder roared, shattering the night once more. Grace jolted upright, cold sweat dampening her shift.

Just a storm.

Just a dream about that long-ago night.

She'd dreamt about it often. Sometimes, in her dreams, she was able to change the events of that fateful night. She'd get out of the chest, and instead of the menacing figures standing before her, it would be her mother telling her everything was fine. She was safe.

The dream had never extended beyond that because, even in her wildest dreams, she didn't know how to imagine a life different from this one—a life where that night might have ended differently.

She shuddered, shaking away the dread coiling in her gut, then let out a long, deep, rattling breath. It was just a dream.

Except… what was that sound? No, not the monotone tap of the rain against the window or the roaring crack of thunder. It sounded like… footsteps! And they were getting louder and louder, moving toward her room.

And then there was a thunderous, frantic knock at the front door.

For a moment, as sleep still clung to Grace's groggy mind, she failed to recognize how assailants could be both at her front door and in the corridor leading to her bedroom at the same time.

Grace dipped her hand under her pillow, her fingers encircling the calming steel handle of her dagger. Clutching it close to her chest, she rolled off the bed and dashed toward the door.

She threw it wide open, nearly hitting the women gathered at the threshold.

"Saints preserve us!" Margaret, one of the harlots from the House of Pain and Pleasure, gasped in terror. She stood by two other women, all of whom Grace now harbored at her new home after the brothel was ransacked by the King's men in the aftermath of an aristocrat's murder three weeks ago. Margaret clutched a hand to her buxom chest framed by long, wavy chestnut hair, her coal-black eyes widening in horror. "You nearly killed us with that door!"

"Who cares about the bloody door, Megs?" Harmony muttered darkly and swiped her blond hair away from her shoulders in agitation. "The King's men have found us!"

"They're going to execute us!" Colette exclaimed, her voice rising in panic.

Grace could have predicted the panicked terror from Margaret and Harmony, but Colette was usually the more level-headed one. Perhaps living for three weeks under the threat of a siege had frayed even her solid nerves.

The knocking intensified, and Grace was certain she made out a few muffled curses behind the door. The last remnants of sleep evaporating, she moved past the huddled women, her fingers tightening around her dagger.

"It's not the King's men. They would have announced themselves," she said with more confidence than she felt. There was a chance she could be wrong. But even if it wasn't the King's soldiers, whoever was at the door could still be dangerous. "Hide in your rooms, lock your doors, and don't open them for anyone."

"As if those flimsy doors could ever hold them back," Megs grumbled, but at Grace's stern look, the women hurried away.

Grace silently padded down the stairs, through a narrow corridor, and toward the shaking door with her dagger firmly at her side. She could practically feel the knocker's impatience, frustration, and annoyance through the vibrations of the thick oak door against its hinges.

"Open this fucking door!" the gruff voice snarled from outside. "William sent me!"

Grace reeled in surprise. Not many would dare use William's name to trick their way into anyone's house. More often than not, they'd get the opposite effect and be thrown out for even uttering his name.

However, Grace had indeed contacted her long-time friend—or acquaintance, as he would insist—a few days ago, asking for his assistance. So, this man, who now attacked her door, was more than likely telling the truth.

Grace tightened her grip on the dagger and quickly but carefully unlatched the door. That instant, the door was thrown open, and pelting rain and a gust of wind invaded her entryway.

A tall, broad-shouldered, shadowy figure stomped inside, muddy boots sloshing rainwater all over the floor. Grace took two steps back, curling her bare toes against the cold puddles forming at her feet. "Please, close the door behind you," she asked softly, still clutching the dagger to her side, ready to strike at any moment.

The man raised his head and peered into her face, his features still shadowed. Then he slowly reached back and pulled the door shut.

Now they were encompassed in complete darkness.

Grace carefully backed a few steps until she reached the side table. Without turning her back on the intruder, she lit a solitary candle. As if emboldened by the candlelight, the man moved toward her, his wide step eating up all the space between them until he stood merely a foot away. The flickering light washed his features with a golden glow, and Grace cursed inwardly. She instantly recognized the man standing before her as the man she was currently hiding from—Ford Gunning, the thief-taker himself.

