Companionship.
With each woman was a doting male companion, dressed to accommodate the lady’s fantasy: Matthew, in his handsome soldier’s uniform, entertained an aging spinster in a beaded mauve mask; Lionel, in his dark formalwear that would give Brummell a run for his money, whispered into the ear of an ancient earl’s young wife; and Tomas, with his billowing shirt and tight breeches, long hair pulled back in a queue, eye patch a dark slash over his brow, entertained a lady with a remarkably active imagination . . . who knew precisely what she wanted: Tomas.
A laugh sounded, loud and authentic and decidedly more free than its Mayfair twin—Dahlia did not have to look to know it came from a widowed marchioness, laughing with the married baroness she’d loved since they were children. Later, they would take to an upstairs room and their mutual pleasure.
On the far end of the oval, where the windows looked out on the Garden, Nelson—one of the most skilled of the club’s workers, and paid well for that skill—leaned low into the ear of a particularly wealthy widow. The dowager countess in question was well into her fifties and only ever came to 72 Shelton when Nelson was available.
They laughed as he made a no-doubt scandalous suggestion, and waved over a footman, silver tray laden with champagne. Standing, Nelson guided her to her feet, taking two goblets in one hand and the widow in the other, escorting her to the lushly carpeted stairs and up to the room that awaited them. Their path took the lovers directly past Dahlia and Zeva, but Nelson had no attention to spare for the owner of the club—he remained riveted to his lady as they slipped by.
“If I didn’t know better,” Dahlia said quietly, as the private entrance to staff quarters opened behind her, “I’d say we were soon to lose Nelson to finer fettle.”
“I’m not sure you do know better,” Veronique interjected from her place behind them.
Dahlia shot her a look. “Really.”
“He has made himself available to her every evening this week . . .” Zeva replied, softly. The club’s employees were given their choice of clients—and while regular assignations were not uncommon, regular daily assignations were something to remark upon.
“Mmmm,” Veronique said. “He’s been more than willing to . . . raise the sail.”
“Mmm,” Dahlia said with a sage nod. “And so the dowager has secured her very own admiral.”
Zeva snorted a laugh. “You shan’t be making jokes when we lose one of our best men.”
“Quite the contrary. If Nelson would be happy with the widow, I shall wish him more than well.” Dahlia plucked a glass of champagne off a passing tray and toasted the air. “To love.”
“Dahlia, toasting love,” Veronique teased. “The mind boggles.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “I am surrounded by love—two brothers in their domestic idyll, and look at this.” She waved a hand across the room in front of them. “Have you forgotten that I deal in it?”
“You deal in fantasy,” Zeva corrected. “That’s a different thing altogether.”
“Well, it’s a powerful thing nevertheless,” Dahlia brushed off. “And surely somewhere fantasy begets reality.”
“You could do with a fantasy now and then,” Veronique said, casting a cynical eye over the couples before them. “You should take one of the men up on their constant offers.”
Dahlia had been running the club for the better part of six years, having decided that there was absolutely no reason why the ladies of London shouldn’t have the same access to pleasure as their gentlemen—without shame or fear of harm.
After hiring Zeva and Veronique, the trio had built 72 Shelton into a ladies’ club, specializing in meeting the expectations and desires of a discerning clientele. They’d hired the finest cooks, the best staff, and the handsomest men they could find, and they’d built a place that was known for discretion, respect, safety, and high wages.
And pleasure.
For everyone but Dahlia.
As proprietress of the club, Dahlia did not partake in the benefits of membership for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that the men employed by the club—no matter how well paid—were employed by her. She slid an irritated glance at her lieutenants. “You two, first.”
It would never happen. Even if they did not ascribe to the same rules as the club’s owner, Veronique was happily married to a ship’s captain who, though he was too often at sea, loved her beyond measure. And, while Zeva was never without companionship, she was easily bored, and kept her relationships far from 72 Shelton Street so as not to complicate their inevitable end.
