March 19th, 1891 — House of Lytton
Juliana did not yet feel as though anything about the blackmail situation had gotten beyond her control. The woman had made quite a mistake in sending her copies of all the letters she intended to send, in making her threat. First of all, it showed too much of her own motivations — she was invested in this dress, for whatever silly reason, and she would rather have made threats than followed through on them, at least for the time being. Second, it showed her hand; now Juliana knew exactly what to expect, if she did send them. The letter she'd written in response that morning was essentially calling her bluff. Juliana didn't think she would send them, because then she would have lost all of the power she had in the situation. She would essentially remove herself from the equation, becoming a nonissue. None of the letters Juliana had exchanged with her since then had been signed, and none had said anything at all incriminating. If she played this particular card, sending copies of Juliana's original letter to the three parties she had mentioned, she would have nothing left in her hand.
There was still a chance she might send the letters, if she didn't realize how foolish it would be, but Juliana wasn't concerned about that. Mrs. Finch was like a hornet with no stinger at this point; she could make an obnoxious buzz, if she felt so inclined, but nothing she did could hurt Juliana. Especially so long after the incident had passed, and with fresh gossip in the teeth of society already; if she made a big ordeal of the letter Juliana had supposedly written (she was prepared to claim, if necessary, that it was a forgery) then she would only look desperate, obsessed with an unassuming spinster for no reason. It wouldn't be a good look for her, and Juliana expected that Mrs. Finch was cunning enough to know that. So that was no matter. Witch Weekly was also an empty threat, she thought — if they wanted to start fighting with Meredith Watchword, she could just threaten to take her publication elsewhere. She assumed the editorial team would be hungrier for continued article fodder than they would be for some tired bit of scandal about a spinster, especially when they had no proof anything had happened. (Now, if the blackmailer knew about his coat hanging at home in her closet, that might be a different matter — but a plain handkerchief, torn into a dozen pieces, was hardly enough evidence to present in the court of public opinion).
The most dangerous of the three letters she'd threatened to send was the one to Mr. MacFusty, especially given his behavior most recently, but — well, she'd have to deal with that when the situation arose. In the meantime, she was planning for what she assumed would be the more likely scenario; getting this hateful girl a custom Lytton dress.
"Camilla," she asked, when they had a break between customers. Her tone was all innocence as she continued, "May I ask you a fashion question?"
Prof. Marlowe Forfang
Jules