Chapter 8

Ford didn't know what prompted him to flirt and exchange barbs with the harlot. The only thing he knew was that he was quite enjoying himself. She was clever, this harlot of his. And rather impressive, he had to admit.

Most harlots Ford had the misfortune to come across didn't even know how to read. Clearly, it was not an issue for Madame Tricheuse. Her French accent wasn't real, but beneath it, she was well-spoken.

She was trusted with very confidential things, like keys to the brothel, the secret passage, and the valuable safe. She remembered the men's aliases, and he would wager all his fortune on the fact that she knew many of those men's secrets.

Simple whores robbed their clients while they were too randy to notice. But Madame Tricheuse collected something far more valuable—information.

It was one thing to admire a harlot for her charm and seductiveness and another to admit she was resourceful and clever. A wayward thought briefly entered his mind… She would make a perfect thief-taker.

She seemed to study him just as intently, her kohl-rimmed eyes glittering with some indecipherable emotion in the dim light.

"I am not giving you the book," she finally said, ignoring his dare. "You can read it, reread it, write down all the irregularities of the signature if you want to compare it to anything, but you are not going to take it from here. It stays with me." She paused, her eyes narrowing. "Unless…"

"Unless?"

"I come with you."

Ford let out a bark of laughter.

"You find that idea laughable?"

"Obviously, I do. I mean no offense, but if I come to an aristocratic home with a harlot on my arm, I won't be let inside."

She opened her coat and stuffed the papers inside, securing them to her bodice. "Either I come with you, or you don't get to go at all."

He watched her deft fingers cover the papers with her chatelaine, hiding them from view. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that she was steering this investigation where she wanted it to go. More than likely, she had ulterior motives for doing everything she did. And even if she didn't, trusting a harlot would be a grave mistake.

But she was a tenacious one. So, he decided to let her think she won. "Fine. We go together."

She placed the leather book back in the safe, locking it securely before turning to him, a triumphant smile on her lips. "When are we going then?"

"I will let you know tomorrow. But you will have to use less paint to cover your face… No, don't cover it at all. And no ridiculous wigs, please."

"Are you ashamed to be seen with a harlot, then?" she teased with a pout, playing with a loose curl of her wig.

He walked up to her, so close her breasts touched the front of his coat. His fingers traced her cheek, then lower. He let his hand move past her collarbone and down the center of her chest.

Her breath hitched, the pulse visibly drumming against her throat.

Ford's own heartbeat accelerated, he had to remind himself it was a game.

"If you think that just because I am a harlot, you get to touch me where you please, you are mistaken." Yet her voice was oddly breathless.

"Am I?" he murmured. "But what if I want to seal the deal with a kiss."

She looked straight into his eyes. "I thought you considered kissing a harlot to be unseemly. Unimaginable."

"Perhaps I don't want to imagine it."

He lowered his head and kissed the juncture between her shoulder and her neck. She tensed in his arms, her breath hitching, her breasts pressing against his chest.

Ford's cock awakened and stood proudly, straining against the breeches. The damn harlot was so alluring he'd almost forgotten his aim.

He peppered his kisses on her shoulder, while his arm circled her waist. With his other hand, he silently retrieved the papers she'd secured behind her chatelaine. He quickly slipped them into his pocket, as his lips traced her skin up her neck. He didn't want to stop. And yet…

"It was a pleasure, Madame Tricheuse," he whispered hoarsely into her ear, then took a step back before diving toward the exit and quickly slipping away.

* * *

Ford stepped out of the carriage in front of a beautiful townhouse. He hadn't been to Mayfair in a while. He'd almost forgotten how lavish this area was.

He made his way to the front of the door of one of the houses and had barely knocked when the door swung open, the lean face of an old butler studying him down his nose.

How the old man managed to look at him down his nose, although he was shorter than Ford, was a mystery. Perhaps a long-time practice of serving aristocratic homes.

"How can I help you, sir?" The butler's voice was even.

"I beg an audience with your master." Ford handed the butler his card and the man dipped inside, leaving Ford waiting on the doorstep.

