An Unexpected Earl

by Anna Harrington

  Twelve years after leaving Birmingham, he was starting over again, but this time, there was no clear path. All he knew was that he wanted his life to mean something, and being a peer wasn’t enough. The need for purpose lived inside him as a physical yearning, one that burned in his muscles and left him restless, sleepless, on edge. Always had. Like a tightened coil ready to spring. Being in the wars had helped to mitigate the tension, but now that he’d returned to England, it had crept back.

  And he had no idea how to end it.

  He ducked into an abandoned warehouse. Inside, the building was alive. Lamps blazed throughout the large ground floor, which was crowded with working-class men and women who had gathered illegally for tonight’s boxing match. All kinds of bets were being placed, prostitutes bargained for, gin guzzled from tin mugs and other alcohol from flasks.

  In the center of the old warehouse, an eight-by-eight-foot square had been roped off, where one man who stood bare from the waist up and bruised from previous rounds waited for the next challenger. His bottle man and knee man waited nearby while the referee shouted into the noisy crowd, antagonizing them to produce a challenger so the matches and gambling could continue.

  There were no takers tonight. Their champion was too big, too muscular for the usual fighters among the sailors and porters who worked the docks.

  But he was perfect for Pearce.

  He stepped up to the rope and began to strip off his clothes, to bare himself down to his breeches. “Me,” he called out, tossing a coin to the referee to secure his own bet on the match and slipping inside the square. “I’m next.”

  The brute charged toward him with a ferocious growl. Pearce dropped his shoulder and swung.

  Five

  “Such a beautiful dress. One of my favorites.” Madame Noir held up the red gown in the late morning sunlight that fell through the diaphanous curtains of her boudoir. She slid Amelia a conspiratorial glance over her shoulder. “Did you look absolutely wicked in it?”

  “Well, I—” The way Pearce had stared at her… Heat began to simmer low in Amelia’s belly, and she fought down a thrilled smile as she answered secretively, “I believe so.”

  Madame laughed and tossed the dress over the back of a chair.

  She glided across the room to the tea table and the tray that she’d requested for them. Amelia had only wanted to drop off the dress and leave, afraid that Varnham or one of the other MPs might see her here. Or worse—Frederick. But Madame had insisted that she come up for refreshments, and Amelia knew from all the hard work she’d done to establish her shop that she couldn’t afford to offend anyone. A person never knew when an acquaintance might prove helpful. Even a brothel owner.

  Madame Noir picked up a saucer and teacup. “I will admit I was rather surprised when you told me that you wanted to borrow a dress, and that one in particular.” She carefully poured the tea. Amelia was coming to realize that Madame did everything exactly like that. Carefully. Every move she made was measured and exact. “You. The sister of an MP.”

  “Which is why I came to you.” Amelia accepted the tea, then waved away offers for sugar and milk. “Discretion is what keeps you in business.”

  “Yes, but you are not in the business of discretion.”

  Amelia boldly met the woman’s gaze. “There are times when we all must do things we don’t want to simply in order to survive.”

  Madame smiled as if the two women understood each other perfectly and poured a cup for herself. Instead of joining Amelia where she sat on the settee, she remained standing. Also a calculated posture of imperialness and power, although Amelia wasn’t certain the woman was conscious that she was doing it. Running the King Street brothel named Le Château Noir—which had earned her the nickname Le Chat Noir, the Black Cat—had taken a spine and skill that most women didn’t possess.

  But then, Madame wasn’t an ordinary woman.

  Her chosen profession aside, an uncompromising air lingered about her, even dressed casually as she was in an emerald-green silk dressing gown with her black hair piled loosely upon her head. In the diffused light filtering through the gauzy curtains, the fine lines around her mouth and eyes showed her age. Yet her figure still possessed youthful curves, and her complexion remained fair, belying the hard life she’d undoubtedly led. Her presence fit perfectly into this room, the boudoir decorated as exotically as the woman herself…purple silk draping the walls, gold brocade settee and chairs dominating the space, mahogany mirrored dressing table, Chippendale writing desk.

