Camille turned and crossed her arms over her chest, her shoulder muscles protesting.
Powdered coif and cheek faded on one side, Madam Clarice busied herself with the papers on her desk, a desk identical to the one in the secret room at Camille’s back. But whereas Camille’s desk was full of files and papers in neat piles, Madam worked with her documents fanned out in front of her like a parchment barricade between herself and her clients.
“You shouldn’t sleep at your desk,” Camille said. “The position isn’t good for your neck.”
Madam didn’t look up, didn’t need to. With a single word, her iron will and refusal to change the subject was clear. “Who?”
“Flank and Grey.”
A pause. “Anyone else?”
Camille looked away. “Hawkins.”
Still reviewing the documents in front of her, Madam lifted a small bell from her desk and rang it once, twice.
Trapped inside the office until whatever attendant arrived, Camille leaned against the panel to her office and picked at her fraying sleeve. She’d need to take a morning to peruse the ready-made shops for another serviceable dress before month’s end. The burden on her income would set back her plans, but while the sacrifice wasn’t necessary, it was practical.
Even working as she did in the secret office with only Madam’s company—and fleeting visits as the Ponies came and went from their shifts—Madam enforced a modest dress code of taste and acceptable wear, not letting the smallest tear go unnoticed.
The thread at her wrist came free, more grey than blue in color after a year of repeated laundering. A new dress would be in order anyway if she was to have anyone take her seriously in the career she aimed to have one day.
The secondary door behind the desk opened—the door leading from the depths of the club—and Sensa, Madam’s second-in-command, walked inside.
Brunette hair pulled back in a severe bun, Sensa looked and played her role as governess for her clients with precision, and no small amount of strict delight. “Yes, Madam?”
Madam flipped one of the pages over, dripped wax at the bottom, and pressed the seal of the Prodding Pony into the paper. She repeated the actions with two other papers beforehanding them to Sensa, all without looking up. The papers had been sitting there before Camille had walked in.
“These patrons’ memberships are revoked. See they’re handled accordingly.”
Sensa noted the names. “Grey is in the club presently. Shall I remove him?”
Madam raised her head at that, and the smile she wore was the same coy tilt of the lips that had won her the hearts of the gentry two decades ago. And the one she wore even as she dominated her clients with whips and chains hard enough to break skin.
“I’ve a better idea.” Madam trailed a finger up Sensa’s arm. “Be a dear and bring him to me. No need to ruin the surprise with the papers.”
Sensa brought Madam’s fingers to her mouth and kissed the tips. “Yes, Madam.”
When the door closed, Madam held out the club’s seal. “Put this away, would you?”
Camille palmed the metal stamp and shook her head. “Why did you ask their identities if you already knew?”
Madam leaned back in her chair, the full weight of her blue-eyed gaze unsettling. “I wanted to see if you’d tell me the truth.”
Instead of experiencing outrage, Camille laughed. “You enjoy your tests.”
Madam inclined her head. “You’ve never failed one.”
“How did you find out?”
“I have my sources.”
Camille didn’t doubt the alley walls themselves had confessed. The woman had a knack for learning secrets.
“Hawkins won’t take your decision graciously,” she said.
Madam stood and went to a secondary hidden panel and pushed the latch in the moulding. The door swung open, revealing a shallow cubby lined with six riding crops in adescending order of lengths and thicknesses, all blood red—to hide the stains.
She chose a mid-length crop with finger-width tassels on the end and shut the panel. “Hawkins will be fortunate to fuck his hand after Lucien breaks him.”