“Dahlia doesn’t need fantasy,” Zeva added with a smirk in Veronique’s direction. “She barely needs reality—though Lord knows she could use it now and then.”
Dahlia cut the other woman a look. “Watch it.” Over the years, she had taken a lover or two—men who, like her, weren’t interested in anything other than easy, mutual pleasure. But one night was often plenty—and none of the arrangements had ever been difficult to leave—for Dahlia, or for her companions. Still, she couldn’t resist rising to Zeva’s bait. “I’ve had plenty of reality.”
Both women turned to her, brows raised. Veronique spoke first. “Oh?”
“Of course.” She took a sip of champagne and looked away.
“When was your last dose?” Zeva asked, all innocence. “Of reality?”
“I’m not sure it’s your business.”
“Oh, it’s not.” Veronique grinned. “But we do like the gossip.”
Dahlia rolled her eyes. “I don’t know. I’m busy. Running a business. Paying your salaries.”
“Mmm.” Zeva did not seem convinced.
“I am! Some might call it an empire, considering the number of girls we’ve got on the rooftops.” The club at 72 Shelton was the central location for a wide network of informants and spies that kept Dahlia in knowledge and in business.
“Two years,” Veronique said.
“What?”
“It’s been two years since your last dose of reality.”
“How would you know that?” Dahlia asked, ignoring the heat rising in her cheeks.
“Because you pay me to know.”
“I absolutely do not pay you to know about my—”
“Reality?” Zeva offered.
“Could we stop calling it that?” Dahlia said, dropping her glass on a passing footman’s tray.
It did not matter that Veronique was right, or that it had been two years since she’d sought out . . . companionship. It wasn’t as though there were any particular reason for it.
“Wasn’t it two years ago the Duke of Marwick returned to London and began wreaking his havoc?”
“Was it?” Dahlia asked, ignoring the jolt that came with his name. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t keep tabs on the Duke of Marwick.”
He was gone, anyway.
“Any longer,” Veronique said under her breath.
Dahlia narrowed her gaze. “What was that?”
“Just remarking on how long it’s been,” Veronique replied.
“Not long enough, I’d say,” Zeva added, with a waggle at her brow. “Else she’d have been better satisfied.”
Veronique snorted and Dahlia rolled her eyes. “And to think, this is supposed to be a place of discernment.”
On cue, a squeal sounded from nearby, punctuated by a loud “Yargh!” and Dahlia turned to discover that the pirate Tomas had hefted his lady over his shoulder. Her skirts were hiked in all directions, revealing gossamer silk stockings tied with elaborate pink silk ribbons.
As she watched, the masked countess let out another delighted screech and promptly began beating Tomas about his broad shoulders. “Let me down, you brute! I shall never give up the location of the treasure!”
The Frenchman slid a hand up the back of the lady’s thigh, high enough that Dahlia imagined he’d reached ample, secret curves when he growled, “I already know the location of your treasure, wench!”
As the rest of the room cheered and
clapped their amusement, the countess dissolved into giggles and Tomas started up the stairs, headed for room six, where a large bed awaited whatever sport was in their future.
“Oh, yes. Very proper,” Veronique retorted.
Dahlia smiled. “As I was saying earlier, if the ladies of London wish to play at being better off for having a queen, we shall aid them in their pursuits. And this month, the windfall we’ve received from the ladies will be shared with the staff—you two included, if you stop irritating me.”
“I shan’t turn it down, to be sure,” Zeva said, stopping at the edge of the salon, where a discreet exit led through a dark hallway to the front of the club, and a receiving room sat ready for additional guests. “However . . .”
“Come now, Zeva,” Dahlia said. “You’re the only person on earth who can find fault with the near doubling of our profits.”
“Your queen has increased profits, yes, but she’s also increased membership.” Zeva was all business, turning down the hallway and leaving Dahlia no choice but to follow. “There have been nine unexpected members tonight, all arrived without appointment.”