  Around them, the brothel was quiet, as if pausing to catch its breath between visits by the men who left at dawn but would descend upon the place again at nightfall. Like locusts.

  Madame took a soft sip of tea, eyeing Amelia curiously. “So you run a charity.”

  She stilled. Had the woman been asking around about her? “A shop, actually. It’s called the Bouquet Boutique, and we sell all kinds of luxury goods—hand-painted fabrics, linens, porcelains, baubles…anything with a garden theme.” She smiled. “Our specialty is roses.”

  “But it’s more than just a shop,” Madame murmured from behind her cup. “Isn’t it?”

  Amelia stiffened. She meant the war widows who worked there. So she had been asking around. In detail.

  “Yes.” She returned her cup to her saucer. “I found women who’d lost their only means of support when their husbands were killed in the wars and invited them to work for me, both learning to work the shop floor and to create some of the goods we sell—the fabrics, the jewelry, the lace. Whatever skills they might have are put to use, and in return, they’re paid a fair wage and given room and board. They’re also taught how to manage their money properly.” So no one could steal it from them, the way Aaron had so easily stolen hers. “When they’re ready, they find better employment elsewhere and move on, giving their space to another.” She shrugged. “So both a shop and a charity.”

  “You’ve no need to be modest with me, Miss Howard. It’s far more than that.” The woman’s green eyes gleamed like the cat she was named for. “It’s survival.”

  Amelia swelled with pride that someone recognized that, even if that someone was a brothel owner. “Yes. I suppose it is.” How had Madame noticed what Frederick had always failed to understand? Surprise sparked inside her at finding the most unlikely of confidantes, and she admitted, “I teach them how to be independent so that they never have to rely upon a man again.” Then, feeling the old chagrin at her own foolishness, she added quietly, “So they never have to be at a man’s mercy.”

  “The way you feel at your brother’s.” Not a question. Thankfully, before Amelia could pale at that, Madame continued, “I wonder if you might have room at your shop for two more women. Not war widows, but then, now that the wars are over, there will be fewer of those, will there not?”

  “I hope so.” If God listens to my prayers.

  “There are two ladies in my employ who are finding life here at Le Château…difficult.” With a frown, she traced her fingertip around the rim of her teacup. “They’ve been in my employ for several years, so I want to help them find a new path for themselves.”

  In other words, they had grown old, and gentlemen no longer wanted to seek pleasure in them. Or they had the pox, and their symptoms had become too visible to hide beneath powders and perfumes.

  Amelia’s heart wept for them. Only by fortune of birth had she been the daughter of an industrialist, with all the luxuries and privileges of life handed to her, when others had landed in the filth and poverty of the streets through no fault of their own. But the government—and those with means—did little except to complain that the poor were simply lazy and turned a blind eye to the fact that there was no way out of poverty for most of them, having neither the skills nor education to advance beyond hard-to-find jobs that paid pennies in return for hours of work.

  “Yes,” she answered, despite the
emotion that tightened her throat. “I have positions for them.” Somewhere. She had no idea where, but she would find them. “Please tell them to come to the Bouquet Boutique and ask for me.”

  “Thank you.” Madame set down her tea and moved to the little writing desk in front of the window, where she unlocked the middle drawer and withdrew a stack of banknotes. “I find your charity quite admirable, Miss Howard, and would like to make a donation.”

  A sizable one, Amelia observed as Madame counted out the notes. More than enough to cover the living expenses of the two women until they were able to find their feet and move into good positions. Or to pay for kind nurses to help them into heaven.

  “An anonymous donation.” Madame held out the banknotes. “Discretion, you understand.”

  “Of course.” Amelia placed them into her reticule.

  Madame crossed to the dressing table with its large and ornately carved gilded mirror and sat on the velvet stool. She assessed her reflection, turning her head from side to side, then reached for a little enameled jar of rouge.

