Chapter 6

Grace closed her eyes against the rage building inside her as a few dirty thugs laid waste to years of her work. She couldn't watch through the peephole as her prized possessions were being torn off the walls and either looted or broken, the books burnt, furniture destroyed.

Her heart pounded inside her chest, threatening to erupt.

Usually, she wasn't the type to hide under the bed—inside the trunk—or in this particular instance, behind the wall from the marauding men. At least, she'd thought she wasn't that type of woman. Turned out, she had been wrong.

But an army of men was outside, and she didn't stand a chance against them. Not alone, and not even with the help of the thief-taker who stood by her side, holding her hand. An unlikely ally.

She needed an ally now, more than ever.

These men inside her brothel, tearing her years of work apart also threatened the lives of people she cared about. And for what?

The murder of a useless aristocrat.

Yes! There, she said it. Or rather, thought it.

Portsmouth had done nothing to benefit anyone around him. The laws he'd supported were barbaric. His estates crumbled while he gambled his money away or spent it in brothels. The only way he made money was by illegal means, with the help of his beloved secret society—the Brotherhood of the Crimson Fist.

The same people who were behind this unceremonious invasion.

If Grace had any choice, she'd rather help the man responsible for the murder to clear the ranks of the Brotherhood. But the murderer—whoever he was—did not care for the collateral damage his rampage was causing to others. The House of Pain and Pleasure had been shut down for over three weeks because of this. And no one cared.

Once again, Grace was on her own. And if she wanted to fix this situation and return her brothel to working order, she needed to clear her name—or Madame Tricheuse's name—first.

And then she'd find a way to dole out her revenge.

Her gaze dropped to her right hand. Somehow, the thief-taker was not holding her wrist anymore. His hand had dropped and now cupped her fingers, his thumb running soothing sweeps across her knuckles.

Perhaps she wasn't alone after all.

Her breath now slowed to the rhythm to his slow strokes.

She couldn't quite explain it, but he made her feel calm. Relaxed.

She couldn't trust him, of course. Not fully. She couldn't trust anyone.

But they had a common goal. And perhaps just this once, she could rely on him for a little while.

"I think they're gone," he whispered.

Grace peered through the peephole at the empty room and nodded. She couldn't hear the rampage anywhere in the building either.

She unlatched the door, and they stepped out from their hiding spot. She immediately picked up a blanket off the floor and doused the fire the men had created by burning books.

Bastards.

Luckily, the fire hadn't spread far. They'd been incompetent in creating a complete disaster, for which Grace was grateful.

Grace took in the rest of the room. It used to be a cozy office. Her sanctuary. Her home.

Now, it was a complete chaos.

The furniture had been overturned, the wall decor ripped off and broken, and books were ripped up and partially burnt.

Her gaze immediately sought the hidden safe. The painting that hid it was on the floor, but they were too daft to recognize that there was a safe behind it.

Good.

Gunning fiddled with the locking mechanism of the hidden door, fascinated by the discovery he'd made. Under any other circumstances, she'd make certain to deter him from figuring out the secrets of the brothel, but at the moment, she could care less.

Her home had been ransacked and ruined. Her friends were in danger.

And there was nothing she could do to make it right.

Or was there?

Her gaze slid back to the thief-taker, who locked the door to the secret passage behind him and turned toward the carnage in the room.

"What is this room?" he asked.

Grace let out a deep breath. My office.

"It's the safe room where we keep all the relevant documents. And a retiring room for the workers." This wasn't completely untrue. There was a cot in the corner where Grace allowed harlots to take naps during the night.

Gunning's gaze ran over the tiny room. "I didn't know harlots liked to read," he noted, nodding toward the stack of partly burned books. "I didn't know you could."

Most couldn't. "You might find a lot of your assumptions about the harlots to be wrong." She threw her arms up in frustration. "These are the kinds of people whose murder we are trying to solve? The people who sow carnage without any proof? The people who vowed to hunt down every person working in this brothel? Frankly, I do not think I care if they all die. I might even cheer the murderer on."

"You do not mean that," Gunning said after a brief pause.

Grace whirled around to face him. "Don't I? They came here to hunt us down like animals! All because they think I might know who the murderer is? And if you think they'd have spared you if they had caught us, then you are wrong. I know these people. The Brotherhood of the Crimson Fist. There is a reason their fists are crimson. With blood."

Ford tilted his head to the side. "What do you know about them?"

Grace shrugged. "What everyone knows. They are lords who amassed their fortunes through the trafficking of stolen goods, forged art, and—oh, yes—human beings! They steal children from orphanages and sell them to child brothels."

"How do you know all that?"

Grace snorted. "Didn't you hear? Here in The House of Pain and Pleasure, we collect information from the drunken fools. Under the right amount of alcohol and given the right woman, those men tell us everything. After all, we are just clueless whores who cannot even read, aren't we?" Grace was getting so angry she let her French accent slip amid her tirade. Gunning either hadn't noticed or pretended not to.

Foolish, foolish behavior! If Grace didn't compose herself, she was bound to ruin herself even further.

She took a deep breath. "Apologies, Monsieur Gunning, but I don't think I can help you any longer. I do not think I care to."

He chewed his lips thoughtfully as he looked around the room. "I understand," he finally said. "However, I think that would be a mistake."

Grace crossed her arms over her chest. "How so?"

"The Brotherhood members are terrible human beings, I agree. And if I find the killer, perhaps I should thank him instead of putting him in the gaol. But I will not because that will not earn me a commendation from the King."

The snort that left Grace's lips was involuntary. She was caught by surprise by the thief-taker's obvious disregard for these men's actions as long as he got praise.

"I know what you are thinking," he said, moving toward her. "And you would be right. Yes, I am that selfish. I am one and thirty. I have lived this life chasing the bottom-dwelling scum no one else would care to chase in order to make a name for myself as a respected thief-taker." He stopped only a foot away from her. "I worked hard to make this world a little safer. And I shall continue doing so. The Brotherhood is dangerous, and if I collect enough evidence to arrest them and dismantle this group, I shall do so. Until then, I shall continue doing my job and lock the criminals behind bars. But it is not often that the King himself shows interest in finding a murderer and offers money and valor for catching him. And I will be damned if I won't be the one to do it. I want to have a family someday soon."

Grace's heart constricted at those words, her breath hitching.

"And being hailed as a hero in this case might help me wash off the sordid reputation my sister's marriage put on me" He paused seeing the judgmental look in her eyes. "Yes, it is a selfish desire, but it doesn't negate the fact that it is also my job and the right thing to do. And if you don't want to help me anymore because you believe it is morally the right thing to do to stand by the killer, I might not be able to convince you otherwise. However, need I remind you that you were servicing these men you so despise regardless of how you felt about them? And now that they have threatened you personally, you suddenly decide to take a stand?"

"It is my job to—as you put it—service these men," she answered, sparks igniting in her eyes. "It is not my job to help you catch their murderer."

"No," he agreed. "But you have your selfish motivations to do so as well. Despite their vile threats, finding the murderer would absolve you of the crime and will remove the target off your and your colleagues' heads, would it not? It will stop you from cowering before them. And then you can be free to refuse their service or continue to sell their information to the Crown's spies or whatever you did in the past. But do not pretend as if you have nothing to gain from helping me."

Grace gritted her teeth. "Fine," she said, after thinking over his words. He wasn't wrong. She had no moral ground to refuse to help him. And even if she did, finding the murderer would solve a lot of problems for her. Those vile men were going to try to find her and kill her. Ironically, it was in her best interest to find a man bent on killing them all. "Come with me."