“How many arrows did it take for you to cut the rope, silly?”

“Be honest,” Royce told him.

Hadrian scowled. “Four.”

“Four?” Albert said. “It was much more impressive when I imagined it as one lone shot, but still—”

“Do you think the earl will ever figure it out?” Emerald asked.

“The first time it rains I figure,” Mason said.

There was a triple tap on the door and the stocky smith pushed back his chair and crossed the room. “Who is it?” he challenged.

“Gwen.”

Sliding the deadbolt free, he opened the door, and an exotic-looking woman with long, thick black hair and dazzling green eyes entered.

“A fine thing when a woman can’t get access to her own back room.”

“Sorry, gal,” Mason said, closing the door behind her, “but Royce would skin me alive if I ever opened the door without asking first.”

Gwen DeLancy was an enigma of the Lower Quarter. A Calian immigrant, she survived in the city as a prostitute and fortune-teller. Her dark skin, almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones were uniquely foreign. Her talent for eye makeup and an eastern accent made her an alluring mystery that the nobles found irresistible. Yet Gwen was no simple whore. In three short years, she turned her fortunes around, buying up shop rights in the district. Only nobles could own land, but merchants traded the rights to operate a business. Before long, she owned or possessed an interest in a sizable section of Artisan Row and most of the Lower Quarter. Medford House, commonly known as The House, was her most lucrative establishment. Despite its back alley location, gentry from far and near frequented this expensive brothel. She had a reputation for being discrete, especially with the identities of men who could not afford to be seen frequenting a brothel.

“Royce,” Gwen said, “a potential customer visited The House earlier this evening. He was quite anxious to speak to one of you. I set up a meeting for tomorrow evening.”