Chapter 5

Ford couldn't see a bloody thing inside the secret passageway.

It was pitch black and rather suffocating.

As he tried to turn toward his companion, he bumped into the wall, quickly realizing it wasn't wide enough to accommodate his shoulders.

"Shhh…" Madame Tricheuse gently put her hand on his chest, pressing him against the wall. She stilled beside him, communicating with her hand on his chest to stand still as well.

He couldn't see her in the complete darkness, but he could feel her.

She stood so close that her soft exhales caressed his cheek and the whisper of her skirts brushed against his legs. Oddly, he didn't find those sensations at all unpleasant.

Strange.

He did not like this woman.

She was a seductress, a liar, and no doubt, a criminal. Possibly a murderer.

Yet in the darkness and the confinement of this narrow corridor, she was but a woman. A woman who had quite possibly just saved his life.

A woman whose warmth stirred a flicker of desire in his body.

Ford took a deep breath to clear his mind. Instead, he inhaled the scent of jasmine mixed with the fresh scent of her skin.

His heartbeat accelerated, beating so loudly he was certain she could hear it.

Luckily, the voices outside their sanctuary grew louder, eclipsing his wandering thoughts.

The footsteps carried the intruders closer to their hiding spot.

Ford concentrated on the sounds outside the walls, trying to make out anything about the intruders.

Who were they?

And what did they want?

The voices were rough and low, indicating that all of them were men. Not that it was a surprising revelation.

Judging by the sounds of footsteps, there were… one, two, three… at least five or six people present.

They didn't bother to moderate the volume of their voices as they dispersed throughout the building, obviously not caring to be overheard.

Where were the constables? Were they bribed to step aside? Or were they beaten and tied up somewhere in the rain?

His insides tightened, his lungs constricting in fear for the fate of his fellow men.

"Look through every damned room in this place." A crisp, aristocratic voice whipped like a lash in the darkness. "Do not leave a single stone unturned."

The other men responded with a loud cheer.

As a few voices continued spreading all over the corridor, two distinct sets of footsteps entered the room Ford and Madame Tricheuse had just escaped from.

Madame Tricheuse tensed, her fingers biting into Ford's flesh. He didn't react. He doubted she realized what she was doing. Better she scratched his skin off than made a sound betraying their location.

"Can you smell it?" a man asked loudly. His accent was rough and unrefined. A common thug.

"Smell what?" another man echoed.

"The scent of wax," the first man answered. Madame Tricheuse's breaths came faster, the rise and fall of her chest brushing against his shoulder.

"You're holding a candle, you dimwit," the other man countered.

"Not my candle, you dimwit." Clearly, extremely educated fellas. Ford rolled his eyes. "It was here before we stepped inside."

"I don't smell anything."

Another set of boots boomed into the room. "What are you two blathering on about?" There's that aristocratic accent again. It was the same man. Ford assumed he was the leader, and the rest were men from the criminal element.

Ford didn't recognize the owner of the aristocratic voice, not that he would. But perhaps Madame Tricheuse did. She stood still beside him, not giving away her thoughts.

"Harv says there's a scent of burnt wax," a thug said with a snort.

"Someone was in this room just before us, I am sure," another man, probably Harv, chimed in.

A pause.

"Then they couldn't have gone far," the aristocrat finally said. "Station the men at every exit and go look through the rest of the building."

The footsteps retreated, and the noise was carried to other rooms. Silence fell upon the room outside, but it was too risky for them to step out. The men were still in the brothel.

What did they want?

A loud banging sound jolted Ford out of his reverie.

"Where's that coming from?" he whispered.

"The offices," Madame Tricheuse whispered back. "They are the only rooms that are—were," she corrected herself swiftly as the crashing sound of the door being broken made her flinch, "locked."

Ford nodded. "Where does this corridor lead?"

"Anywhere. Everywhere within the brothel."

"You mean a person with access to this passage can go anywhere they want?"

"Absolutely."

"Without anyone noticing."

"Yes."

Perfect. It was a perfect opportunity for Ford to not only learn more about the secret passageway but to also spy on the men who were now so boldly prowling about the brothel. Who were they, and what did they want?

But if they got caught, he risked getting Madame Tricheuse killed or worse… His nose wrinkled, and his heart constricted at the unpleasant thought.

No, he needed to get her out of there and to check on the constables. They could be bleeding out right there on the street!

"Right," he whispered. "Get us out of here."

Madame Tricheuse hesitated. "You want to leave?"

"Yes, I want us to get out of here. Safely."

"No." Her whisper was confident. Defiant.

The most stubborn creature he had ever had the misfortune of meeting.

"Yes. We are leaving. These men are dangerous."

"And they are obviously looking for us!"

Ford covered her mouth with his hand. "Shh! Whisper softly!"

She bit his finger, and Ford wrenched his hand away. "I am whispering. Do not be a coward."

"I am not worrying about myself. You know that you will suffer a worse fate than me if we are caught."

"Do not underestimate what some men can do to other men," she said evenly, then took his hand in hers. "Now come. And be as quiet as you can."

Ford had no choice but to follow the obstinate woman. He held her hand tightly as he walked sideways along the narrow corridor, making certain not to brush the wall with his shoulders.

He could see nothing in the complete darkness, only occasionally he would catch a glimpse of her flaming red wig. They seemed to follow the sounds of voices, but Ford could not imagine where they were located in the brothel exactly. "Where does this path lead, anyway?"

"Do you not trust me, Monsieur?" She answered with a question, a smile in her voice.

He made a strangled noise. "Not even a little."

Yet, he continued following her, holding her hand tightly, the drumming of her pulse reverberating through his skin.

She slowed her steps as the voices grew louder, walking slowly but carefully, not making a single sound.

