Chapter 4

An hour before dawn.

Normally, that was the time Grace would close The House of Pain and Pleasure and retire until the evening. The new guards would arrive to greet the cleaners to get the place ready to continue their sinful delights.

Tonight, however, it would be the time she opened the doors of the brothel in an attempt to save it.

Grace stared into the mirror, her face a white mask of powder. She swept a thin line of rouge upward toward her temples, slimming the appearance of her cheeks.

Grace loved her brothel. She'd poured her blood, sweat, and tears into the place. Literally.

Hades could never understand her drive to associate herself with harlots and, more importantly, with the men who pursued their services. Given their shared history, he assumed she would aspire to run from a place that had once destroyed her.

Oddly enough, it was quite the contrary. Founding and running a brothel had afforded Grace's wounded soul a perverse sense of healing.

A brothel was no longer a place of horrors. It was her home. A sanctuary.

Or at least, it had been, until three weeks ago.

Pursing her lips, Grace picked up the kohl stick and proceeded to draw around her eyes. She had experimented enough in her lifetime to know how to obscure their shape.

Grace had hand-picked every single member of her house's staff with meticulous care—from courtesans to guards, from cooks to maids. No one escaped her scrutiny. She had handwritten every rule, every word, and every punctuation in the rulebook with her own quill. She conceived and oversaw the construction and decoration of every room, every hidden passage, every intimate nook and twisting turn of the pleasure palace.

To the crass observer—a house of ill repute. But to Grace, it was a work of art.

And she would be damned if she'd allow some senseless murder to ruin her life's work.

She painted her lips bright red, drawing well within the lines to make them look thinner.

"I still think you're making a mistake going to meet him," Colette stated from behind her.

Grace turned toward her friend, who stood by the threshold, her hands nervously playing with the pleats of her skirt. Colette was extremely worried about Grace's upcoming meeting, and Grace would be lying if she said she didn't feel the same way.

She had barely slept since the moment the thief-taker had appeared on her doorstep, weighing every possible outcome of her future actions.

The thief-taker had offered a sensible deal. She'd tell him everything she knew about the murder, show him around the brothel, and help him catch the murderer. That way, the brothel would be free to continue its work.

But she recognized the level of risk she was taking by agreeing to this.

What if that didn't work? What if her involvement in the case invited more danger?

This could all be a setup.

She shook her thoughts away. "Do not worry too much, Colette, dear. The sooner the murderer is caught, the sooner we can all return to work."

"Can you even trust the man?"

"No," Grace conceded. "I can't, and I don't. But I am taking extra precautions. I am putting on this disguise so I can escape at any moment and disappear into thin air."

"Are you sure he won't recognize you? He saw you here just last night!"

Grace stood and turned toward her friend. "Would you recognize me?"

Colette bit her lip and narrowed her eyes, studying Grace carefully. "Maybe. Judging from your height and your voice…" She shrugged.

Grace picked up a tall, scarlet wig from the side table and lifted it in her hand. "That is why I am wearing this and disguising my speech."

"He still knows the real you. He knows Grace, and he knows where you live."

"And he knows nothing beyond that. He doesn't even know that Grace owns the brothel. For all he knows, I am your friend trying to help you. Madame Tricheuse is the only one taking the risk, and she can disappear as easily as she appeared."

"Unless he kills you," Colette said with a shudder. "Or leads you to a dangerous path where you will be killed."

"I've survived worse situations than this." Grace turned back toward the mirror and settled the wig over her inky-black hair, which was collected in a bun. "And I've outwitted more cunning men than the thief-taker."

"And he's arrested more cunning women than you, I wager. The man is notorious!"

Grace smoothed the bright red locks of her wig and turned toward her friend with a smile. "So am I." She patted Colette on the shoulder as she passed her on the way out the door. "Do not wait for my return."

"Fie!" Colette snorted. Grace knew that Colette would not cease worrying until she returned home.

Grace reached the brothel just in time. She circled the building a couple of times to make certain there was no trap.

