Page 21 of The Notorious Lady
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.
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.