Ford looked down at his worn-down, unsophisticated attire. No wonder he was being treated worse than a servant. Perhaps the butler thought him to be a beggar.

Ford swallowed a laugh, imagining the expression on the poor butler's face if Ford had brought Madame Tricheuse with him as she wanted.

When the door opened again a few minutes later, the butler's demeanor had changed. He opened the door wide and let him in with a shallow bow. "Welcome, Mr. Gunning. His lordship will welcome you in the study."

"I know the way, thank you." Ford interrupted the butler's attempt to lead him and made his way toward his old friend's study.

Ford had known Blake since their debauched youth when the future earl did not quite discriminate whom he drank and whored around with. He had led quite an adventurous life, until the day he was abducted and thrown onto a slave ship.

After escaping and returning, he had turned a new leaf, but he hadn't forgotten Ford's friendship, especially since Ford had helped him once or twice since.

As Ford entered the study, he stopped short, taken aback by the fact that the earl wasn't alone. His friend, Viscount St. John, sat across from him.

Ford stifled a groan. He didn't exactly like the man. It didn't help that he didn't trust him, either.

A few years ago, the whispers of the secret society, The Shadows, appeared in every corner of London. The rumors painted them as vile monsters and murderers, while in reality, deep research into the roots of the group informed Ford that they were a group of vigilantes. Tasked, in all of things, to rid the world of other, more nefarious secret societies, like The Brotherhood of the Crimson Fist.

That was why he wasn't exactly surprised at the idea that Erebus was the real perpetrator of the crimes. After all, the victims were all members of the Brotherhood.

And he was pretty certain—almost completely certain—that Viscount St. John was in fact a part of The Shadows.

Could he trust St. John? Probably not.

"Gentlemen," Ford said dryly.

"Long time no see," St. John said with a light smirk. The last time they saw each other, Ford and St. John had worked together to save Blake's wife from the members of the Brotherhood. That was when his suspicions of St. John's secret identity were solidified.

Blake stood and offered Ford a hand. "Glad to see you. Please, sit."

He offered him a glass of whisky, and a moment later, all three of them sat around the desk, tumblers in their hands.

"Tell us, what brought you here?" Blake asked.

Ford shifted his eyes from his friend to St. John and back again. "Actually, the matter I wanted to discuss with you is delicate."

St. John immediately rose to his feet. "Say no more. I shall enjoy a bit of fresh air."

"I mean no offense—" Ford started, but St. John raised a staying hand.

"None taken, I assure you." With a nod to Blake, he turned and walked away.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Blake lifted his eyebrow.

"I know you trust him with your life—"

"I have a reason to."

"Right. But I don't. And the matter I came to discuss… Let's just say I suspect your friend has a stake in it."

Blake frowned and leaned forward, eager to know more.

"What do you know about the recent murders of aristocrats?"

"Not much," Blake said with a shrug. "Just what I've read in the papers."

"I've been investigating and my efforts led me to a couple of suspects, one of whom goes by the name Erebus. Does that tell you anything?"

Blake pursed his lips. He never was a good liar. Technically, he hadn't even lied yet, but he was contemplating it.

After a brief tussle with himself in his mind, Blake decided to tell the truth or a part of it. "I know of him." He paused. "And I know people who are close to him."

Interesting choice of words. "Do you think he is the murderer?"

Blake squirmed in his seat. "No. Can I ask you why you think he is the murderer?"

Ford let out a deep breath. Could he trust Blake with the entire truth? Could St. John be waiting behind the closed door listening to his every word?

"I came across a logbook for The House of Pain and Pleasure for the day the last man was murdered there." There. That was vague and precise enough. Blake needn't know that Madame Tricheuse was helping him. God only knew if she'd be in danger if anyone found out. Not that anyone would know where to find her, but Ford couldn't risk it.

She was a feisty woman, that harlot. And she, no doubt, could protect herself if the need arose. Ford only hoped that need never did arise.

"Erebus was one of the suspicious names on the list."

"One of?"

"Yes." Ford nodded. "The second name is Porter. I have it on good authority that he was in the watching chamber alone. So, he had the time to slip away, commit murder, and disappear into the night."

