All characters in sexual situations are 18 years of age and older.
*
Whitechapel, London 1887
"Grace!" The angry tone in her stepfather's voice made Grace freeze mid-sweep. With nervous hands, she leaned the broom against the wall of their cramped East End tenement. She had just enough time to wipe the soot off her modest pink dress and put on her sweetest expression before her stepfather burst through the door.
"Grace, you thoughtless chit! Do you 'ave any idea the kind ov trouble you could 'ave put me in?"
"I'm sorry Papa." Grace tilted her round face to look up at her Papa with the big baby blue eyes that often softened him when he was in a temper.
Owen Blythe wasn't such a bad fellow really. Granted, he was an unrepentant thief and a petty conman but he had his good qualities. He certainly wasn't bad to look at. Now middle-aged, his ruggedly handsome face had only improved over time. Lines had started to form at the corners of his sharp brown eyes. Eyes that always seemed to be searching for the next big score. Silvery streaks had crept into his chestnut hair. The salt and pepper scruff of a permanent 5 o'clock shadow completed his decidedly rakish look. A look that said, 'sure I might swindle you but I promise to make it an enjoyable experience.'
Most importantly Owen had done right by Grace's mother. They had been married for less than a year when her mother died in childbirth. Suddenly he found himself a widower saddled with a shy, skinny, ten-year-old stepdaughter. He handled the situation tolerably well considering he could easily have bundled Grace off to the work house or sold her maidenhead to the highest bidder. Instead he merely put her to work as maid, hostess, occasional lookout and any other odd job he and his cozy band of thieves needed.
For the last eight years Papa had kept a roof over her head, clothes on her back and food in her belly. He was never cruel and was even a jovial fellow once he had a few pints in him. Too bad for her, Grace could tell by the sharpness of his gaze that he was presently stone cold sober.
"Don't try them eyes on me." He snapped at her. "I 'ad to do a runner from the Bow Street boys. I coulda been pinched! 'anged even! And then where would you be? A pre'y girl at the tender age ov eigh'een 'aving to make 'er way alone on the streets of Whitechapel. You'd be selling yourself in the gutter in no time."
Grace's eyes grew even wider at the frightful prospect. It was undeniable that the fetching combination of Grace's innocent face, topped by a halo of golden blonde curls, and the womanliness of her figure seemed to draw male attention of the least desirable sort.
"Please, I really am sorry I fell asleep on my watch." She pleaded.
It was little wonder she had fallen asleep. She had been up most of the night before serving drinks to her stepfather's lackeys and then had spent the following day cleaning up after them. Thieves' lairs were hardly known for their cleanliness but Grace always strove to make the place look more like a home and less like the den of iniquity that it was. Yet that didn't leave much time for sleep. So, when she was supposed to be acting as lookout while the crew nicked the luggage off a rich gents carriage she had dozed off in the back of a straw cart.
Exhaustion seemed a reasonable excuse to Grace but she knew better than to try it on her stepfather. Instead she jutted her quivering bottom lip out in a contrite pout.
"Save your performance. I ain't the only one you be owin' an apology to." Her Papa said. It was then that Grace heard footsteps on the stairs.
"I 'ope you 'aven't started wivout us, Owen." A gruff booming voice announced seconds before the two large men barreled through the door.
First came Ollie, his lumbering frame filling the entirety of the doorway. The bloke appeared to be made up entirely of rough cut angles and course materials. Arms that looked like they could crush tree trucks crossed a sprawling barrel chest. With the addition of a pronounced brow ridge and a squared off jaw, it was as if he had been fashioned from a model of man that had been discontinued since the paleolithic era.
At five-and-thirty Ollie had been Owen's right-hand man since Grace could remember. The one he looked to when violence could be at all useful. A genuine ruffian, at least to most. Over the years Grace had grown accustomed to Ollie's intimidating presence. She flattered herself she had even grown on him as well. It's true he never smiled outright but he seemed to scowl a bit less in her company.
Hot on Ollie's heels followed his colleague; Troy Townsend. Somewhere in his twenties, he was the youngest of the motley crew and the most recent addition. Tall, lean, well-dressed and devilishly handsome; he was the one to be called upon when charm and finesse were in order.
It would be hard to conceive of a starker contrast from Ollie's roughly hewn appearance to Troy's highly polished appeal. Black hair, slicked back in the current fashion, framed his finely shaped features. He sported a posh silk jacket and a smartly accented voice, very unlike the tatty attire and cockney drawl of the locals. One could almost mistake him for a bonafide gentleman, that is until he smiled revealing a mouth full of leering gold teeth. The golden thread of his grin gave him a rapacious look more suited to dark alleys than Society drawing rooms.
"Evening Miss Grace." Troy swept into an elegant bow. Blue eyes, at once intense and playful, peered beneath dark, slashing brows.
He pointed that scorching gaze squarely in Grace's direction. She looked away as quickly as possible but the damage was done. She could already feel desire tearing through her, stealing her breath and weakening her knees.
The inexplicable physical reaction that came over her whenever Troy was near meant that Grace both eagerly anticipated and fiercely dreading each encounter
"Evening Mr. Townsend." Grace's trembling legs bent into a timid courtesy. Head lowered, she looked up at him through a veil of thick lashes. She paused there and they maintained eye contact for a few seconds longer than etiquette strictly required.
"Ahem-" The impatient throat clearing of her stepfather rang out, rather spoiling the mood. "Now that the niceties is out ov the way perhaps we can get down to the business at 'and."
After another moment of smirking down at Grace, Troy finally broke their gaze. "Right you are, as always, sir."
Grace watched as Troy handed Owen a bag she hadn't noticed before. Though she had been too wrapped up in Mr. Townsend's fine eyes to notice much of anything.
Silly girl.
It is always best to stay on your toes when dealing with scoundrels. Even ones with fine eyes. She inwardly chided herself for the lapse in focus while Owen rummaged about in the bag. What he retrieved there certainly captured her full attention; a bundle of birch twigs secured by a bright red ribbon.
Owen gestured with the birch to the end of the long wooden table that dominated the room. "You know the drill, Gracie."
Grace had been expecting a punishment. It was not uncommon for her Papa to administer discipline when she displeased him. She acknowledged that she may even deserve it this time. However, she had not expected an audience. Especially a male audience. And especially one particular audience member that made her cheeks flush and her knees knock.
