“I am the Duke of Blackholm,” Evander said. “I require a moment of your time.”
“A duke. In my parlor. On a Tuesday.”
Madame Fontaine studied them from behind her desk with the unhurried appraisal of a jeweler examining two stones she had not yet decided to buy. She was perhaps fifty, handsome rather than beautiful, with silver-streaked dark hair swept into an arrangement that belonged in a Mayfair drawing room rather than a Hampstead pleasure house. Her gown was emerald velvet. Her rings were real.
“May I offer you a room?” She gestured languidly toward the corridor. “Or perhaps something more specific? I have an excellent selection this evening.”
“We are here for information,” Evander said. “Nothing more.”
“They always say that.” Madame Fontaine smiled. “Sit, please. Both of you.”
Evander sat. Mary sat beside him, her back straight, her composure reassembled. Whatever the walk-through of the house had done to her, she had packed it away behind the same polished armor she wore to every battle.
“I am looking for my brother,” Evander said. “Lord Richard Brightshaw.”
Madame Fontaine’s expression did not change. She poured three glasses of sherry without asking whether they wanted one. “I know who Lord Richard is. He was a regular guest. Charming boy. Very generous with the staff.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Five months ago. Perhaps six.” She sipped her sherry. “He stopped coming. I assumed he’d found a new distraction.”
“And before he stopped?”
“Your brother’s habits changed, Your Grace. He had been a regular for over a year. Came once or twice a week, sampled the company, spent freely.” She paused. “Then, about six months before he vanished, he began coming every night. But he stopped sampling.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he booked a private room every evening, and the same woman met him there. Not one of my girls. Someonefrom outside. He paid for the room, she arrived separately, and they stayed until the small hours.” Madame Fontaine folded her hands. “I do not ask questions about what happens behind closed doors, as long as the doors are paid for.”
“Who was the woman?”
“I never learned her name. My staff described her as young. Dark-haired. Well-dressed but not English.” She tilted her head. “One of my girls heard her speaking to Lord Richard through the door and said the accent was Italian.”
Evander felt Mary stiffen beside him.
Italian. Not Mary’s sister.
“And the last time Richard was here?”
“He came alone. Stayed for perhaps an hour. Left a note with my front desk and asked it to be given to the woman when she next arrived.” Madame Fontaine folded her hands. “The woman came two days later. My girl gave her the note as instructed. She read it, put it in her pocket, and left without a word. She never returned.”
“You don’t know what the note contained.”
“I am discreet, Your Grace. My girls do not read the correspondence that passes through this house. It is the foundation of my business.”
Mary spoke. “Have you ever seen a young Englishwoman here? Fair-haired. Blue eyes. Twenty-five years old. She would have been with Lord Richard.”
Madame Fontaine turned her gaze on Mary. “You are looking for someone specific.”
“My sister.”
“I see.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. I have never seen a woman matching that description in my establishment.”
Mary’s hands tightened in her lap.
Evander stood and placed a stack of banknotes on the desk. “For your time and discretion. If you hear anything further, send word to Blackholm House.”
Madame Fontaine swept the money into her drawer. “Of course. And please know that you and your duchess are welcome to enjoy any of our rooms this evening. Compliments of the house.”