Two constables stood on each corner of the building, just like they had for the past three weeks. Nothing new there. The thief-taker stood by the main entrance, checking his pocket watch every couple of minutes.

Grace patted her side to make certain her dagger was still strapped to her waist before finally approaching the man.

The swish of her skirts must have alerted him to her presence, for he turned sharply before she had a chance to announce herself.

"It's about time," he muttered gruffly.

"A pleasure to see you too, Monsieur," she murmured barely above a whisper.

His gaze briefly fell to her lips, then his frown returned, and he tipped his head toward the brothel.

"Shall we?"

Grace gave a little smile. "Absolutely."

She pushed her cloak open, revealing her simple, dark-blue gown and a silver chatelaine attached to her waist. His gaze scanned the items hanging from it, studying them with unreserved curiosity.

Most of the items were quite innocent—a stack of keys that opened the doors to the brothel, her house, and a couple of safes. Then there was a letter opener that doubled as a weapon, a quill, an old medallion, and a… special ring. Her latest design.

Grace pursed her lips, wondering if he could decipher the intended purpose of the ring as she pulled out an ornate key and swiftly opened the door to the brothel.

Glancing over her shoulder, she ensured they were not being watched and ushered him inside. She secured the door behind them, leaving them for a full moment in complete darkness.

She felt, more than saw, Gunning reaching for his weapon. He was afraid of an ambush, she realized. Which meant he trusted her just as much as she trusted him.

"Do not fret, Monsieur Gunning," Grace said softly. "I keep my word."

He mumbled something under his breath while Grace stepped toward the carved-out opening in the wall and lit the three candles of the candelabra.

She picked up the candelabra and turned toward the thief-taker. "What would you like to see?"

He looked around the simple, bare room until his gaze settled on the door leading to the rest of the brothel. "I need to see all the ways someone can get into and out of the room that the dead man was found in, with and without being seen. And then I need a list of people who know each path."

Easy. "There are only two paths into the room," she said. "The one you used to enter the last time we met and—"

"The one you used to escape," he finished for her.

"Oui." She smiled widely, coquettishly, employing all her charm.

The thief-taker did not seem charmed, however. "Show me," he barked.

Grace hesitated. Nobody, aside from the most trusted, knew all the hidden doors leading in and out of the secret passage. By revealing it to the thief-taker, was she putting them all in danger once the brothel resumed its operation?

"Need I remind you that you're the main suspect?" Gunning drawled. "And the only reason I am even entertaining you outside of the roundhouse is as a courtesy to my brother-in-law. And I don't even like the man. So, it is in your best interest to cooperate."

She pursed her lips. "Who is to say that after I show you the secret passage you won't use it after we reopen?"

He let out a frustrated breath. "If you don't show me, there's a good chance this brothel will never reopen."

"Only five people have known about the existence of the secret passage before the day of the murder. Only five people still know the ins and outs of that passage to this day."

"Do you include the owner of the brothel in these five people?" Gunning narrowed his eyes, peering into her soul.

Did he suspect she was the owner? She supposed that conclusion was inevitable. And as long as he didn't suspect Grace, she was fine with that. When this endeavor was over, she would like to return to her anonymity.

"Yes," she said in a calm tone.

"I need those five names."

Grace licked her lips, her palms perspiring under his intense perusal. "I can't give them to you."

"We made a deal, Miss Tricheuse—"

"Madame," she interrupted.

He gave a dismissive nod. "You help me find the murderer. I help you clear your precious brothel's name. I can't do my job if you withhold information from me."

"The entire point of me agreeing to this deal was that I keep my fellow harlots out of danger and suspicion. They are not murderers. I can say that with a great deal of certainty."

"For the sake of the argument, let's say you're right," he said, stepping closer to her. Crowding her. Towering over her. "None of your precious colleagues perpetrated the murder. But someone did. That someone slipped in and out of the room undetected. This tells me that one of your colleagues must have shown the secret passage to someone else. Therefore, they are an accomplice. To figure out who that accomplice is, I need to question those people—"

"What you are proposing is an elaborate conspiracy," she interrupted hastily. "When an easier explanation is that the secret passage was not utilized in perpetrating this murder at all."

