Chapter 7

Madame Tricheuse crossed the room and patted the wall behind the desk. Another hidden door? He wouldn't be surprised.

Ford moved toward her, walking past an overturned trunk with phallic-shaped items and other accessories spilling out from it. He wrinkled his nose in distaste but continued surveying the chaos.

Just as he came up behind Madame Tricheuse, the door disguised as part of the wall swung open, revealing a metal safe within.

"Hold this, please," she said with the sweetest smile, her eyes glinting with mischief, and handed Ford a candle.

She pulled another key out of her chatelaine and fitted it into an intricate lock.

"Does every harlot have a key to this safe?" he asked curiously as she turned the key slowly this way and that.

"No." Her brows were knitted, a frown of concentration on her face.

"Only you, then?" He watched her carefully as she maneuvered the key in the lock.

At first, Ford wondered why the owner had left valuables in a safe inside the abandoned brothel. But he quickly remembered that the place had been ransacked, and yet the intruders had never found the hidden safe.

Judging by the effort Madame Tricheuse applied to unlock it, even if the men had found the hidden enclosure, the probability that they'd get it open was low.

Wanting to better see how she was maneuvering the key in the lock, he stepped closer, only to trip over something and nearly crash to the floor. He caught himself quickly without major damage, except for a bit of his dignity. Hunching down, he picked up the item that had almost caused an embarrassing accident. It was a little cone-shaped stone attached to a metal handle. "What is this anyway?" he asked, rolling it in his palm.

Madame Tricheuse turned toward him, and her eyes immediately lit up with merriment. She swallowed a chuckle. "It's a… stimulant. To insert into a man's backside for pleasure."

Ford dropped the item like a hot potato and stared at his palms in disgust. Madame Tricheuse laughed outright then. "Do not worry, it's been washed," she said and returned her attention to the safe.

"Washed?" Ford dusted his hands on his breeches. "It should be burnt." He shuddered at the mere thought of where that item had been!

"As a rule," Madame Tricheuse said with a smile in her voice, "do not touch anything in the brothel if you don't know what it is." She was obviously enjoying his misfortune, while Ford was stuck between amusement and terror.

"Could have warned me," he growled, still wiping his hands on his breeches.

She just laughed in answer.

The safe gave an audible click as the final tumbler slid into place. Madame Tricheuse turned to him, a triumphant smile curving her brightly painted lips.

"Were you beginning to doubt me?"

"Not at all." He cleared his throat. "And what exactly was worth all this trouble?"

She pulled out a thin stack of papers and threw them onto the table. "The logbook."

Ford suspiciously eyed the thin pile neatly stitched together. "This is the logbook?"

"No," she said, reaching back into the safe and picking up a heavy leather-bound book. "This is the logbook. That tiny pile is just the data for the latest month. Once the month is complete, we bind the papers into the book. I do not believe we need the rest at the moment, but I am willing to show you the entire book if you're so inclined."

His eyes flicked between the enormous book in the safe and the thin stack of papers on the desk. "Not just yet."

Madame Tricheuse shrugged and closed the safe without locking it. She was starting to trust him. Good.

She was probably motivated by the break-in, and Ford was glad for it.

"Let's see what it says."

They both leaned over the paper, Madame Tricheuse's wig bumping into his head.

"Do you ever tire of carrying that monstrous wig on top of your head?"

Tricheuse didn't take her eyes off the papers. "No."

Her finger delicately slid down the list of names. She flipped through the papers several times, stopping on a particular page. "This is the date of the murder."

There was a flurry of names. This brothel had been more popular than he'd imagined. Many of the guests disguised their real names and used the aliases in the logbook.

Not only did Ford think that the murderer was probably let inside by one of the workers, therefore his name would not be on the list, but now, even if he did jot down his name, he had to decipher it among aliases.

He let out a dry chuckle. "Clever. They're all using aliases. How in the world should I distinguish who is who?"

"Easily." Madame Tricheuse grinned. "Especially since they lack imagination and always use the same alias and then give up their real names to their favorite harlots."

Ford raised a brow. "You know who these men are?"

She shrugged. "Most of them."

"Then why use the fake name at all?"

She shrugged. "In case of raids. They don't want the evidence to get out to official sources. They don't care what the harlots know. And we know a lot." She ran a delicate finger down the list, mumbling something to herself, then stopped, pointing at a barely decipherable signature. "Here's Lord Portsmouth."

"How do you know?"

