Madame Xavier’s looked different enough in the daylight that West’s feet hesitated on the front steps. With its red shutters and crimson brick walls, the three-story building seemed less like a brothel and more like a respectable home.

He’d been here on enough occasions to be well-acquainted with the establishment, but always at night, always with Grant, and always deep into his cups.

But daylight revealed surprising new distractions. The building boasted a Palladian architecture, its pediments and symmetry on clear display should one have the wherewithal to look. West ran a finger along one column, remembering that old, dusty piece of his life, a time when he’d been eager to attend classes at university, when he imagined a future creating things more memorable than a good prank.

Perhaps therein lay the problem. Had he ever really looked at this house? Or the women who worked here? He generally spent his time here sitting in the receiving room while Grant busied himself abovestairs. He belted out bawdy tunes on the pianoforte and teased the scantily clad women until they blushed like schoolgirls, but he’d never lingered on the front steps with enough sobriety and presence of mind to pay attention to the shape of the columns.

Perhaps he ought to have, especially given that he wasn’t particularly interested in the more carnal offerings on the menu.

Scarlet, the one woman at Madame Xavier’s with whom he could claim a prior acquaintance, had sought him out, not the other way around. He’d treated her like a proper gentleman, even taking her to the opera, but the distraction she offered had ended weeks ago.

Not that Scarlet seemed to understand it was over.

With his hand against Miss Channing’s elbow, they stepped through the front door. No matter the Palladian exterior, upon stepping inside, Westmore was reminded that he was taking Miss Channing to a place that was anything but respectable. The house’s red color scheme had been extended inside to include the floor covers and the drapery. The rich proliferation of red somehow seemed more obscene in sunlight, pink shadows spinning across the floor.

Miss Channing’s eyes were as wide as saucers, her head swiveling to take it all in. “I can’t believe I’ve come from St. Paul’s Cathedral to a brothel, all in the space of an hour,” she breathed. “It’s like falling straight from heaven to hell.”

West chuckled. “Some might say it’s the other way around.”

He’d have liked to say more, to explain that Madame Xavier’s brothel was legendary. That some of the girls were cultured, even educated, and more than one of them could spend an evening engaging a gentleman in political discourse as easily as bed sport. But explaining any of this to Miss Channing, who had clearly already formed a strong opinion of his character and this place based on the oppressive line of her lips, seemed like a waste of breath.

Bald truths would be unlikely to win him any favor where she was concerned. Better to keep his knowledge of the place under wraps.

And besides, standing here in daylight, he was no longer sure he’d properly considered all the reasons a woman might choose to work in this place. The notion that someone like Vivian might lead a double life—what other secrets were hidden here?

“Please don’t say anything of that nature to the women who work here,” he told her as he pulled a red velvet rope. The sound of a tinkling bell rang out, alerting the house to their arrival. “Let me handle the conversation.”

“As long as conversation is all you are planning to handle.” She glowered at him, crossing her arms over her buttoned-up chest.

Within a minute, Madame Xavier herself glided into the parlor clad in a tea dress that left little to the imagination. He thought perhaps it was meant to have a gown beneath it, but the brothel owner wore only the outer robe portion of the ensemble, and you could see all the way through the sheer fabric. Miss Channing gawked at the woman, and then promptly attached herself to his arm with what felt like talons.

“Westmore!” Madame Xavier purred as she drew to a stop in front of him, her painted lips curving into a feline smile. “It is so good to see you again.” Her gaze shifted to Miss Channing and her eyes flickered with undisguised interest. “You know we don’t usually open for business until evening, though for such an old friend, I feel sure we can make an exception. Is your friend Mr. Grant not accompanying you today?”

“Er . . . no.” West hesitated, not yet sure how much to reveal. What if Madame Xavier knew of Vivian’s treachery? Perhaps she was even involved in the plot . . . after all, there had been two women in the library, and he only knew the identity of one of them at present.