Gunning pursed his lips in annoyance. No doubt, few men ever dared interrupt him. He made an intimidating figure with his tall height, ungentlemanly wide shoulders, and frightening reputation. But Grace had dealt with more intimidating men than he.

"Then how can you explain the murderer getting away without being seen?" he asked in a deceptively calm tone.

Grace turned away from him and walked toward the door leading to the main hall. "I'll show you."

* * *

Ford followed Madame Tricheuse down the corridor as she led the way.

The dark and gloomy interior of the building made him feel anything but pleasure. Perhaps filled with beautiful courtesans, their perfumes wafting through the air, their laughter surrounding the guests, their half-naked limbs enticing the patrons, this place would be more arousing.

As it was, all Ford felt was annoyance, frustration, and stomach-churning hunger.

Normally, this time of night was when Ford would stumble home after a long night's work for a meal and a much-needed bath before tumbling into bed.

But this was the perfect time to meet Madame Tricheuse.

At this hour, every drunk and petty criminal would be stumbling back inside to sleep, while every honest working man was just rousing for the busy day ahead—it was the perfect time for a clandestine meeting, with less chance of being noticed by any suspicious parties.

And if Ford was going to solve this murder, he needed to be careful.

He had no idea who the aristocrat's murderer was.

He wasn't na?ve enough to believe the dainty harlot before him was the perpetrator, but he wasn't arrogant enough to completely remove her from his suspect list. This particular gentleman's murder was not an isolated case. Something darker was afoot. Something to do with mysterious, secret societies.

The entire thing was shrouded in shadows. So, he silently followed the harlot, hoping she would help him untangle this mystery one thread at a time.

"As I've said previously, we keep meticulous records of every gentleman who enters the private chambers. However, before they reach the chambers, there's the settling hall." They traversed the huge hall in silence, and she continued leading him up the stairs. "This is the settling hall." She swept her arm toward the benches and armchairs intermingled with flowerpots and statues, located in a strategic way to grant people an illusion of privacy.

"Settling hall?"

"Mm, yes. A long hall with settees and sofas where they get to flirt and kiss before settling on a specific woman."

"Kissing a harlot?" Ford shuddered at the idea.

Madame Tricheuse cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes at him. "Does that idea offend your sensibilities?"

Ford looked her squarely in the eyes and answered honestly. "Offend my sensibilities? Not at all. But kissing a woman on the mouth who has been with hundreds of men, putting her mouth on different parts of their body, sounds unpleasant."

She licked her lips, and for a moment, it looked like she would say something, but she turned away.

"Apologies if I offended your sensibilities," Ford noted.

Tricheuse walked along the hall a few paces ahead of him. She glanced over her shoulder at him and raised a brow. "I am a simple whore, Monsieur Gunning. It takes a lot to offend me."

Perhaps he had not offended her, although it was obvious by her demeanor that she did not appreciate his remark. However, she was anything but a simple whore. There was something about her… something he could not quite figure out. Simple would not be the word he would use to describe her.

Madame Tricheuse paused at the end of the long hall, just beneath an arched entryway. She leaned on a tiny podium and turned in a flourish of her skirts. "The hostess stays here," she said, continuing as if nothing was amiss—and perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps she didn't care about his opinion at all. "And whenever a gentleman is ready to go up to the private chambers, he takes the woman he selected and they go to their assigned chamber. Occasionally, a client doesn't need a settling period. He knows who he wants, and he either requests her ahead of time or inquires about her availability upon his arrival. If his desired woman is available, the hostess leads the way and leaves the man to wait for his… companion. However, an inconspicuous gentleman can slip inside once the hostess is away from her spot. The corridors are shadowed, and one can stay there unnoticed, waiting for his prey." She drummed her fingers on the podium as she spoke.

