Page 8 of The Notorious Lady

Just a storm.

Just a dream about that long-ago night.

She’d dreamt about it often. Sometimes, in her dreams, she was able to change the events of that fateful night. She’d get out of the chest, and instead of the menacing figures standing before her, it would be her mother telling her everything was fine. She was safe.

The dream had never extended beyond that because, even in her wildest dreams, she didn’t know how to imagine a life different from this one—a life where that night might have ended differently.

She shuddered, shaking away the dread coiling in her gut, then let out a long, deep, rattling breath. It was just a dream.

Except… what was that sound? No, not the monotone tap of the rain against the window or the roaring crack of thunder. It sounded like… footsteps! And they were getting louder and louder, moving toward her room.

And then there was a thunderous, frantic knock at the front door.

For a moment, as sleep still clung to Grace’s groggy mind, she failed to recognize how assailants could be both at her front door and in the corridor leading to her bedroom at the same time.

Grace dipped her hand under her pillow, her fingers encircling the calming steel handle of her dagger. Clutching it close to her chest, she rolled off the bed and dashed toward the door.

She threw it wide open, nearly hitting the women gathered at the threshold.

“Saints preserve us!” Margaret, one of the harlots from the House of Pain and Pleasure, gasped in terror. She stood by two other women, all of whom Grace now harbored at her new home after the brothel was ransacked by the King’s men in the aftermath of an aristocrat’s murder three weeks ago. Margaret clutched a hand to her buxom chest framed by long, wavy chestnut hair, her coal-black eyes widening in horror. “You nearly killed us with that door!”

“Who cares about the bloody door, Megs?” Harmony muttered darkly and swiped her blond hair away from her shoulders in agitation. “The King’s men have found us!”

“They’re going to execute us!” Colette exclaimed, her voice rising in panic.

Grace could have predicted the panicked terror from Margaret and Harmony, but Colette was usually the more level-headed one. Perhaps living for three weeks under the threat of a siege had frayed even her solid nerves.

The knocking intensified, and Grace was certain she made out a few muffled curses behind the door. The last remnants of sleep evaporating, she moved past the huddled women, her fingers tightening around her dagger.

“It’s not the King’s men. They would have announced themselves,” she said with more confidence than she felt. There was a chance she could be wrong. But even if it wasn’t the King’s soldiers, whoever was at the door could still be dangerous. “Hide in your rooms, lock your doors, and don’t open them for anyone.”

“As if those flimsy doors could ever hold them back,” Megs grumbled, but at Grace’s stern look, the women hurried away.

Grace silently padded down the stairs, through a narrow corridor, and toward the shaking door with her dagger firmly at her side. She could practically feel the knocker’s impatience, frustration, and annoyance through the vibrations of the thick oak door against its hinges.

“Open this fucking door!” the gruff voice snarled from outside. “William sent me!”

Grace reeled in surprise. Not many would dare use William’s name to trick their way into anyone’s house. More often than not, they’d get the opposite effect and be thrown out for even uttering his name.

However, Grace had indeed contacted her long-time friend—or acquaintance, as he would insist—a few days ago, asking for his assistance. So, this man, who now attacked her door, was more than likely telling the truth.

Grace tightened her grip on the dagger and quickly but carefully unlatched the door. That instant, the door was thrown open, and pelting rain and a gust of wind invaded her entryway.

A tall, broad-shouldered, shadowy figure stomped inside, muddy boots sloshing rainwater all over the floor. Grace took two steps back, curling her bare toes against the cold puddles forming at her feet. “Please, close the door behind you,” she asked softly, still clutching the dagger to her side, ready to strike at any moment.

The man raised his head and peered into her face, his features still shadowed. Then he slowly reached back and pulled the door shut.

Now they were encompassed in complete darkness.

Grace carefully backed a few steps until she reached the side table. Without turning her back on the intruder, she lit a solitary candle. As if emboldened by the candlelight, the man moved toward her, his wide step eating up all the space between them until he stood merely a foot away. The flickering light washed his features with a golden glow, and Grace cursed inwardly. She instantly recognized the man standing before her as the man she was currently hiding from—Ford Gunning, the thief-taker himself.

Oh, William, you utter blackguard! Of all the people you could have asked to help me, it had to be him.

Usually an extremely intimidating figure, standing over a foot taller than her and outweighing her by a few stones, the thief-taker now possessed an almost devilish aura. Wild strands of wet hair clung to his forehead, his hard mouth framed by lines of displeasure. His very presence exuded arrogance and disdain. The dark, mud-splattered clothes clinging to his drenched form perfectly complemented the ominous ensemble.

He looked her over with a frown, his eyes roving down her body to linger on her bare toes, peeking out beneath her thin nightgown.

Then his gaze shifted to the muddy puddles surrounding his boots, rainwater still dripping from his form. He shrugged as if entirely unconcerned with the mess he’d trailed inside. Plucking off his hat and cloak, he hung them carelessly on a nearby chair, happily sloshing more mud across the corridor with each step.