Blake drummed his fingers against the desk. "What do you want me to do?"

Ford hesitated for a moment before pulling out the papers. "I know the story, Blake. Erebus is supposed to be a powerful aristocrat. And even if the name was forged, there is a high chance the forger is also an aristocrat." He extended the paper toward him. "I want to see if you recognize the penmanship."

A scoff left Blake's lungs. "You must mistake me for a spy, Ford, or a forger. I do not possess such a talent for discerning different handwriting."

Ford's eyes flicked to the door of the office. "Perhaps you know someone who can?"

Blake raised a brow. "Are you suggesting I should ask St. John?"

Ford shrugged. "Without context, if you ask him to authenticate the signature, will he do it?"

Blake watched Ford carefully. "And if he does?"

"I keep my sources private. I will not tell anyone where I got the information from. Nor will I condemn the owner of the signature based on this one information."

Blake nodded and folded the paper. "Then I shall ask. Give me a few days and I shall send for you when I have news."

"Thank you." Ford stood and turned away before pausing for a moment. "Do you happen to know anything useful about Porter?"

"Porter?" Blake's face twisted in a grimace. "I always thought he was a proper sort of fellow. But he was friends with Bradshaw, so one can never know."

"Bradshaw…" Ford paused in contemplation. "Wasn't that the man arrested for your abduction?"

Blake snorted. "Exactly. But then I used to be friends with him as well. So, I can't condemn the man based on the company he keeps. But if you wish to know the man better and perhaps enter his home, there is a way you can do that."

"Is there?" Ford turned fully toward his friend, his interest peaking.

"He hosts… a dinner party at his townhouse."

"Why would I be able to get an invitation to a dinner party?"

"Because this dinner party is special," Blake said with a raise of both brows. "No dinner is actually served, but there's a lot of alcohol and any food served has rather potent qualities."

"Oh." Ford frowned. He'd heard of desserts from the East that brought about rather enticing daydreams, but he'd never tried one or even seen one in person. But he deduced that was what Blake meant.

"These dinners sometimes last for days and require minimal to no clothing once inside."

"Have you been to one of these parties before?"

Blake grimaced. "Yes. In my wild past. And that's how I can get you an invitation to the next one. It commences in a few days but…"

"But?"

"There might be a small issue. These depraved parties he holds…. They are not the sort to allow a man to stand in the corner smoking a cigar. You'd be expected to participate."

"Ah! Right. Wouldn't want to be fed a piece of dessert and lose my mind for a few hours."

Blake chuckled. "That's not exactly what I meant by participating. You'll need to show up with a woman if you want to walk those halls without being bothered. If you come alone, there's a huge chance that you will be solicited at every turn, and it will quickly become suspicious if you don't let a woman hang from your arm… Or some other place."

Ford grimaced. He hadn't even thought about that. "I'd need a companion then?"

"A co-conspirator, if you will."

He'd had one. And he'd stolen from her, probably losing any chance of her further cooperation.

"And this woman better be as alluring as she is loose with her affections. I can't imagine who would agree to do this, as she'd need to be unaffected by all the depraved things going around the house and be ready to flirt and tease her way out of suspicious situations."

Ford's chest was hollowed out of breath. "Unfortunately, I do."

Blake's eyes rounded in surprise. "You do? Then why are you so grave?"

Ford grimaced. Because he'd stolen the pieces of paper from her that she valued greatly. Because despite his outward animosity toward the woman, kissing her on the neck was one of the most pleasurable memories in his life—which was a sad testament to his life up until now. Because he knew she would be perfect for this assignment and she would make him grovel in order to receive her help. But more alarmingly because he was excited by the prospect. She was a harlot, for God's sake! A woman skilled in seduction. And he was easily falling for her charms. The prospect of spending time in close quarters with her—again!—while surrounded by other people copulating and behaving in a debauched manner made a bead of sweat form at his temple.

"Not grave at all." Ford forced a smile to his lips. "This is perfect."

