Page 2 of The Notorious Lady

Grace turned to Patience. “Lead everyone out of the building.”

Patience nodded and started herding everyone away.

Grace uttered a quick prayer under her breath. Perhaps her luck hadn’t run out yet. Many constables were easily bribed with earthly delights. A few coins and they might be persuaded to forget where exactly they had found the body of the dead aristocrat. Add an offer of free patronage of her brothel and they might even toss the man’s lifeless body into the alley nearby, then issue a statement that The House of Pain and Pleasure had nothing to do with the murder, and perhaps Grace’s business would survive.

Perhaps death had stopped affecting her. After all, she was able to so easily disregard the situation as long as her business was safe.

But did she have another choice?

Grace didn’t have an easy life. She had learned that one needed to make quick, uncompromising decisions to survive in this world.

Running a brothel as a female in St. Giles was hard enough. Making it notorious was even harder.

Surviving a scandal after a murder had occurred there? Impossible.

“Stop!” the booming voice echoed through the corridor. The hurried shuffle of feet followed the hushed words and murmurs.

Then silence, except for the clicks of the shadowy figure’s heels sounding in the stillness of the night, each step sending chills up Grace’s spine.

Grace had navigated London’s dirty streets since she was a young girl. She had slept beneath the open sky, dealt with bandits and drunken sailors—hell, she’d worked side by side with the most feared man in town, whom people called Hades. She used to be his advisor, a friend. It took a lot to make Grace shiver.

Yet tension crackled in the air, making her hair stand on end.

The footsteps slowed as the man reached the threshold. There was a beat of eerie silence as blood rushed to Grace’s ears. She felt deep in her soul that she was in trouble.

Then the man stepped forward, revealing his dark features inch by terrifying inch. Grace’s heart lodged in her throat.

Not a constable.

She should have known. They had never struck fear into her heart. They had never posed a threat. But this man did.

For standing before her was the famously meticulous, incredibly tenacious, and notoriously unbribable thief-taker, Ford Gunning.

Oh, yes, and he had a deep-seated hatred for all the brothels and gaming dens, especially since his only sister had married the most infamous Hell owner in London, the King of London’s underbelly, and Grace’s former employer—Hades.

Mr. Gunning glanced at the prone dead man for a moment before his gaze slowly glided up her body until he met her eyes, his own gaze devilish in his directness. His dark hair was pulled back in a neat queue as if even his hair wouldn’t dare disobey his commands.

“Who found him?” he asked gruffly.

He didn’t seem to recognize her. Good.

They’d met before, but there was no reason he’d remember. It was a few years ago, and only for a few hours while his sister was recovering after the drowning incident, and Grace had been taking care of her.

Grace wasn’t wearing a disguise back then, either. Currently, she had a ton of powder and rouge obscure her face, her lips outlined to make them appear thinner, and kohl over her eyes to make them appear wider. She was also wearing a tall, white wig and ridiculously bright red attire with white ruffles. In short, she looked like every harlot in her brothel.

“I did, Monsieur,” she lied, affecting a faux French accent. She would not betray Harmony; the poor woman would crumble under pressure. It was better if everyone suspected her—a her in disguise, a her that didn’t exist in real life. That way, she could shed her disguise and disappear into the night, with no one being the wiser.

“And you are?” Gunning barked, as if he were incapable of asking full questions in a polite manner. She shouldn’t have been surprised. Nothing about this man indicated he was polite.

Uncivilized was more like it. Wild, even. Or perhaps he didn’t want to waste his breath on a harlot.

“Madame Tricheuse,” she lied easily and dipped into a curtsy, her body swaying sensually as she let her gaze linger appreciatively on his form.

One thing Grace had learned during her life was that it was easier to escape from a man’s grasp using flirtation rather than force.

Her tactic seemed to be working as Gunning’s eyes lingered on her bosom. He quickly tore his eyes away, red spots appearing on the crest of his cheeks, obviously embarrassed that he had so easily fallen into the trap and lost concentration, if just for a moment.

Grace always enjoyed getting the upper hand in confrontations with big, frightening men who aimed to intimidate. And intimidate was exactly what this man wanted to do—with his lowered brows, his lips thinned into a line, his curt phrases, and his towering physique.