Oh, William, you utter blackguard! Of all the people you could have asked to help me, it had to be him.

Usually an extremely intimidating figure, standing over a foot taller than her and outweighing her by a few stones, the thief-taker now possessed an almost devilish aura. Wild strands of wet hair clung to his forehead, his hard mouth framed by lines of displeasure. His very presence exuded arrogance and disdain. The dark, mud-splattered clothes clinging to his drenched form perfectly complemented the ominous ensemble.

He looked her over with a frown, his eyes roving down her body to linger on her bare toes, peeking out beneath her thin nightgown.

Then his gaze shifted to the muddy puddles surrounding his boots, rainwater still dripping from his form. He shrugged as if entirely unconcerned with the mess he'd trailed inside. Plucking off his hat and cloak, he hung them carelessly on a nearby chair, happily sloshing more mud across the corridor with each step.

"Please," Grace muttered through gritted teeth, "make yourself at home."

Gunning turned toward her and narrowed his eyes. "Are you Grace?"

She blinked a couple of times, something in his piercing gaze making her stomach flutter uncomfortably. Not in a good way—or at least, she didn't know any other way to interpret the feeling. She didn't trust it.

A flicker of recognition lit his eyes, which should not have been surprising since they'd met before. Yet it held the promise of something dangerous. Could he have recognized her as the elusive Madame Tricheuse? Was he here to arrest her?

"Yes," Grace said calmly, forcing her features to remain impassive. "I believe we've met before."

He raised a brow, silently appraising her form. Grace fought the urge to squirm under his scrutiny. Her heart drummed violently against her chest.

Ominous. Arrogant. Devilish.

This man was to be avoided at all costs. She needed to escort him out and barricade the door.

But a part of her, a reckless, impudent part of her, was glad to see the thief-taker again.

For the past few weeks, her mind kept wandering back to the night of their confrontation at the brothel. Something about him, a certain darkness in his soul, called out to her. When he looked at her, it was as though he saw beyond her facade as a harlot.

A fanciful thought.

A dangerous thought.

Perhaps what called out to her was his desire to arrest her.

And when he looked at her, he didn't see a harlot but a murderer.

Grace squared her shoulders, bringing her mind to the matter at hand.

"At Hades' house," she elaborated when his expression remained blank. "After your sister drowned."

"Almost drowned," he corrected her.

Grace raised her brows in a silent shrug.

"Ah, yes." His voice was a low rumble. "You're one of Hades' whores."

Grace's spine straightened, her chin lifting in defiance. "I am not his anything."

He raised a mocking brow before turning to peek into the parlor adjacent to the corridor where they stood.

"I would have invited you inside," Grace said tightly, "but you've already so generously decorated my entire floor with mud. I'd love to avoid the same fate striking my other rooms."

"And here I thought you weren't inviting me in because you're harboring more fugitives from that brothel," he countered smoothly. "The House of Pain and Pleasure."

Grace tensed. What had William told him about her? Surely not that she was the proprietress of the brothel. She deliberately worked on rumors that the owner was a man. She should have been more careful. But how was she supposed to know she would get entangled in a murder?

She should have known. Should have taken into account every possibility. She'd grown too complacent living under Hades' protection in the last few years.

She was on her own now. And her carelessness had already led to her alter ego, Madame Tricheuse, being under suspicion of murder. More than that, she had escaped the thief-taker's grasp, mocking his authority. Men like him did not forgive that easily. They didn't like being outsmarted. Especially by women, let alone by harlots.

"I might be helping a few friends who have nowhere to go, yes," she said evenly. "I don't see anything wrong with that. And I would like to avoid conflict between them and a thief-taker. The last time we met, I recall you didn't look too favorably on harlots."

