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Ford suspiciously eyed the thin pile neatly stitched together. “This is the logbook?”

“No,” she said, reaching back into the safe and picking up a heavy leather-bound book. “This is the logbook. That tiny pile is just the data for the latest month. Once the month is complete, we bind the papers into the book. I do not believe we need the rest at the moment, but I am willing to show you the entire book if you’re so inclined.”

His eyes flicked between the enormous book in the safe and the thin stack of papers on the desk. “Not just yet.”

Madame Tricheuse shrugged and closed the safe without locking it. She was starting to trust him. Good.

She was probably motivated by the break-in, and Ford was glad for it.

“Let’s see what it says.”

They both leaned over the paper, Madame Tricheuse’s wig bumping into his head.

“Do you ever tire of carrying that monstrous wig on top of your head?”

Tricheuse didn’t take her eyes off the papers. “No.”

Her finger delicately slid down the list of names. She flipped through the papers several times, stopping on a particular page. “This is the date of the murder.”

There was a flurry of names. This brothel had been more popular than he’d imagined. Many of the guests disguised their real names and used the aliases in the logbook.

Not only did Ford think that the murderer was probably let inside by one of the workers, therefore his name would not be on the list, but now, even if he did jot down his name, he had to decipher it among aliases.

He let out a dry chuckle. “Clever. They’re all using aliases. How in the world should I distinguish who is who?”

“Easily.” Madame Tricheuse grinned. “Especially since they lack imagination and always use the same alias and then give up their real names to their favorite harlots.”

Ford raised a brow. “You know who these men are?”

She shrugged. “Most of them.”

“Then why use the fake name at all?”

She shrugged. “In case of raids. They don’t want the evidence to get out to official sources. They don’t care what the harlots know. And we know a lot.” She ran a delicate finger down the list, mumbling something to herself, then stopped, pointing at a barely decipherable signature. “Here’s Lord Portsmouth.”

“How do you know?”

She just cocked a brow and continued scanning the list. She paused, tapping her finger beside another name. “This gentleman was in the watching chambers at the same time when Portsmouth was murdered.”

Ford leaned forward and squinted.

Porter.

“Lord Porter,” Madame Tricheuse confirmed. “Oddly, he uses his real name. I suppose he thinks he has nothing to fear. He is often found in our watching chambers, but…” She frowned, chewing on her lower lip.

“But…?”

“I don’t think he is the murderer, as he is one of the Brotherhood members. A rather new one. He’s been coming to us since the opening of our brothel, and only a few months ago did he get adorned with a crimson fist on his backside.”

“Perhaps he went in as a spy… I never thought”—Ford tapped a finger against his lips—“maybe I should have assumed that it could be one of their own. Who else would know the list of all the members…” He paused. “Aside from you, apparently.”

“I do not know all the members,” she countered. “Only the ones who visit the brothel.”

“All this time I assumed the murderer would be an enemy of the Brotherhood, of which there are dozens, but what if it’s someone on the inside? They could be murdering their own and framing whoever they despise.”

“Framing people like me.” Madame Tricheuse smiled an unsettling smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It lacked her usual coquettish warmth. There was something familiar about that cold smile…

“Exactly. Devil take it.” Ford ran a hand through his hair. “The list of suspects grows by the minute.”