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They both drew their weapons: she—flirtation, he—intimidation. Both were determined not to back down, waiting to see who would flinch first in their duel of wills.

Grace had much higher stakes on the line. For if she lost, she could be hanging on a noose in a few short days.

“And you are?” she asked softly.

His shoulders straightened, surprise flickering across his features. He couldn’t even fathom not being recognized. Conceited. “Ford Gunning,” he finally said with an incline of his head. “The thief-taker. Two constables are out in the hall, making sure nobody exits this…” he paused, disgust twisting his features, “establishment.”

The thief-taker dropped his eyes to the dead body on the floor, then crouched down to examine it closely. Grace glanced at the corridor, where the panicked crowd was being directed away from the room by the constables. She briefly locked eyes with Collette, one of her trusted colleagues, and nodded affirmatively.

Leave. Go quickly but silently, her gaze commanded.

With a quick nod, Collette grabbed Harmony by her sleeve and disappeared into the crowd. Grace moved across the room, shielding the fleeing women from the thief-taker.

“Please, do not move, Miss Tricheuse,” Gunning warned. “Wouldn’t want you leaving this room too soon.”

“Madame,” she corrected him. “And I wouldn’t dream of leaving.” Not through this door, anyway.

“The constables will apply force if necessary,” he continued his threats. “They will ensure no one leaves this place until I say so. And I won’t say so until I am satisfied with my findings.”

“Of course, Monsieur Gunning.” She dipped her head. “We always make sure our guests leave… satisfied.” She coupled a salacious lilt to the last word with a deliberate, lingering glance down his body before meeting his eyes again.

His gaze narrowed as he watched her carefully. Grace boldly stared back. The thief-taker knew she had something up her sleeve, and by the look in his eyes, he was frustrated he couldn’t figure out exactly what. She wasn’t going to reveal her cards this easily, however. She was rather enjoying their little stare-down.

A few gentlemen passed by the room in the opposite direction from the constables. Of course, the aristocrats would be allowed to leave.

Most clients had already fled the premises at the first signs of trouble, scurrying to alert the constables before running away like the cowards they were.

Those who remained—the curious, drunken, and slow—were being swiftly let go. The rich and titled would never be confined in a brothel under suspicion of murdering one of their own. Only the brothel workers would be rounded up and locked away like animals in the very chambers where unspeakable depravities had occurred just moments ago.

They would be the ones under suspicion, and more than likely, held responsible for this murder. Unless Grace drew all the attention to herself.

“Locked all the suspects in a couple of rooms, Chief.” One constable poked his head in.

“Good,” Gunning said without raising his head. “Guard the doors. Make sure no one leaves. I shall be right there to question them.”

With a nod, the constable slunk away, but not before throwing a lingering gaze down Grace’s body. And then he blew her a kiss for good measure.

Grace was used to being regarded as an object of one’s lust and nothing more. She just hoped she could use that to her advantage with the thief-taker. So far, he didn’t seem to pay her any heed.

Still crouching by the body, Gunning raised his gaze to hers. “When did you find him?”

Grace plastered a pleasant smile. “Just a few moments ago, Monsieur.”

“And he was already dead,” he stated rather than asked.

“Oui, just like this.” She spread her arms, the flames of the candelabra dancing with the sharp movement. “Dead.”

The thief-taker was studying the ugly gash across the murdered man’s abdomen as if the wound would tell him how it got there and who did this to the poor man.

Grace brought a candelabra closer to the thief-taker as if to illuminate the wound, taking this opportunity to bend low before him, exposing her slight bosom.

Her distraction seemed to have worked as his gaze glided across her exposed flesh for a moment before he brought his eyes up to her face.

“You do not seem disturbed by this,” he noted.

Grace swallowed. “I am a whore, Monsieur. I did not live to my age without seeing worse than this.”

Gunning dropped his gaze once more.