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With a blade in hand, Ford cautiously moved the window latch and eased open the window. He squeezed inside, carefully stepping onto the floor. Trying to adjust his eyes to the dimly lit room, he stood blinking for a long moment.

He had been in this house twice before, although the first time, he hadn’t progressed beyond the hall, and the second time, he stopped in the kitchen. That was enough for him to map out his current entry.

He now stood in the kitchen, only a short distance from the large table where he had sipped on the strangely alluring cup of tea a week before.

He didn’t expect anyone to be here after what had happened earlier in the day. The women were probably afraid that whoever had abducted Harmony—and it was reasonable to assume she was abducted—would return for them.

If Ford was to solve the mystery of the harlot’s and Jamison’s disappearance, he needed to start here. In this house.

He had already circled it a few times in hopes of finding any signs of the earlier struggle, but it was useless. The rain had washed away any footprints, and even if it didn’t, three more women and Thomas had already obscured any evidence.

It would be ideal if Ford could speak to Grace and ask her what documents were stolen and if they had any significance. Except he didn’t know enough about her to know where she would be hiding.

She had a strong personality, Grace. It was obvious she didn’t ask for help easily. Which added a bigger wound to his pride as she had asked him for help and he had failed her. Twice.

First by not figuring out the mystery of the aristocrat’s murder and then by not protecting her friends from whoever it was that ransacked this house.

Ransacked, Ford thought as he surveyed the house, wouldn’t be the word he’d use, as the entire ground floor was tidy with nary a chair out of place.

From what he could discern, the spacious kitchen sat empty and undisturbed. No signs of disarray or evident struggle. The downstairs sitting room appeared equally untouched. Moving on silent footfalls, Ford ascended the grand staircase, one cautious step at a time.

He made his way methodically through the upper halls, checking room by room. The house was not big, but it had a couple of guest chambers that had been previously occupied. He saw the signs of slight disarray in those rooms. It didn’t seem as though an intruder had ransacked the chambers, though. It looked more as if the occupants had left the room, grabbing their most precious belongings in wild panic.

At last, Ford reached the door to the room with the most damage. This must be Grace’s chambers. The room was more spacious than the others, meticulously decorated in shades of light blue. Even from outside the entry, the disarray was palpable—furnishings knocked askew, upturned rugs, and strewn volumes. Gripping the latch, he slowly pushed the door inward, opening it wider, careful not to step on anything valuable.

Ford squinted in the dark room, loath to light a candle that beckoned him from the desk in the corner. Someone might see the light from the outside.

He shouldn’t risk it. It wasn’t easy to take stock of the full extent of damage in the moonlight. But even with his limited vision, it was obvious that this room was targeted.

Whoever stole the money and the documents—

Thump!

Ford hissed as his boot hit something hard on the floor. He knelt over a loose floorboard. Ah, there it is. He crawled across the floor until a narrow opening appeared before him. That’s where Grace’s treasures were held, he was certain. No fancy iron safe in this house.

He cursed under his breath. Everything he’d observed in this room told him only one thing. Whoever did this was not only familiar with the house but also with this room.

It seemed more and more like Jamison had conspired with his new lover, robbed Grace, and fled.

But what did they take besides money? What documents could they have stolen to make Grace fearful enough to flee her house?

He unfolded himself and continued his aimless wandering around the room. Perhaps something within the walls would give him some answers.

So far, there was nothing unusual. The clothes and bedsheets were scattered across the floor. He paused and squinted, then reached out his hand and touched the strange object. Ah, a wig. And an elaborate one at that.

He snorted. It reminded him of Triss…

No doubt, left over from Grace’s harlot days.

Ford paused in his thoughts. Was she truly ever a harlot?

He’d known her as a healer, someone who looked after his sister, Eloise, when she had nearly drowned in the dirty river. She had also looked after Hades at the same time. She had never dressed, nor had she ever acted like a harlot.

He shrugged. She had told him she used to be one, and he had no reason to doubt her words.

He wondered what she knew about Triss. Did she know where she lived? What sort of past did they share? Ford stopped by the desk and fingered a few pieces of paper lying on top. He brought one piece of paper closer to the window, letting the weak beam of moonlight illuminate the drawing.

An odd image greeted him. A woman sat on an odd contraption resembling a chair, except that there was a pad under it—a bed?—where a man lay, his face resting directly under the woman’s… private parts. He squinted and leaned closer to make certain he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. A drawing in the corner showed the seat without the occupants, and he could clearly make out a round hole in the chair cushions.