Page 17 of An Unexpected Earl

“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 absolutelywickedin 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, butyouare 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 shehadbeen 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.