"There is another way, of course."

She turned away one more time and led him into the area of the private chambers. "Every private room in our brothel has watching chambers." She threw him a coquettish glance over her shoulder. "For a price, gentlemen—or ladies—can watch the intimate interactions of our private guests." She unlocked the door to a small chamber with nothing but a chair and a narrow side table inside. "At the time of the murder, a couple of gentlemen were inside those chambers. They weren't watching the room where the murdered man was, but it is possible one could have snuck out of his chamber and lain in wait for the now-murdered gentleman to arrive. Then he could have slipped back into the watching chamber or used a special exit leading to the back door." She left the private chamber and showed Ford a narrow corridor leading to the cramped staircase.

Ford walked toward Madame Tricheuse and plucked the candelabra from her fingers. She didn't resist. He then walked through the corridor, down the steps of the back exit until he encountered the door. He turned the handle and peeked outside. The door didn't have a handle from the outside. In fact, the door didn't even look like a door from the outside. Another secret passage.

"No, there is no way for anyone to enter through this door from the outside," Tricheuse said behind him as if reading his mind.

"Unless someone opened it for their conspirator."

"Unless that," she conceded.

He stepped back inside and closed the door. This case was turning out to be more complicated than he'd ever anticipated. There were multiple ways someone could sneak the murderer in without anyone else ever realizing the murderer was inside. He needed to comb through every person who had ever accessed this place and then every person they might be associated with. This case would take forever to solve.

Ford scrubbed his face with his hand. "Walk me to the room where Lord Portsmouth was murdered."

Madame Tricheuse leaned in, the heady scent of jasmine enveloping him, and gently took the candelabra again. "Follow me." Her voice was low and quiet, and it had the odd power of chasing butterflies around in his stomach.

Of course, it could just have been his gnawing hunger.

The walk from this corridor to the room where the murder took place was less than one hundred steps. Ford stood by the dried blood in the room, looking around.

The bloodstain was only three feet away from the door. The murdered man's wound was deep in his stomach, which meant the murderer was facing him. The poor man was probably ambushed.

Bloodstains…

"Place the candelabra on the floor, please," Ford commanded.

Madame Tricheuse complied.

Ford lowered himself to his hunches and looked around the room. There were no bloodstains leading toward the door. No bloodstains were leading in any other direction, either. He needed to retrace his steps to the back exit once more and see if even a drop of blood would indicate to him that the murderer had taken off in that direction. He had probably wiped his blade clean before sheathing it, but his hands and clothes would still have blood on them. Would that blood drip to the floor?

He took the candelabra and walked around the room, squinting at the floor. Nothing.

His stomach rumbled loudly, but he ignored it.

"Very well." He straightened and cleared his throat. "Now show me the secret passage."

Tricheuse dipped her hand into her pocket. He thought she'd procure another key and lead him to the secret passage. Instead, she pulled out a handkerchief bundled in her hand.

She unwrapped a piece of bread with a slice of cheese nestled within it and nudged it toward him.

Gunning eyed the offering suspiciously. "What is it?" he asked hoarsely, his mouth watering.

"Food," she answered matter-of-factly. "Do not worry, it's not poisoned."

Eyeing her warily, Ford took the offered food and studied her impassive features. Without taking his eyes off her, he brought the piece of bread to his nose and sniffed it. The corners of Madame Tricheuse's lips curled up just a bit. She was clearly enjoying his distrust.

He doubted she desired his demise. And even if she did, she had dozens of other ways she could have done that already.

With a shrug, he took a hearty bite, his stomach rumbling in approval.

"Thank you," he mumbled around the bite.

"Lucky for you, I have known hunger, mon petit chou."

Ford nearly choked on the piece of bread. "Petit?" He wasn't exactly fluent in French. But he knew enough to understand that one word.

Madame Tricheuse ran her eyes down his length and stopped for a moment on his crotch before returning her salacious gaze to his eyes. "Until I know otherwise."