Discretion was needed until they knew more.

Inspiration came in the form of Miss Channing’s fingernails, digging through his jacket hard enough to draw blood. “My . . . ah . . . companion and I were hoping to see one of your girls.”

Madame Xavier’s gaze drifted across Miss Channing’s face. Her finger reached out to touch Miss Channing’s chin, and tilted it up, as if considering her like a horse at auction. Then, without warning, the brothel owner dipped her head and pressed those painted red lips against Miss Channing’s flattened pink ones.

It was mercifully quick, just a peck, but the squeak that escaped Miss Channing was priceless. As the brothel owner stepped back, West burst out laughing at the expression of confusion on Miss Channing’s face, the smear of red paint now trailing across her lips.

Madame Xavier turned to West with a low, seductive laugh of her own. “Now that I’ve had a taste of her, if you’ve come for a threesome, I think you’ll need to add someone to the mix who can balance out this one’s innocence. Who were you thinking? Perhaps Scarlet? The girl still talks about that night you took her to the opera like a proper gentleman.”

Beside him, Miss Channing squeaked again, and then wiped a sleeve across her mouth, which unfortunately just smeared the paint across her chin. The prudish Miss Mouse was back in force, it seemed. He liked the juxtaposition of innocence draped in shifting pink shadows, her mouth baring the remnants of another woman’s kiss.

Whether or not they left here with a traitor, Miss Channing would leave with an education, of that he had no doubt.

“No,” he told Madame Xavier, “not Scarlet. We are interested in one of your other girls today. The blond woman called Vivian.”

Madame Xavier inclined her head, her eyes widening in surprise. “I thought it was your friend Mr. Grant who enjoyed Vivian’s company.”

West felt guilty, remembering how Grant had waxed poetic on the woman’s various assets. But he was here to track a traitor, not poach on his friend’s public territory. “What Mr. Grant doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” He gave the brothel owner a winning smile, the sort that usually had women tripping over themselves to please him. “May I count on your discretion?”

“As you know, our establishment is built upon tightly closed lips.” Madame Xavier laughed softly. “Unless, that is, the gentleman prefers our lips open.” She raised a groomed brow. “And of course, it all depends on whether Vivian is interested in you.”

West pulled a five-pound bank note from his pocket. “Well, surely there is no harm in us simply asking her.”

Madame Xavier plucked the bank note from his fingers and tucked it between the generous swell of her breasts. “Vivian’s door is just upstairs, fourth door on the left.” Her eyes drifted back toward Miss Channing, and lingered overlong. “I’ll admit, though I really don’t do such things anymore, I would consider giving you both a go myself. Show this little one here how to have a little fun. She’s really quite delightful.” Her soft laughter trailed them as they headed for the stairs. “But she seems a little stiff. Remember, West, that’s supposed to be your role. And judging by what Scarlet has told me, you do it exceedingly well.”

As she set her silk slipper on the red carpet runner leading up the stairs, Mary’s ears rang with embarrassment. She’d just survived her second kiss of the day.

And in spite of her vivid imagination, in spite of the very many books she’d read on all matter of topics, good and bad, no heroine of her memory had ever experienced anything quite like it.

“Are you coming along?” Westmore asked, the rumble of his voice tangling with her distracted thoughts. She looked to realize he was waiting for her.

She placed her gloved hand in his, and then up the stairs they went, her palm growing more damp with each step. Not because of where they were, or where they were going, or who they were here to meet, but because she was holding Westmore’s hand, and even through her gloves, his palm felt warm and solid against her own. It quite stretched the limits of her imagination.

And she had a very good imagination.

“Did you know I can feel you sweating through your gloves?” he observed as they reached the top of the stairs.

“It isn’t polite for a gentleman to notice such things.” Her fingers curled against his, slick with perspiration beneath the thin leather. “I . . . I am just nervous about what we may find inside the fourth door on the left.”

