CHAPTER 73: CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE

The change from the bright street to the dim, smoky interior was blinding. The air was thick with a cloying, heavy perfume, cheap wine, and the smell of unwashed bodies. A tiny piano sound could be heard somewhere. Before her eyes could even adjust, a figure detached itself from the gloom.

"Oh, my, my! A new little bird, and a fine one, too!" a woman’s voice, like gravel in honey, boomed in her ear.

A large, formidable woman, squeezed into a gaudy, bright-red silk dress that left little to the imagination, stood before her. Her hair was a mountain of fake, bright-orange curls, and her face was a mask of thick white paint and a crimson, shark-like smile. This had to be the owner, Madame Irene.

"Welcome to The Pleasure District, my lady," Irene said, her eyes, sharp as a moneylender’s, already assessing the fine quality of Marissa’s cloak, the expensive gloves on her hands. "And what is your heart’s desire today?"

Marissa, her voice slightly muffled by the veil, tried to speak. "I am here to..."

"I know, I know," Irene interrupted, her smile widening as she put a heavy, ring-covered hand on Marissa’s arm. "A woman of your... quality... has specific tastes, yes? We have well-built men for women of your standing. Tall ones from the north, dark-eyed ones from the south... we even have a new boy from the Western Isles, very popular, very... adventurous."

"No," Marissa said, her voice firm, trying to pull her arm away. "I am not here for..."

"Oh!" The woman’s eyes widened, her painted eyebrows climbing her forehead. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper, her breath smelling of stale wine. "Men aren’t your type? I understand completely!" She chuckled, a low, rasping sound. "Well, we have women, too, my lady. Skin as soft as new milk, I promise. Ready to give you all the pleasure a clumsy, hairy man could not."

"That is not why I am..." Marissa tried again, her patience wearing paper-thin.

"Madame Irene!" a voice shouted from across the smoky room. "There’s a fight in the back room!"

"Keep your mouth shut, you fool!" Irene roared, not even turning her head. "I am entertaining a customer! Deal with it!" She turned back to Marissa, her shark-like smile instantly back in place. "Or," she purred, her gaze becoming even more appraising, "are you the type that prefers to find pleasure with your own hands? We have all the tools you could need. French silks, fine leather, exotic toys from the East... I promise you, my lady, after you are done, you won’t want to go to any other pleasure house but this one. So," she leaned in, her smile now a hungry, expectant leer, "what are your preferences?"

Marissa was done. She had heard enough of the woman’s rambling, vulgar words about her business. She reached into her pocket, past the Thompson token, and pulled out a small, heavy pouch of coins. She shoved it hard into the woman’s chest.

"Here," she said, her voice no longer veiled, but as cold and sharp as a shard of ice. "This is for your time. Now you will be silent, and you will listen."

Madame Irene, surprised by the sudden, hard shove and the heavy weight of the coins, stopped talking, her mouth falling open.

"You have a regular customer," Marissa continued, her voice a low, hard command. "Lord Carlos Thompson. I need the account of every coin he has spent in this establishment. I need it now."

Irene’s greedy, leering expression vanished, replaced by a sudden, wary hardness. "I don’t know what you’re talking about, my lady. Our clients are all private..."

Marissa didn’t let her finish. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the heavy, carved gold token, holding it up so the light glinted off the unmistakable Thompson family seal.

"I am the Grand Duchess of Denver," she said, her voice a deathly, quiet command. "And I am not asking."

The color drained from Madame Irene’s heavily painted face. Her skin, under the white paint, turned a sickly, greenish-gray. Her jaw went slack. She had just spent five minutes trying to sell pleasure toys and foreign men to the wife of the Grand Duke, one of the most powerful and ruthless men in the kingdom.

"Y-Your... Your Grace..." she stammered, her body trembling as she fell into a low, clumsy, terrified curtsy. "I am dreadfully sorry... I... I didn’t know it was you... and I said... all those terrible..."

"It’s fine," Marissa cut her short, her voice like a whip. "The accounts."

"Yes, Your Grace! At once! At once!"

The woman practically ran, stumbling over her own feet as she scurried into a small, dark office behind the bar. A moment later, she returned, her hands shaking, holding not a large, official ledger, but a small, worn, leather-bound book.

"This is it, Your Grace," she whimpered, holding it out as if it were a bomb. "This is all of Lord Carlos’s private spending. Every coin he has spent in this establishment since the day it opened. I swear it."

Marissa snatched the book from her hand. A quick flip through the pages showed exactly what she was looking for: dates, times, and staggering, ruinous sums, all for "girls" and "private games." The evidence was perfect.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Madame," Marissa said, her voice dripping with ice.

"Please, Your Grace, take care," Irene stammered, bowing again and again.

"Likewise," Marissa replied, a cold, empty threat in the single word. " And I don’t want to hear a word about this visit, am I clear?"

Madame Irene nodded.

"Good." Marissa said as she tucked the small, damning book securely in her hand and turned, her dark cloak swirling as she walked out of the den, leaving the terrified, sweating owner standing frozen in the middle of her own smoky, sinful establishment.

She stepped out onto the street, the fresh, cool air a blessed relief. She had it. She had the proof. A small, cold, triumphant smile touched her lips as she walked briskly down the crowded street to look for a carriage to rent.

She was so lost in her victory, so focused on her next move, that she didn’t notice the man in the dark, ragged clothes until he was right beside her.

He collided with her, hard, his shoulder slamming into hers, a deliberate, professional jolt designed to unbalance her.

"Hey!" she cried, stumbling.

In that split second of confusion, his hand, fast as a snake, dove for the reticule—the small, silk purse—that was hanging from her wrist. He grabbed it and yanked, the cord cutting painfully into her skin before it snapped.

"Thief!" she shouted, her voice a sharp, sudden scream of outrage.

In her shock, her other hand, the one clutching the small, precious ledger, opened involuntarily. The small, leather-bound book tumbled from her grasp, landing with a soft, sickening thud on the dirty, crowded cobblestones.

The thief didn’t even notice the book. He had what he wanted. He clutched her purse to his chest and bolted, diving into the thick, anonymous crowd, disappearing in an instant.

Marissa chased after him, her wrist stinging, her heart pounding. The thief was gone. Her money, the Thompson token... all gone.