"Then I shall get an invitation to you and your… let's call her your paramour… and send it to your house."

"Thank you." Ford stood and sketched a bow. "I owe you."

"Please." Blake also stood and waved the gratitude away. "If anything, we are now even."

* * *

Ford arrived home a few hours later. He stepped off the hackney and looked around. He'd always done that, taken in the entire street, to ensure no criminals lurked in the shadows.

The street was busy with people walking to and fro and a couple of boys playing across the road. He'd seen them playing in that exact spot when he left the house earlier in the day. Normally, he wouldn't have found it odd, but these particular boys had stopped doing whatever they were doing the moment Ford appeared out of the hackney.

Now they were back to playing and minding their business.

Ford shrugged. He was probably just getting paranoid.

He walked inside, took off his hat and coat, and hung them by the door. His dusty, lonely house made him want to howl.

He imagined the hearth blazing, food ready, and a bath steaming as he came home. A woman greeted him with a smile at the door.

Hell, he'd settle just for a warm home and a woman. Someone he would tell all his woes, listen to her beautiful lilting voice, hug her waist, and hold her close…

With a sigh, he went to heat some water for his bath.

He was filthy. If he had a woman waiting for him, she would probably refuse to embrace him until he cleaned up anyway. He wasn't sure she'd welcome all his associations, either. What proper wife would encourage him to go back to work where he'd have to frolic with a harlot?

He snorted.

The image of Madame Tricheuse appeared before his mind. She was seductive, the vixen, he had to concede. No doubt, she made a lot of money just for the way she looked at men. As if they were the only one in the world. No, as if they were the most desirable men in the world.

There wasn't anything extraordinary about her appearance. At first glance, he might have even missed her. Plenty of other women were more generously endowed with feminine assets. But the way she walked and held herself, it was clear she knew how to present the gifts she possessed.

Ford heated some leftover soup and had a bowl while waiting for the water to heat up.

His house was incredibly quiet. Usually, he would welcome the silence after a long work day. But lately, he often caught himself wishing for companionship.

Today, he thought of Madame Tricheuse.

It was a testament to the sad life he lived that he resorted to fantasizing about a harlot. The persona she put up in front of him was probably not real, anyway. He was dreaming about a ghost. No wonder men kept clamoring at the door of The House of Pain and Pleasure. Whatever it took to be in her company… To hold her, to kiss her, make her kiss them—

Now that thought made him angry.

Not at her. But at every man who ever touched her. What a strange feeling.

As he finished his meal and attended to the dishes, he kept batting his wayward thoughts away, but they kept coming back with vengeance.

By the time the water heated and he filled the bath with steaming water, he lost the battle with himself. He stripped off his clothes and lowered himself into the warm, pleasant bath. He washed himself while letting his mind bathe in the fantasy.

What if it were Madame Tricheuse's hands roaming his body, not his? What if she caressed him gently while whispering in his ear?

What if her lips brushed against his skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake? What if she looked at him with those piercing eyes, filled with desire and mischief? The water around him seemed to echo his racing heartbeat as he closed his eyes and let himself drown in the intoxicating daydream.

Lost in the fantasy, he reached for his cock and gripped it tightly. Only in his dreams, it wasn't his hand grasping him, it was Madame Tricheuse on her knees in front of him, holding him between her fingers, stroking his length.

He wished he knew her real name, but it didn't matter as long as she knew his.

He wanted to hear her call him Ford just before she licked her lips and locked them around the head of his cock. Water sloshed out of his bath as his hips thrust forward, driving his cock into his hand. Her slippery tongue would circle his cock and then she'd suck him in.

Ford groaned, the bath scraping against the floor from the force of his thrusts. He kept moving his hips, thrusting into his hand, imagining the sultry look in her eyes as she sucked on his length, played with him, stroked him.

The bath screeched across the wooden floor, and the water sloshed violently from the edges in rhythm with his thrusts and his passion-filled grunts. The rickety floors creaked, the handle turned—

The handle?

Ford's eyes flew open just as the door to his bath opened, and Madame Tricheuse, in the flesh, appeared on the threshold.