Ford paused in his chewing lest he expire from choking on his food, his hand frozen on the way to his mouth.

No doubt Madame Tricheuse was a popular harlot. She didn't do anything overly sensual. She didn't even look that appealing to him. The wig and the paint on her face disguised her real features. Even in her harlot's attire, her bosom hadn't been spilling out of her bodice, and she was covered from head to toe.

There was nothing physically attractive about her at the moment.

Yet, the low and calm timber of her voice, the way her eyes glinted with some unfathomable feeling, the heady scent of jasmine and skin, and simply the way she moved—all these things combined made her undeniably desirable.

Ford couldn't rationalize his reaction to this woman. His pulse picked up its pace when she was around. And his cock… well, to put it simply, his blood was happily trudging in the direction of his crotch.

Ford finished chewing and swallowed unhurriedly before addressing the harlot once more. "Now, the secret passage."

She folded her lips in a pout. "You're too cruel."

He let out a chuckle. "Come now, you didn't think I would forget about it simply because you offered me a piece of bread, did you?"

"And cheese." She shrugged. "I showed you kindness. It's only fair for you to show the same in turn."

"Do you want me to find the killer?"

"The passage won't help you do that," she countered.

"It will. Right now, we have five ways someone might have entered this room. One—they entered through the main entrance, waited in the settling area, and slipped in while the hostess was away. Two—they were in the watching chambers and snuck in when they heard Portsmouth moving to his room. Three—someone let the murderer in through the back door. Four—one of the brothel workers let the murderer in through the secret passage. And five—they learned about the secret passageway on their own and snuck inside. It is my job to consider every possibility. Therefore, I need to know how hard it is to figure out the entrance to the secret passageways and how easy they are to navigate."

She pursed her lips together in displeasure. "How about we explore the second and third possibilities first? I can show you our logbook, and it will certainly remind me of who was in the watching chambers at the time of the murder. Those would be our likely suspects."

Ford blew out a long breath, his temper rising. "You are, without a doubt, the most infuriatingly stubborn, maddeningly unyielding, exasperating, vexing—"

"Is that all?" She blinked innocently.

"—immovable force of stubbornness I've had the displeasure of meeting in all my thirty and one years of existence."

Her lips spread in a self-satisfied smile. "I am glad I was able to broaden your horizons. Should we proceed to the room that holds a logbook?"

Before she could turn away or take a step, loud banging noises from downstairs caught both their attention. "Are your constables—?"

She didn't finish her sentence as another loud bang—so loud it sounded as if the building was falling down—interrupted her. She lunged toward the exit, but Ford caught her by the waist and pinned her to the wall. He covered her mouth with his hand before she had time to protest and shushed her next to her ear.

Something was wrong.

These weren't constables. Someone was breaking into the brothel.

As confirmation, the loud voices of uncouth and rowdy men filtered through to them from the ground floor.

"Find them!" a loud voice boomed over the swearing and cheering. "Don't let them get away!"

Madame Tricheuse's eyes widened, not in fear but rather in disbelief. How dare they, her eyes communicated, before narrowing to an almost rectangular form. Ford recognized it to be her look of annoyance.

Ford swallowed a laugh. He had to hand it to her. Most women—hell, most men—would be trembling in trepidation if they heard the noises of a break-in in the middle of the night at a place they thought was a sanctuary. Not her.

As the voices started to get closer and the hurried footsteps boomed loudly, making their way up the stairs, Ford removed his hand from her mouth and gripped the dagger strapped to his waist.

"Secret passage?" he whispered with a raised brow.

"It seems you got your wish, Monsieur Gunning," she whispered through gritted teeth before tugging on his sleeve and leading him by the arm.

She dashed toward the opposite wall, swiping the candelabra off the floor as she did so. The moment they reached the opposite wall, she doused the candles, waving the smoke away with her hand. In the next moment, she dragged Ford—still disoriented from the sudden darkness—into a narrow passageway.