"Nothing valuable is in these books," the aristocratic voice said. "They probably took all the valuables with them."

Madame Tricheuse paused and raised her hand, silently commanding Ford not to move. She leaned forward then and pressed her fingers to the wall in front of her.

Ford widened his eyes as if asking, "What in the hell are you doing?" Not that she was looking at him. He reached up and grabbed her wrist.

Madame Tricheuse paused only for a moment, then without shaking off his hand, determinedly slid her fingers over the wall until a small circle of light filtered inside their hideaway spot.

Ah, a peephole.

Her features illuminated slightly. Ford could see her self-satisfied smirk before she squinted into the peephole.

Ford tried to turn so he could observe the goings-on in the room as well. Instead, he hit his shoulder against the wall, resulting in a dull thud.

Madame Tricheuse frowned at him, annoyed, and all he could do was shrug apologetically, but the damage was done.

"Shhh… listen," one of the men said behind the wall. And then everyone went still for a while. Ford and Tricheuse didn't move either.

"What did you hear?"

"Nothing, probably a rat or something."

Tricheuse visibly relaxed, letting out a deep breath.

"There's no one here, sir!" A man stalked into the room with confident strides. "We've turned the entire building upside down."

"Marlow confirmed that the whore and a thief-taker entered the bloody building a few minutes ago. They couldn't have disappeared so quickly."

Ford and Madame Tricheuse were indeed their targets! Ford gritted his teeth.

"Marlow?" Madame Tricheuse asked in a barely audible whisper.

Ford nodded. It was one of the constables. The bastard had sold them to these thugs.

Ford felt his blood boil inside of him. And here he was, worried about the traitor's well-being. Afraid that the thugs might have hurt him and his partner.

Madame Tricheuse rested her hand against his heart. Calm down, her gesture said. It's not the time.

And oddly, it worked.

His breathing evened out, and he was able to hear past the rushing of blood in his ears and concentrate on the intruders' words. Ford squeezed Madame Tricheuse's wrist in gratitude.

He needed to stay calm. They were at an advantage, hiding behind the thin walls of the brothel. At least, they had already found some answers to the questions they didn't even ask. They'd found out they couldn't trust anyone. Not even the constables.

If they stayed hidden, perhaps they'd find out more.

Who were these men? Were they after Ford or after Madame Tricheuse? And what did they want with them?

The next words out of the aristocrat's mouth answered one of Ford's questions. "This is the first time in weeks that we got information on a single whore from this damned place. I can't believe we missed her."

The man paced inside the room like a caged tiger, occasionally thumping a wall with his fists.

Both Ford and Tricheuse held their breaths. If he tapped on their wall, perhaps a dull sound would give away the fact that there was a secret passage here. Would the man realize that?

The room grew quiet for a moment as the man paused and muttered something to himself. Ford couldn't make out everything, but he understood bits and pieces.

He said something about Portsmouth's murder. Then, "I told him to quit coming here, this place is a cesspool of waste. They thieve, they fish out information, and then sell it. No wonder the next step was murder."

More steps. More hushed conversations.

Ford turned to Madame Tricheuse, to see if he could discern anything from her facial expression. It was probable that the man was making up the accusations simply out of anger at one of his friends being murdered in this place. But Madame Tricheuse stood still, her face a blank canvas.

"We found a back door…" somebody said loudly. "Perhaps they heard us and left."

"Ran away like the cowards they are," the aristocrat ground out. "Very well. Let's make certain they remember that we've been here. Tear this place down!"

Cheering followed the loud, booming sounds. The rattling and shuffling noises, as well as the sounds of metal clinking, echoed in the room. Then the bang of the furniture being overturned and thrown about. Madame Tricheuse's eyelids narrowed, her silent rage palpable despite her complete silence.

It must have been difficult to hear the destruction of the very place she cherished and fought hard to save.

Ford took her wrist and felt the pulse leaping inside her veins. He tried to calm her, the way she'd managed to do for him. By bringing attention to her frantic breaths and her leaping heartbeat.

They stood like that for a long moment. Her eyes were closed as she listened to whatever atrocity was going on outside their little hideaway. At times, she would flinch whenever a sharp noise would pierce the air. Ford felt pity for her and a certain anger at the men for the pure joy they expressed while causing immense destruction.

Yet he could do nothing but hold her hand, his thumb running sweeps across her wrist, trying his best to soothe her pain.

The footsteps retreated from the room, and now the aristocrat's voice sounded from the corridor. "The owner of this brothel is at fault, I am certain. If he thinks he can rob, blackmail, and kill the members of the Brotherhood, he is greatly mistaken. Find every whore of this brothel, I don't care how. Hunt them down and torture them until they give up the owner. By the time we are done, we will either have the killer in our grasp or a trail of dead whores in our wake."

He continued shouting out instructions, but he walked farther and farther away from Ford and Madame Tricheuse's hiding place as he did so. And Ford couldn't make out anything else.

Two things were clear, however. One—the Brotherhood of the Crimson Fist thought their members were being killed by the owner of this brothel, and they were willing to do anything in order to punish the guilty.

And two—the constables were not to be trusted.

Ford felt Madame Tricheuse tremble by his side. No, not in fear. Her eyes communicated rage and determination.

Ford squeezed her hand.

Be calm, little one, he communicated silently. I won't let these men get away with their threats.

She must have understood his intentions as she gave him a silent nod.

They stood like that, Madame Tricheuse's wrist in his hand, for a long time.

Ford didn't know how much time had passed, but even though their leader seemed to have left, the rest of the men didn't seem like they were in a hurry to follow him. Instead, they continued wreaking havoc in every room they passed. And judging by the sounds, they were enjoying the carnage.