"I have nothing against harlots themselves," he said with a shrug. "I take issue with the wealthy brothel owners who prey on the less fortunate, recruiting them into a life of depravity. People like Hades and the proprietor of the House of Pain and Pleasure." He placed an undue emphasis on the word proprietor, drawing out every syllable carefully. Did he know the proprietor was female? Did he know that it was her? "But in this case, every worker from the House of Pain and Pleasure is a suspect and a fugitive since they fled the premises by means of deception."

Grace pursed her lips. "And you're wondering why I'm not inviting you in."

"I am not, actually," he murmured, stepping closer to her once again, so close that Grace could make out the golden candle flame dancing in his eyes. "I know exactly why."

Grace stiffened, her bravado faltering under Gunning's penetrating stare. His closeness, his heat, had an unsettling effect on her.

Straightening her shoulders, she lifted her chin in a defiant resolution. His gaze briefly dropped down her length, eyes roving over her figure in a way that made Grace's stomach twist.

"I thought you left Hades' employ," he murmured.

"Indeed, I did." Grace clasped her hands together so she wouldn't fidget. The thief-taker's gaze followed the subtle movement.

"And yet here you are entangled in another brothel scandal," he noted.

"Hades has nothing to do with the House of Pain and Pleasure. You, of all people, should know that. Isn't he your brother-in-law?" She arched a brow.

"Do you have anything to do with—?"

"Why are you here?" she demanded, cutting him off impatiently.

He let out a deep sigh as if disgusted by his own mission. "I'm here to help you and your friends. William said you could use my assistance."

Grace groaned inwardly. "William is an idiot."

"I'm not arguing that. But since he did ask for my help, it means you likely have no other choice. Hades is off on a romantic trip with my sister…"

Grace tensed but remained silent. She was loath to admit, even to herself, that she dearly wished Hades were by her side right now. She had always been there for him when he was in trouble. Yet where was he now?

Off on his late wedding trip with his wife. Granted, they earned it after everything they'd been through. Hades' hell had been burned to the ground and they'd needed to fix it before trotting off into the sunset. In the meantime, Eloise had published a rather lurid book that was subsequently banned in most of the country. It took them a few years before they could celebrate their joining with a romantic adventure.

It was clear Grace hadn't been his priority for the past few years. Perhaps she never truly had been.

"You have no one to rely on." The thief-taker deftly rubbed more salt in her wound.

"And how can you possibly help me?"

"Well," he shifted his weight from one foot to another, "the House of Pain and Pleasure has been closed since Lord Portsmouth's murder. The King's men are hunting every harlot, every worker, to interrogate. And they are known for… less than gentle methods. People are scattered, homeless. You likely want to resume your solitary life in this house, or whatever your life looked like prior to this predicament. And you might want to avoid false persecution for your… associations. So, if I solve this murder quickly, you can return to your charmed existence."

She eyed him skeptically. "And in return?"

His lips relaxed slightly, eyes gaining a new, intense focus. "By arranging a meeting between me and one of the key witnesses."

Grace stiffened. "And that would be…?"

"Madame Tricheuse."

Grace fought very hard to stay still, not giving away her distress. "What do you want with her?"

"She is the prime suspect in the murder. I want to question her."

A soft snort left her lips. "You want me to give her up so you can detain her?"

"Grace," he said slowly, every letter lingering on his tongue. "That's your name, right?"

Her heart quickened. "Right."

"Listen, Grace. You seem like a very clever, level-headed woman despite your lack of judgment when it comes to selecting a vocation."

"Vocation?" Grace let out a derisive sniff.

"An aristocrat is dead," he said sharply. "And I will find the person responsible for his death. Right now, Madame Tricheuse is my only link to him. The way the murder was executed makes me think the killer is intimately familiar with the brothel. This makes me think that the brothel workers might know who this person is even if they don't know that he or she is the killer."

Why in the hell did William ask the thief-taker of all people for help? Especially the one who harbored hatred toward brothel and hell owners. She supposed if she wanted to find out who the real killer was and be exonerated, he was the man to contact. But what if he decided she was the killer?

Grace licked her lips. Not her—not Grace.