At the words, one of Veronique’s security appeared at the doorway nearest the entry to the club, indicating a situation that required the woman’s expertise. With a nod, she looked to Dahlia and Zeva. “Let’s see what kind of trouble they’re getting into.”
It wasn’t uncommon for a member to arrive without notice. The dual promises of the club were discretion and pleasure, and members often came and went as they pleased, eager to try the wide offerings of 72 Shelton. But nine unannounced women was a larger number than usual—and one that would strain the club’s resources.
“Remember, an increase in membership is an increase in power,” Dahlia said as she and Zeva moved quickly down the hallway. Every member of the club became a potential asset for Dahlia and her brothers—often at odds with Parliament, with Bow Street, with Mayfair, and with the London docks.
“And will there be an increase in rooms abovestairs?”
“There are other ways to be entertained than in a bed,” Dahlia said. Members had access to card rooms and dining rooms, to theaters and dancing. Whatever they liked, it was there for the taking.
A black brow rose in reply. “Are there, though?”
Granted . . . most members came for companionship. “Who is here?”
Zeva rattled off the list of women in attendance that evening: three wealthy wives and two younger women—spinsters—joining them for the first time. “Those all have appointments. But they’re not alone.”
The trio had arrived in the receiving room before Dahlia could ask who else was in attendance. And then she didn’t have to ask.
“Dahlia, darling!”
Dahlia turned toward the delighted greeting, smile already growing as she accepted the embrace of the tall, beautiful woman who approached. “Duchess.” Pulling out of the embrace, Dahlia added, “And without a mask, as usual.”
“Oh, please.” The Duchess of Trevescan waved a hand in the air. “The whole world knows me a scandal—I should think they’d be disappointed if I didn’t frequent Shelton Street.”
Dahlia’s smile became a grin. The duchess had not overstated her reputation—she was pure merry widow, but instead of a dead husband, she’d been gifted an absent one—a disappeared duke who had no taste for sparkling London life, and instead lived on a remote estate in the wilds of the Scilly Isles. “I am always surprised to see you on nights that are not for Dominion.”
“Nonsense. Dominion is for show, my dear,” she said, leaning in close. “Tonight is for secrets.”
“Unmasked secrets?”
“Not my secrets, darling. I’m an open book, as they say!” She grinned. “Everyone else’s secrets.”
Dahlia smiled. “Well. Whatever the reason, we’re grateful for you.”
“You’re grateful for the business I send your way,” the duchess said with a laugh.
“And that,” Dahlia allowed. The duchess had been a vital early customer—someone with access to the brightest stars in Mayfair, and wild support for women who wished to explore themselves, their pleasure, and the world that was offered without hesitation to men. She and Dahlia held each other in the mutual respect that came from two women who understood each other’s immense power, a respect that could have been the seed of friendship but had never been cultivated—for no other reason than that they both held too many secrets for honest friendship.
Secrets that neither woman had ever tried to divine, a fact for which Dahlia was regularly grateful, as she knew without question that, with the right motivation, the Duchess of Trevescan would be one of the few people in the world who could uncover her past.
A past she had no interest in revisiting ever again.
The memory came from nowhere, like a runaway carriage, with eyes the color of twenty-year whisky and a fall of dark blond hair and a stern, square jaw that had taken her blows like it had deserved them.
He had deserved them.
She stilled, for a moment losing her easy smile. For a moment losing her place.
The duchess’s dark brows knit together. “Dahlia?”
Dahlia shook her head, simultaneously clearing it and waving her off, taking a beat to turn to the quartet of women—masked and draped over a silk-upholstered chaise behind the duchess. She found a bright smile of greeting. “And you’ve brought that business tonight! Welcome, ladies!”
