Page 49 of The Notorious Lady

Would a proper woman even suit him? The kind of life he led… Would they have anything in common besides a bed?

Ford shook his head. He needed a good night’s rest. Perhaps, in the morning, he would be clear of this fog and the haze left behind by Madame Tricheuse.

His Triss.

Chapter 14

Triss.

Her name and her face were the first things that came to Ford’s mind. Clearly, the fog had not lifted. What kind of sorcery was she employing on him to make him consumed with thoughts of her? Ford could not remember ever thinking about a woman this much. And he didn’t even know her real name. Hell, he hadn’t even seen her true face beneath all that powder and rouge!

Her soft voice and the fluid way she moved were enough to drive him mad, somehow.

He rolled off the bed and went to take his morning ablutions. He needed to concentrate on something else. The cold water on his face did not temper his thoughts. Was she thinking of him just as much?

Rap. Rap. Rap.

Thank God!

A distraction.

Ford wrapped his banyan over his half-naked form, walked to the door, and pulled it open. A liveried footman stood on his doorstep. “I have a missive from Lord Payne,” he said with a deep bow.

About time. Ford stretched his arm and took the missive. The footman bowed out and left, obviously not instructed to collect an answering note. Was that a good sign or bad?

Ford shut the door and opened the missive right there in the hallway. He was too curious to find out what his friend had found. As he scanned the message, his face turned grim.

The Erebus whose name was in the logbook didn’t match the handwriting of the real Erebus. It didn’t match William’s hand, either. Not that Ford had expected it to, but it was good to know that Blake was thorough.

According to Blake’s ‘friend,’ the description of the man who signed Erebus’s name also didn’t match the one of the real Erebus.

There was no need to speak in code. Ford knew who said ‘friend’ was—Viscount St. John. Perhaps Blake was being overly cautious.

Nonetheless, another dead end.

Blake had promised to continue looking, though. Perhaps he would come across the culprit by accident. For that reason, he said he’d keep the papers from the logbook unless Ford needed them back.

He didn’t. What was he to do with them other than return them to Triss?

Triss…

She would not be happy about this.

Ford slowly made his way to his study, his nose still buried in the note.

He frowned before walking to the hearth and burning it. How was he supposed to keep Triss appraised of this development? She had never left him any instructions on how to keep in touch. She knew where he lived, so perhaps she’d sneak into his house again whenever she felt like it.

He hoped it would be soon.

* * *

Grace flipped through the logbook for the thousandth time, going through each name one by one, committing each one to her memory. She’d brought it from her brothel to her home in hopes she would uncover secrets there she hadn’t seen before. The pages she had given Ford were the most valuable, or so she assumed. But it didn’t mean she couldn’t find the nuggets of truth in the rest of the book.

For example, she’d found the first time “Erebus” came into the brothel.

She looked at the signature, committed it to her memory. And every time she flipped through the book and came across it, she remembered the man who signed it.

She set the book aside and picked up her sketchbook and a pencil. She remembered a bit of his features, and she hoped that sketching him would help her memory, or perhaps the memory of other harlots working that day. Perhaps they would help her complete her sketch.