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“Then you know that we don’t have any reason to spy on your princess. Besides, nobody from her circle frequents my establishment. The only man she’s close to is her uncle. And he’s never set foot here.”
That was true. Victoria, a princess with ties to two countries, was the niece of an English marquess, making her familial situation rather complicated. Her uncle had once been one of William’s associates and that man had never been one for brothels. Especially now since he was married. “I’m sure there are other ways you can—”
A blood-curdling scream pierced the air from outside the room.
Grace and William exchanged quick frowning glances before leaping from their chairs and hurrying toward the source of the commotion.
Muffled voices and loud footsteps led the way to a private room with the door left wide open, with a few onlookers peering in. Grace and William forced their way through the small crowd and entered the dimly lit room. A woman stood there, frozen, her face a mask of horror visible even through the thick layer of bright paint. At her feet lay a corpulent gentleman, his blood forming a dark pool around his unmoving and unmistakably lifeless body.
William instantly recognized the man as a member of the Brotherhood of the Crimson Fist, a detestable secret society.
Bile rose in his throat, not because of witnessing death; he’d seen far too many corpses before he was old enough to shave for it to ever bother him. No, it was the secret society and their men that made him nauseous, like everything from his past.
He swallowed and maintained an unemotional exterior. Tilting his head, he asked calmly, “Curious, isn’t it?”
Grace narrowed her eyes at him before instructing everyone to leave the room. “Out! And make sure no one comes closer than ten feet of this room,” she shouted at the guards. “Blast! Now I’m going to get caught up in this mess.”
“What mess?” William shrugged. “A useless aristocrat is dead. Why should you care?”
She turned to him, studying him suspiciously. “I care because I’m a woman who owns a brothel. I’ll be thrice persecuted for this useless, as you say, aristocrat’s death. You know this. But of course, you do not care.”
He shrugged. “I do not.”
“Why are you even still here?”
“Like I said, I just wanted to find out the latest gossip about my beloved.”
Grace might as well have rolled her eyes, her expression displaying clear exasperation. She’d never shown this much emotion in front of him before. “Then go to the gilded ballrooms of your brother and his friends. Nobody knows anything about your beloved princess here.”
“He is not my brother,” William grumbled.
“I cannot emphasize how much I do not care. I have problems of my own, if you haven’t noticed.” She waved a hand toward the deceased man. Then she raised a brow. “Unless you know something about this?”
William shrugged, assuming his carefree expression. “Of course not. What would I know about it?”
“Then leave.” Grace let out a sigh. “The constables are sure to arrive soon, and you don’t want to be here when they do.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” William sketched a curt bow. “Besides, I have more important things to do, like getting my beloved wife back into my life. Mark my words, before this month is out, we shall be together.”
Grace did roll her eyes this time.
William smiled, but his smile faded as he cast one last glance at the lifeless body on the floor. One more member of the Brotherhood was dead.
Good.
* * *
Fifty six days before the execution…
Victoria Christine Louise von Mecklenburg-Schwerin, the daughter of Karl Leopold, Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, and Catherine Ivanovna, Tsarevna of Russia, or simply Princess Victoria, stood at the edge of the ballroom. She smiled widely as if this were the happiest day of her life, although it was anything but.
On the surface, it appeared she had everything any woman could ever desire. She was born into an influential, wealthy, and powerful family, a merger of two great lineages, a princess to two empires. Having all the riches anyone could desire, she had been pampered since childhood. If gowns came into fashion, she was the first to wear them. If there were gems other women coveted, Victoria was the first to possess them. Now, as foreign royalty residing under the roof of an English marquess, she herself was the most coveted gem on English soil.
“Your Highness.” Lord Porter, the Earl of Shaftesbury’s second son, dressed formally in a lavish green coat and an intricately tied cravat, bowed before her so low that she could see the top of his heavily powdered white wig.
Victoria fanned herself lightly, regarding the young gentleman from beneath her thick lashes. “Nobody calls me Your Highness, Lord Porter. It’s just Princess Victoria.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” he said, bowing once more.