No one in 72 Shelton Street would ever breathe the name or title of a member, but Dahlia immediately catalogued the quartet who often came to Shelton Street unannounced in the wake of the duchess: Lady S__, a notorious scandal who enjoyed Covent Garden more than Mayfair; Miss L__, a bluestocking who routinely said the wrong thing and landed herself in peril with the ton; Lady A__, a quiet, aging spinster whose keen eye was worth that of a half dozen of Dahlia’s rooftop spies; and finally, Lady N__, daughter of a very rich, very absent, very accommodating duke, and lady love to Dahlia’s brothers’ second-in-command.
Dahlia met Lady N__’s smiling eyes. “I see you are without your lady.”
She waved a hand in dismissal. “Your brothers have a ship in port, and a late night ahead of them. You know as well as I that, without her, they’d all drown in the ship’s hold. But that’s no reason for me to stay home and rend my clothes, is it?”
The Bareknuckle Bastards smuggled goods wildly taxed by the Crown into London on ships laden with ice; the cargo, moved quickly and always under cover of darkness, provided income that was both perfectly legal and exceedingly illegal. Such was the business of Covent Garden.
“Well, we are more than happy to have you with us tonight, my lady.” Dahlia laughed, before turning back to the duchess. “I assume you are not here for companionship?”
The duchess inclined her head. “In fact, no. We are simply here to read the news.”
To collect whatever gossip they could. “You’ll be happy to know we’ve a wide assortment of material this evening, then.”
The women—whispered about in ballrooms as a hodgepodge of ineligibility—were more than welcome at 72 Shelton, where they rarely took advantage of the more sensual perks of membership, instead choosing to languish in receiving rooms and attend the fights downstairs when they were scheduled. After all, private rooms did not deliver gossip, and this group traded in information above all.
“We’ve three fights scheduled for tonight, and an ever-expanding membership, which is making Zeva a bit grumpy.”
Zeva looked up from a quiet conversation with a liveried footman in the corner. “You pay me to be grumpy.”
The duchess laughed before lowering her voice with Dahlia. “I confess, I expected that there’d be a higher level of security tonight—” She looked over her shoulder toward the door, guarded by a pair of the biggest Covent Garden brutes anyone could find. “Though I suppose those two do just fine.”
Them, and a half dozen markswomen on the rooftops surrounding the club, but no one needed to k
now that outside of a select few. Still, “Why would we require additional guards?”
The duchess lowered her voice for privacy and turned, her gaze traveling over the women scattered throughout the room, richly upholstered in scarlet and awash in a decadent golden glow. “I’m hearing there are raids.”
Dahlia’s brows rose. “What kind of raids?”
The duchess shook her head. “I don’t know. The Other Side was closed two nights ago.”
The Other Side was the secret women’s half of one of London’s best loved gaming hells—much of the membership coming via women of the ton. Dahlia raised a brow. “It’s owned by three of the most beloved aristocrats in London, who happen to be partnered with the most powerful man the city has ever known. You think the Crown would come for them?”
The duchess raised and lowered a shoulder enigmatically. “I think the Fallen Angel wouldn’t close half its business for no reason. They’ve information on every man in membership . . . and those secrets alone are enough to summon a raid.” She paused, then added, “But you . . . you’ve got plenty of those secrets, too, don’t you? Collected from the wives.”
A statuesque brunette entered on the far side of the room, elaborately masked, and Dahlia inclined her head to greet the passing baroness before replying quietly, “I find that women often know more than men think.”
The duchess tilted her head. “More than men know, as well, no?”
Dahlia smiled. “That, too.”
The words were punctuated by a wild laugh from across the room, where a collection of masked women conversed as they waited to be escorted deeper into the club. “I swear it’s true!” one said with urgency. “There I was, expecting the usual suspects, and there he was! In Hyde Park, on a magnificent grey.”
“Oh, no one cares about the horse,” her friend retorted. “What did he look like? I hear he’s utterly changed.”
“He is!” the first replied, her red curls bobbing. “And entirely for the better. Remember how he was so dour, last season?”
Daring and the Duke EPB Page 7
