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More often than not, men’s scents repulsed Grace. Most aristocrats who came to her brothel smelled of sweat, tobacco, and musty clothing mixed with the powder from their wigs and overly sweet perfumes.

But not this man.

She’d go so far as to call his scent pleasant. His words were not, though. “I don’t believe you,” he said gruffly. “But I’d be damned before I touch you.” Then he grabbed the candelabra from her grasp and stepped away.

Grace tried to slow her accelerated breath and curled her fingers into fists. She inwardly cursed herself and her strange reaction to the man. He was an enemy, not a man to swoon over.

Annoyed at herself, Grace forced a coquettish pout as he stepped away. “How rude of you to play with my feelings.” Letting out a quick breath, Grace schooled her features. She needed to concentrate.

It didn’t matter that the thief-taker exhibited such a strong dislike toward her. It didn’t matter either that he thought she was the murderer. Enough time had passed for her to make her escape. She just needed him to return to the center of the room and turn away from her.

Instead, Mr. Gunning walked toward the wall, studying the whips and leather straps. As his eyes ran over the faux phalluses strapped to the belts, his lips twisted in a grimace.

Grace swallowed a chuckle. Making the thief-taker uncomfortable was very satisfying.

He walked past the display of items designed to be inserted into a client and stopped beside the sharper items hanging from the wall.

“Any knives or daggers missing from this wall?”

Grace shook her head. “Non, Monsieur.” She concentrated on any noises outside the room, but all they could hear was the laughter of two constables stationed in the hall.

Good.

“I need a list of every person who was here tonight,” Gunning continued. “Every worker, every client.”

“We keep a logbook that every client signs before entering the private chambers,” Grace said evenly. “But it’s only for accounting purposes—to track that every transaction was paid for. They are not required to use their real names. And,” she said airily, “it is confidential.”

“Nothing is confidential when a man is dead,” Gunning murmured as he returned to the dead body and placed the candelabra next to it. Just the moment she was waiting for.

The candle wax slowly dripped to the floor, the light dancing, throwing shadows onto the corpse. He crouched back down and cocked his head, studying the body of the dead man carefully.

“We promise our clients complete anonymity,” Grace said softly, silently inching toward him.

“I promise not to tell,” the thief-taker drawled.

“I might require a concession.”

“A concession?”

He raised a brow, his concentration once more on her. Good.

She stepped even closer, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers.

“Yes.” She smiled. “I give you the logbook, and you let me go.”

He tsked. “That’s not how that works. There are more questions I need to ask you, preferably in the roundhouse.”

Roundhouse! Grace swallowed a snort. No harlot had ever exited that place without a noose around her neck.

“You are a witness…” He paused. “A suspect.”

Grace folded her lips in a pout, leaning toward him. She could swear he was leaning toward her as if pulled by a magnet. “A pity,” Grace whispered, kicking the candelabra to the floor. The thief-taker jumped back as the candles fell, the light extinguished against the stone-cold floor.

Grace dashed past the thief-taker to the opposite corner of the room. He swiped his hand, trying to catch her, but Grace easily danced out of his reach in the complete darkness. She quickly found the latch that opened a secret passage.

“It was a pleasure, Monsieur Gunning,” Grace murmured, and in the next moment, slunk inside the narrow tunnel within the walls, closing the door behind her.

Chapter 2