  As Amelia watched her ready herself for the afternoon, a thought struck her. A wild and utterly desperate idea. One that would test all the discretion and newfound trust oddly springing up between the two women.

  “You must know a lot of society gentlemen,” she commented casually, despite the spiking of her pulse at what she planned to ask.

  “I do.” Madame tapped the red color faintly onto her cheeks.

  “Is there anything you can tell me about one who might—”

  Madame’s gaze darted to Amelia’s in the mirror, silencing her in midsentence with a look so imposing it could have cut glass.

  Amelia caught her breath.

  Madame turned her attention back to her reflection and the color on her cheeks, then sighed out her capitulation. “It would depend, I suppose, on who you have in mind.” She set down the rouge pot. “And why.”

  “An acquaintance of my brother.” Amelia sat forward on the edge of the settee to seize this unexpected chance to gather information about the man who held the power to bring down her world. And the only lead she had to find her brother’s blackmailer. “Sir Charles Varnham.”

  “Hmm.” Madame applied the powder puff to her nose, then leaned toward the mirror to examine her work. “Arrogant, paunchy, judgmental, entitled…like any other English lord, I suppose.”

  Amelia’s hopes plummeted. “Nothing out of the ordinary about him?” She set her teacup on the table before her trembling hands could spill it on the Turkish rug beneath her feet. “Nothing at all?”

  “Not that I know of. But then, what were you hoping to hear—that he’s a wolf in Bond Street clothing? A devil in disguise?”

  Exactly that, actually. Because it meant the man might have a connection to the blackmailer. Or be the one doing the blackmailing himself.

  “I’m afraid I can’t be much help to you. Sir Charles has never visited Le Château.” She carefully 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 war hero, you know. Wellington would have lost Waterloo if not for Brandon and his men.”

  Amelia’s throat tightened. “No, I didn’t know that.”

  When he hadn’t answered her letters, she’d stopped reading about him in the papers, stopped asking about him with old acquaintances in Birmingham…just stopped everything to do with him. She’d set h
er sights on completely forgetting about him, even if her nightly dreams hadn’t cooperated.

  But she wasn’t surprised to hear that about him. He’d always been courageous, even in his youth when he’d so rashly thrown himself into fights, seemingly at every chance he had. Constantly, his face had carried bruises and cuts in all stages of healing, which had somehow only made him more dashing. Even then he’d been a natural-born fighter.

  “He’s a good man. A very good man.” Madame smiled knowingly as Amelia began to secure the pins and fought an immature urge to yank the woman’s hair out. “One with secrets.” Her gaze darted to Amelia’s in the mirror. “But I’m not certain they’re worthy of extortion.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “No! I didn’t mean Pearce when I—”

  “If you see him, tell him that I miss him.” She took the last pin from Amelia’s startled hand as it froze in midair and slipped it into place. “He hasn’t been by to see me in far too long.”

  Gracefully, Madame stood with a swoosh of her green silk dressing gown and crossed the room to a small jewelry box on her dresser. She opened one of the tiny drawers and withdrew a bauble—an emerald and gold bracelet that dazzled in the sunlight.

  “I have this because of Brandon. I acquired it the last time I saw him.” She held it out to Amelia to fasten around her wrist for her. “A beautiful little prize, don’t you think?”

  With a tight smile, Amelia forced out, “Yes.” Whom Pearce chose to spend time with was none of her business, even a woman like Madame Noir. So drat it, why did the backs of her eyes begin to sting? Had he changed that much in manhood that he’d seek pleasure at a place like this? “Quite beautiful.”

  Steeling herself, she fastened the bracelet in place and forced down by sheer will the unbidden jealousy now pulsing through her in waves.

  Madame reached for a day dress tossed over a nearby chair. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to dress now.” She pulled free the tie on her dressing gown, then stopped. “I’d let you stay and watch, but I charge for such pleasures.” Her lips curled in amusement. “Business, you understand.”