applied charcoal to her eyelids, giving them a smoky effect that made her look even more cat-like. “His younger brother, Arthur, however,” she mumbled, sitting back, “does business here several times a week. He’s easy to satisfy, from what I’ve been told. Prefers curvaceous blonds. And whips.”
Amelia blinked. That wasn’t at all the kind of information she was hoping for!
As if reading her mind, Madame smeared a bit of the red rouge across her bottom lip with her pinkie. “Tell me…why do you want to know about Sir Charles?”
“I think it’s important to know about the men Frederick works with.”
If Madame read that for the lie it was, she graciously said nothing. Instead, she rolled her lips together to spread the color and began to take down her hair.
“Don’t you have a ladies’ maid for that?” Amelia asked, glancing at the suite door that remained shut, expecting one to come scurrying in at any moment.
“I do. I run a fully staffed town house, just like any other in St James’s.” Madame smiled a bit patronizingly. “But I also have an appointment with my solicitor in an hour and so need to dress while we talk, and I’d rather keep our conversation private. Wouldn’t you?”
Absolutely. “Then at least let me help you.”
Amelia rose to her feet and came forward.
Surprise shot across Madame’s face, the first uncontrolled emotion Amelia had seen from the woman. But her shoulders eased down in acquiescence as Amelia approached from behind, took the pins from her hands, and unwound her hair.
As she picked up the brush and began to smooth out the woman’s locks, this new intimacy of helping with her hair sparked a boldness that made it seem perfectly fine to ask, “What do you know about blackmail?”
“Quite a bit, actually.” Madame didn’t even blink at that unexpected question. “You’ll need to be more specific.”
Amelia bit her bottom lip. “How does one make it work?”
Madame laughed, a throaty and amused sound. “You’ll never be able to blackmail anyone, Miss Howard.” She glanced at their reflection in the mirror as Amelia finished brushing her hair and set the tortoiseshell brush down on the dressing table to reach for a set of silver pins. “You have too much kindness in you, too much sympathy.”
Amelia grimaced, certain she’d never received such a complimenting insult before. “I didn’t mean—” Good Lord! She’d never have the courage to do something like that! “Not me, of course.”
“Of course not.” Disbelief colored Madame’s smile. “Which is good. Because in order to be successful at blackmail, you have to care not at all about the people involved. You have to be willing to hurt them. And severely. That’s the secret to it, you know. The trick that makes it work. The person you want to control must believe that you’ll do exactly as you threaten. If they suspect for one moment that you won’t carry through, you’ve lost.”
Which was why she and Frederick were at the blackmailer’s mercy. The man would do exactly as he’d threatened. They both knew it.
“Best to leave blackmail to the professionals,” Madame murmured, watching in the mirror as Amelia began to twist her long hair into a simple chignon.
“Becoming involved with it was never my intention,” she muttered on an earnest breath.
Without moving her head, Madame knowingly arched a brow. “Gotten yourself into a sticky spot, then, have you?”
“I haven’t gotten myself into anything.” Freddie had. This was all his mess, but one that she’d been forced to clean up. Yet the way out—
Her stomach sickened, knowing she was trapped. Surrender Bradenhill to the trust and save Freddie from blackmail, thus also saving herself and her shop, or save her land by stopping the trust and risk that all Freddie had done would be revealed, destroying both of their lives and the war widows who depended upon her right along with them… Dear Lord, is there any way out of this?
Freddie thought so, with Pearce as his preferred solution. But she hadn’t seen him in twelve years, didn’t know if the man he’d become could be trusted… In his desperation to find a savior, had Freddie tossed their lot in with the devil?
“And the Earl of Sandhurst?” Amelia asked as nonchalantly as possible. “Do you know anything about him?”
“Ah, Brandon,” Madame purred, as if privately delighted that Amelia had mentioned him. “I do know him. Quite well.”
Brandon… Madame’s use of his given name implied intimacy. The unexpectedness of that nearly took Amelia’s breath away. She mumbled, “Do you?”
“He’s a