She just cocked a brow and continued scanning the list. She paused, tapping her finger beside another name. "This gentleman was in the watching chambers at the same time when Portsmouth was murdered."

Ford leaned forward and squinted.

Porter.

"Lord Porter," Madame Tricheuse confirmed. "Oddly, he uses his real name. I suppose he thinks he has nothing to fear. He is often found in our watching chambers, but…" She frowned, chewing on her lower lip.

"But…?"

"I don't think he is the murderer, as he is one of the Brotherhood members. A rather new one. He's been coming to us since the opening of our brothel, and only a few months ago did he get adorned with a crimson fist on his backside."

"Perhaps he went in as a spy… I never thought"—Ford tapped a finger against his lips—"maybe I should have assumed that it could be one of their own. Who else would know the list of all the members…" He paused. "Aside from you, apparently."

"I do not know all the members," she countered. "Only the ones who visit the brothel."

"All this time I assumed the murderer would be an enemy of the Brotherhood, of which there are dozens, but what if it's someone on the inside? They could be murdering their own and framing whoever they despise."

"Framing people like me." Madame Tricheuse smiled an unsettling smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. It lacked her usual coquettish warmth. There was something familiar about that cold smile…

"Exactly. Devil take it." Ford ran a hand through his hair. "The list of suspects grows by the minute."

This case just became even more impossible.

"This is odd." Madame Tricheuse tapped her finger against the paper, her brows drawing together.

"What's wrong?"

"This name."

Ford squinted to see better, but at that moment, Madame Tricheuse whirled away, got the leather-bound tome out of the safe, and started flipping through the pages.

"What is it?" Ford tried to catch the name Madame Tricheuse alluded to, but his eyes swam from the flood of names on the page.

"There's this one man… I remembered him because he was new and acted a bit strange."

"Strange how?"

"First, his appearance drew undue attention. He was tall…" She paused and looked up at Ford. He blinked, waiting for her to continue. "Even taller than you." She returned her attention to the book. "He was wearing an oversized coat, an intricate, white-powdered wig, and had quite an elaborate mustache."

"And that's odd?"

"Not on its own, no. But after he requested a harlot—he didn't have a specific preference—he asked her to leave him alone in the room for a few moments."

Ford frowned. "Alone in an empty room of the brothel?"

"Yes, he said that his wife had passed recently, and he hadn't been intimate with anyone since. The first time he came, after spending some time alone, he had paid for the harlot's time and then asked to go to the watching chambers instead. But the second time, when the harlot returned after letting him be alone for a moment, he had disappeared. Colette, who was assigned to service him at the time, thought he just left. She felt sorry for him, but now…"

She blew a strand of hair away from her face in frustration. "I can't find his name in the book prior to this day, but I am certain he's been here before."

Ford placed his hand on hers to still her frantic turning of the pages. "What is his alias?"

Madame Tricheuse returned her attention to the thin stack of papers and slid her finger down the page, stopping next to the word: Erebus.

* * *

Oh, bollocks!

Not this again.

When Grace watched the man scribble this name on the logbook, she chuckled a little. Who hadn't used the name Erebus in the past few years?

It was a badly concealed contest amongst the criminals. Who could taunt the man more?

Erebus was the leader of a prominent secret society, The Shadows.

A few years ago, rumors started circulating around town about the vile criminal group lurking in the shadows, stealing men, women, and even children in the night. What they did to them was a mystery, but those people were never heard from again.

Then they had abducted a powerful lord—an earl!—the Earl of Payne, if she wasn't mistaken. Later on, one of their members was imprisoned.

Hades had even thought that one of the members was responsible for his sister's murder until it was discovered otherwise.

Every little sin was attributed to this secretive group and their infamous leader.

Hell, even William had impersonated the man.

Erebus.

Was it possible the legend himself had been in her brothel, standing right before her eyes, and she let him escape her grasp?

Even if she'd thought he was the real Erebus, what could she have done?

Gunning leaned against the side of the desk and crossed his arms over his chest, his features impassive. "Erebus, huh?"

Grace blinked innocently. "Yes."

"And the only thing you found odd was his appearance, not his name?"

"Well—"

"Don't tell me you didn't know the name!" he demanded as he moved toward her, his brows drawn together in a frown. "This has been the most popular name in criminal circles for the past few years. You know so much about the Brotherhood; do not tell me you know nothing about The Shadows and their infamous leader. He has been blackmailing the aristocrats for years, and now they're dying and you did not make the connection?"