“Pity.” He glanced back at her, one wicked brow shifting upward. “I was thinking, perhaps, that it might be because you are here with me.”

She shook her head. “No.”

He turned to face her as they reached the upper landing. “That word again, Miss Channing. I do believe it is your favorite word, in all of the English language.”

“No. It isn’t.” She flushed, realizing that in spite of her protest, she had said it again. She was beginning to suspect she had another favorite word, and that word was perhaps. Because that was what she felt when he looked at her this way. Not “no” and not “yes”, but “perhaps”.

Perhaps there was something more to him than the gossip. And perhaps there was something more to them than this business of causing a scandal or hunting a traitor.

“Miss Channing.” His smile tipped upward. “You’ve said it again. Are you teasing me?”

“No.” Her cheeks warmed as he laughed out loud, and she willed herself to say anything but “no”. “I . . . ah . . . think, given our partnership, it might be appropriate to call me Mary,” she improvised, though she’d never once in her life had an opportunity to invite a gentleman to do so. It was a day of several firsts, it seemed. “Miss Channing sounds so—”

“Formal?”

“Spinsterish.” And in this moment, in this garish hallway that smelled of perfume and smoke and things she couldn’t even contemplate, she didn’t want to feel like a spinster anymore. Not with him.

His hand gripped hers and she found herself pulled closer to him. A delicious shiver claimed her spine as her front met his chest and his mouth dipped toward her ear. “Mary, then.” At her indrawn breath, he chuckled again. “Are you sure I don’t make you nervous?”

She shook her head.

“But you should be nervous.” His lips brushed against one of her ears, leaving behind a searing sort of pleasure that sent wisps of want curling through her abdomen. “You should be very, very nervous.” His finger came up to brush against her lower lip, once, twice, lingering. “Because being here with you and seeing that appalling red paint on your innocent little mouth makes me want to pull you into one of these rooms and do unspeakable things to you.”

Mary gasped. Had she just heard him correctly? A declaration of desire, from the man who had given her a proposal of marriage with the sort of muted enthusiasm one expected of a man facing a firing squad? He claimed he wanted to do unspeakable things to her.

That night at the literary salon, he had done unspeakable things to her, though her conscience insisted on reminding her she’d been every bit as much a party to that kiss as he had, at least in the end. And now they were standing, drunk on the cusp of another ill-advised kiss, his fingers humming against her skin.

She pursed her lips—oh, good heavens, did she really have red lip paint there?—and tried to convince herself to retreat to a safer distance.

But she couldn’t have escaped with a team of horses at the ready.

From the corner of her eye, she could see the long hallway before them, dangerous red doors marching in neat, even rows. She tried to imagine the things that went on behind those doors. The things that he had done behind those doors.

The things he wanted to do to her behind those doors.

And then one of those doors opened.

“Westmore?” A woman stepped out into the hallway.

Beside her, West pulled away, a low curse echoing beneath his breath. He straightened. Smiled. “Scarlet,” he acknowledged.

Mary couldn’t help but stare. So, this was Scarlet. Her mind pieced it all together, and she knew in that moment this was the prostitute her sister had described seeing at the opera. The woman had bright red hair and a gauzy red dressing gown knotted at her slim waist, and—judging by her generous décolletage—she wore little else beneath it.

“It’s been a while, Westmore.” Scarlet glided toward them.

“Yes, well. I’m afraid it will need to be a little longer.” West cleared his throat. “We’ve come to see Vivian today.”

“Vivian?” Scarlet’s pretty face crumpled.

The seconds stretched by, and Mary gritted her teeth into the silence. Oh, for heaven’s sake. They were here for a very important reason, and this hallway distraction was becoming a nuisance they couldn’t afford. “You really must forgive him,” she said, lifting her chin. “The request for Vivian is for me. You see, I have very singular tastes.”

