Page 22 of The Notorious Lady

“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?”