Grace swallowed. "I didn't find it odd exactly because the name is so popular. Anyone wanting to hide their true name could use it! Of course, I've heard about The Shadows, but I don't know a single person who belongs to this group because, unlike the Brotherhood, they do not parade any kind of mark on their bodies. And yes, I know about the blackmail, but it has nothing—" to do with the murders. Grace couldn't say it out loud. The blackmail done in the name of Erebus in the last few years was actually her friend William, impersonating the man. William wasn't exactly a righteous man, but he was not a cold-blooded killer either. Hot-blooded, perhaps. He was ready to unsheathe his sword if anyone wronged him. But he couldn't and wouldn't kill anyone in cold blood. Mentioning any of this wouldn't help Gunning in his mission, however. It would only make him trust her less.

"It has nothing… to do with this?" Gunning raised a brow.

His face was so close to hers that she could see the golden flecks of light dancing in his dark irises. Once again, he attempted to intimidate with his proximity. Grace dropped her gaze to his lips. She used her flirtatious nature to deflect the attention.

He had beautiful lips. Wide, hard, intense. She returned her gaze to his eyes and his gaze softened.

"As you said, it is a very popular name in London right now. Anyone could use it. In fact, it would be incredibly foolish for the real Erebus to use his alias."

"Unless he wanted us to know it was him."

"And risk getting exposed? Pshaw!" Grace waved the idea away. "That would be incredibly foolish."

"Or arrogant," Gunning countered with a shrug. "To walk into a brothel right beneath everyone's noses, use his alias, kill a man, and walk out. Now, that would make a real statement, wouldn't it?"

Grace swallowed. The talk about donning secret identities and walking right in front of other people's noses was making her really uncomfortable, considering she was hiding behind a disguise herself and walking around with the thief-taker pretending to be who she was not.

"Fine," she conceded. "Let's say you're right and he is the killer and the real Erebus. How do we find him?"

He took the papers and stacked them against the desk. "I have contacts in the aristocratic world, and you might not know this, but they… write notes to each other. Some of them might recognize the penmanship."

"Pft, if it was this easy to find out who the signature belongs to—"

"It is, to professionals like me," he interrupted swiftly, his nimble fingers clutching the papers to his chest.

"These papers are confidential."

"I shall be very discreet."

"By showing it to God knows who? No. You are not taking them with you." Grace reached for the papers, but he held them away from her.

"I am only asking for forty-eight hours. I will bring them back in the same condition that I've taken them."

"Respectfully"—she reached around him and took the papers back—"I do not trust you with them. And if someone figures out that I gave the logbook to the thief-taker, I risk not having a single client return after that."

"If I don't find the murderer, you might never reopen. And you might even get arrested."

"Good luck with solving the murder, then."

"You heard them, right? They will put a price on your head and every harlot who worked with you! Are you willing to risk it because you don't trust me?"

"I can deal with them on my own. Nobody leaves this place with papers from the logbook." She paused. "At least they don't leave alive."

"Are you threatening me?" He took a menacing step toward her.

"What if I am?" She held her ground.

The thief-taker had the gall to look around as if wondering who Grace was talking to. "You do realize that I can easily overpower you?"

Grace crossed her arms over her chest. "Please, I dare you to try."

He let out a laugh, then, with sure hands, whirled her around and held her waist, pressing her back to his chest. He easily plucked the papers out of her fingers and let go of her, making her stumble.

For a short moment, Grace entertained the thought of taking out her dagger and stabbing the obstinate man to prove her point. She didn't.

Instead, she turned to him slowly and held out her hand. "Give the papers back to me."

He raised them over his head. "No."

"I beg your pardon?" Grace reached for them again, swatting at the air. He just held them farther away.

"If you insist upon acting this childishly, so can I." Grace blew a thin strand of hair, which had crept up from under her wig, away from her face. "If you take this book out of the brothel, do not expect my further assistance."

A smirk graced his lips. "If I have this book, I won't need your further assistance."

She scoffed.

"Tell me I am wrong," he taunted. "What more can you offer me, aside from perhaps a few minutes of pleasure?"

She gasped, momentarily robbed of the power of speech. When her wits returned to her, she calmly let her eyes roam down his body. "I have no doubt you're overestimating your abilities, Monsieur Gunning. I am willing to bet you won't last more than a few seconds."

He blinked, not comprehending the insult for a moment, and then she watched his face change from shock to outrage until his lips curved just a little with a glimpse of humor. Finally, he pursed his lips so as not to laugh and returned her earlier regard by looking her up and down, slowly. "I dare you to try."