Scarlet’s eyes narrowed in Mary’s direction, assessing her. Dismissing her. Then she brushed past them, swinging her hips in an unmistakable invitation. “Well, do come and see me when you are finished,” she drawled over one creamy shoulder. “I’ll help you forget all about both of them.”

Mary rolled her eyes as she watched Scarlet’s red head disappear down the stairs. “Honestly, that woman needs to wear more clothes,” she muttered. She realized, then, that West was grinning down at her. “Why are you smiling at me like that?”

He shrugged. “It is only you have managed to surprise me again.”

His praise made her skin tingle in anticipation, and that only served to irritate her more. Had they really just been standing in the hallway, about to kiss? Good heavens, she wasn’t supposed to like him. She reminded herself of his reputation, his experience, his depravities.

And yet, the flush creeping down her neck would not be tamed.

She drew a deep breath. “Right then. Fourth door on the left. We ought to hurry, don’t you think? I imagine Mrs. Greaves is starting to panic about my disappearance from St. Paul’s Cathedral right about now. And if my sister goes to Scotland Yard to report my disappearance, I suspect they’ll be more than willing to believe the worst of you in that regard.”

He laughed again, but didn’t disagree.

Together they approached the fourth door on the left. Mary placed her ear against the red-painted wood, straining to hear anything inside. She could hear nothing but her own pulse, pounding in her ears. “It’s quiet,” she whispered back at Westmore.

Too quiet. Her imagination helpfully supplied a few opinions on what might be waiting for them behind that door. A blond woman, prone on the bed, a scarf wrapped around her neck, her voice silenced forever. Or, a dead body, not even cold, blood seeping onto the floor from the knife wound in the chest.

Good heavens. She really needed to choose less macabre reading material.

And truly, a murder wouldn’t make sense. The traitors needed Vivian to pass on the money, and one tended to need a live body for such things.

Westmore pulled the revolver from his pocket. Mary cringed. She’d imagined they would go in and talk to the prostitute, not threaten her. And this was the second time today she’d seen a gun. Truly, she’d rather suffer another one of Madame Xavier’s kisses.

“West,” she hissed. “You will frighten the girl to death.”

If, that was, she wasn’t already dead.

“This is a woman who is plotting to kill the queen,” he whispered back. “I imagine she will be all too prepared to defend herself.” He reached out a hand. Knocked once. “Vivian?” he called, purposefully slurring his words, as if he had been drinking. “It’s Westmore. I’m a friend of Grant’s. Madame Xavier sent me up,” he called out, scratching a finger against the wood.

There was no answer.

Holding the revolver up with both hands, West motioned with his chin for Mary to turn the latch on the door. She obliged, her heart a hammer against her ribs. The door slowly swung open on creaking hinges to reveal . . .

An empty room.

Her breath whooshed out of her in a disappointed gasp. She stepped inside, hoping she was wrong, but the empty corners confirmed the worst. But the room hadn’t been empty long. The yellow dress they’d seen this morning lay bunched on the floor. The window sash was open, the curtains fluttering in the foul breeze drifting in from the street. She imagined she could catch the faint edge of their quarry’s perfume, lingering in the air.

West dashed to the window and leaned over, searching the street below. “God damn it!” He slammed a hand against the window frame. “There’s a tree outside, she must have gone down it. We’ve missed her!”

Mary began to pull open the drawers of the bureau, searching for some sort of clue, but they were all tellingly empty. She stooped down, picked a lone silk stocking up from the floor. “Wherever she’s gone, she left in a hurry.”

West pulled a hand across his face, clearly frustrated. “I don’t understand. She can’t have known we were coming. We came straight here.”

“Perhaps she was planning to leave all along,” Mary mused. Though, the specifics of the prostitute’s hurried disappearance hardly mattered. The woman was gone, the money as well.

Judging by the bare wardrobe, Mary had a notion she wasn’t coming back.

And they hadn’t any more clues to follow.