If Whit was correct, an enemy they had known for years.
It didn’t hurt that his boys were always watching the entrances to the brothel. A brother protected a sister, after all—even when the sister in question was powerful enough to bring a city to its knees. Even when the sister was in hiding from the one thing that could strip her of that power.
Whit had easily found his way into the building and past Zeva, pausing only long enough to discover the location of the woman she would not name. He’d known she wouldn’t. 72 Shelton only succeeded because of uncompromising discretion, and secrets were kept from everyone—Bareknuckle Bastards included.
Because of that, he did not press Zeva. Instead, he pushed past her, ignoring the way her dark brows rose in silent surprise. Silent for the moment; Zeva was the best of lieutenants, and kept secrets from all but her employer. And when Grace—known to all London as Dahlia—returned to her rightful post as mistress of this place, she’d know what happened. And she wouldn’t hesitate to come asking about it.
There was no relentless curiosity like that of a sister.
But for now, there was no Grace to pester him. There was only the mysterious woman from the carriage, full of information, the final piece to the clockwork he’d been waiting to set in motion. The spring, waiting to be wound. She had the names of the men who had fired on his shipment. Fired on his boys. The names of the men who were thieving from the Bastards.
The names of the men who were working with his estranged brother. His enemy. And here she was, in a building belonging to his sister, on the land that belonged to Whit himself.
Waiting for a man to pleasure her.
He ignored the thrum of excitement that coursed through him at the thought, and the thread of irritation that followed. She was business, not pleasure.
It was time to get business done.
He saw her the moment he entered, his eyes finding her perched on the edge of the bed, clutching a bedpost in the darkness. As he let the door close behind him, he was consumed by a singular thought: Sitting here, in one of the most extravagant brothels in the city—one designed for women of discerning taste and promising the utmost discretion—the woman could not have looked more out of place.
She should have looked completely at home, considering she had poked him awake, carried on a full conversation with him as though it were entirely ordinary, and then pushed him from a moving carriage.
After kissing him.
The fact that she’d been headed here had seemed fully in keeping with the rest of her wild night.
But something was off.
It wasn’t the dress, luxurious silken skirts exploding from the darkness in wild, turquoise waves that suggested a modiste of superior skill. It wasn’t the matching slippers, toes peeking out from beneath the hem.
It wasn’t the way the bodice glistened in the darkness, hugging the curve of her torso and showcasing the lovely swell above it—no, that bit was perfect for Shelton Street.
It wasn’t even the shadow of her face—barely recognizable in the darkness, but just visible enough to reveal her mouth gaping in surprise. Another man might find that open mouth ridiculous, but Whit knew better. He knew how it tasted. How those full lips softened and yielded. And there was nothing remotely out of place about that.
72 Shelton Street was more than welcoming of full bodies and full lips and women who knew how to use them.
But this woman didn’t know how to use them. She was stiff as stone, clinging to the bedpost with one white-knuckled hand and to an empty champagne flute with the other, holding herself at an odd angle, looking altogether out of place.
Even more so when she straightened impossibly further and said, “I beg your pardon, sir. I am waiting for someone.”
“Mmm.” He leaned back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest, wishing she weren’t in shadow. “Nelson.”
She nodded, the movement like jerking clockwork. “Quite. And as you are not him—”
“How do you know that?”
Silence. Whit resisted the urge to smile. He could nearly hear her panic. She was about to back down, which would put him in the position of power. She’d give up the information he wished in minutes, like a babe to sweets.
Except, she said, “You do not match my list of qualifications.”
What in hell? Qualifications?
Somehow, miraculously, he avoided asking the question outright.