Madame Tricheuse.

If she maintained the charade that Madame Tricheuse and Grace were two separate people, perhaps she could steer Gunning's investigation in the right direction. She could shield the other workers from the thief-taker's scrutiny, keeping them safe. And if he became convinced Madame was the murderer, Grace could simply wipe away her paint and discard her wigs—shedding her disguise. She would effectively disappear, her true identity forever obscured from persecution.

It was a risky plan. But Grace needn't maintain the ruse indefinitely. Only long enough for the true killer to be unmasked. If the thief-taker was right about his suspicions—and she had a feeling he was—it meant the culprit was someone intimately familiar to her. A frequent patron of her establishment. Which meant that his name was no doubt chronicled in the brothel's logbooks she safeguarded. And she had probably seen him more than once.

She could clear her name and save her brothel.

Except she couldn't do it on her own. Not only did she need the thief-taker's expertise, but also his protection and, eventually, his reputation in society as an upstanding officer of the law.

Damn him, William was right.

Her best hope was an uneasy partnership.

"I cannot promise Madame Tricheuse will agree to this deal," she said.

"If she wants to ever return to work at her precious brothel, she will. It is a notorious place with a hefty pay, I assume. Besides, as of right now, she is the prime suspect. If she wants to clear her name, she will have to cooperate. Tell her to see me in St. Giles Roundhouse—"

Grace let out a derisive snort. "Any time a harlot goes into the roundhouse, the only way she exits is with a noose around her neck, whether guilty or innocent."

"I'm hard-pressed for you to show me a single harlot who is completely innocent," he countered bluntly.

Grace took a step toward him, her anger flaring. "So, you admit it, you've already decided a harlot is guilty."

"Oh, do not pretend affront." He looked rather annoyed, his frowning features exaggerated by the shadows cast by the single candle. "You are far from innocent. But I can exonerate you from this one crime."

She paused, letting her anger simmer down. He wasn't wrong, but it didn't mean she liked it, or him, for that matter. "I will speak to Madame Tricheuse and will let you know her answer. But I will not ask her to go into the lion's den. If she is to help you, she is not to be treated merely as a suspect."

Mr. Gunning let out a bark of laughter that grated on Grace's nerves. "Then how do you propose I treat her?"

Grace let a small smile play across her lips. "As a partner."

He took a menacing step. "A partner! To a thief-taker?"

"Yes," she replied, bolder now. "As you would treat any of your colleagues."

"Utterly preposterous." Gunning shook his head, lips curling in disdain.

"Then I wish you luck solving this alone."

They stood rigid, faces mere inches apart, the tension crackling between them like a gathering storm.

"Fine!" Gunning ground out at last through gritted teeth and took a step back. "If that's your wish, we shall convene at the House of Pain and Pleasure. The day after tomorrow. An hour before dawn."

"That den is under watch by the King's men," Grace noted coolly. They lurked like vultures, awaiting any harlot's return to make an arrest.

"I shall guarantee her safety as long as she is helpful." His voice was low and husky as he collected his hat and cloak and stepped toward the door.

"And what assurance do I have that you won't suddenly decide she isn't helpful anymore?" Grace called after him.

Gunning paused at the door, throwing a look back over his shoulder. His voice was low, tinged with grim promise. "I suppose you'll have to trust me."

"Trust a thief-taker?" She sniffed. "Never."

Something dangerous glinted in Gunning's eyes as a slow, menacing smile spread across his full lips. "Do you have another choice?"

He was right, the damned blackguard, and they both knew it. Grace had already stooped low enough by seeking William's aid. Now, she'd have to accept the alliance with her enemy.

"Very well." Grace took a lot of effort to unclench her jaw to utter those words. "I'll make the arrangements for your meeting with Madame Tricheuse."

Gunning's smile took on an even colder, crueler edge. "Wonderful."

With a dramatic flourish of his cloak, the thief-taker turned on his heel and melted into the rainy night, leaving Grace alone, cold, and confused in the roiling storm of her warring emotions.