Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(6)

“Well, now I’m certain this is the place,” Nora said dryly.

Hattie looked to her friend. “But why would they—”

“Why would you?”

“But they could have—” Anyone they liked.

Nora slid her a look, a dark brow arching. “You could, too.”

It wasn’t true, of course. Men did not clamor after Hattie. Oh, they liked her fine. After all, she liked ships and horses and had a head for business, and she was clever enough to amuse during a dinner or a ball. But when a woman looked as she did and talked as she did, men were far more likely to clap her on the shoulder than they were to clutch her to them in passionate embrace. Good old Hattie, even when she’d been in her first season out and not old at all.

She didn’t say all that, though, and Nora filled the silence. “Perhaps they, too, are looking for something . . . untethered.” They watched the women rap on the door of 72 Shelton Street, a small window opening and closing before the door itself followed suit, and they had disappeared within, leaving the street silent once more. “Perhaps they, too, are looking to captain their own fates.”

A nightingale cooed above them, answered almost immediately by another, at a distance.

The Year of Hattie.

She nodded. “All right, then.”

Her friend grinned. “All right, then.”

“You are certain you don’t wish to come in?”

“And do what?” Nora asked with a laugh. “There is nothing within for me. I thought I’d take a drive—see if I can beat my time round Hyde Park.”

“Two hours?”

“I shall be here.” Nora tipped her coachman’s cap and flashed Hattie a grin. “Enjoy yourself, milady.”

That had been Hattie’s plan all along, hadn’t it? To enjoy herself on this, the first night of the rest of her life, when she closed the door on the past and took her future well in hand. With a nod to her friend, she approached the building, her eyes fixed on its great steel door and the tiny slot within that opened the moment she knocked, revealing a pair of darkly kohled, assessing eyes. “Password?”

“Regina.”

The window closed. The door opened. And Hattie stepped inside.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark interior of the building, a jarring enough change from the brightly lit exterior that she instinctively reached for her mask. “If you remove it, you cannot stay,” came a warning from the woman who’d opened the door, tall and lithe and beautiful, with dark hair and darker eyes and the palest skin Hattie had ever seen.

She lowered her hand from the protection. “I am—”

The woman smiled. “We know who you are, my lady. There is no need for names. Your anonymity is a priority.”

It occurred to Hattie that it might be the first time anyone had ever told her that she was a priority in any way. And she rather liked it. “Oh,” she replied, for lack of anything else to say. “How kind.”

The lady turned away, pushing through a thick curtain and into the main receiving room, the three women Hattie had seen outside pausing their chatter to study her. Hattie began to move to a nearby empty settee, but her escort stayed her, pushing through another door. “This way, my lady.”

She followed. “But they arrived before me.”

Another small smile on the beauty’s full lips. “They do not have an appointment.”

The idea that one might turn up at a place like this unannounced ran wild through Hattie. After all, such a thing would mean that one frequented the location—what would it be like to be the kind of woman who not only had access to such a place, but regularly took advantage of it? It would mean she had enjoyed it.

Excitement thrummed through her as they entered the next room, this one large and oval, richly decorated in deep red silks and gold brocade, lush blue velvets and silver platters laden with chocolates and petits fours.

Hattie’s stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten earlier in the day, as she’d been too nervous.

Her beautiful escort turned to face her. “Would you care for refreshments?”

“No. I’d like to get this done.” Her eyes went wide. “That is—I mean to say—”

The woman smiled. “I understand. Follow me.”

She did, through the labyrinthine corridors of the building, which from the outside seemed deceptively small for the expansive space within. They climbed a wide staircase, and Hattie could not resist running her fingers along the wall coverings of deep sapphire silk embossed with silver-threaded vines. The whole place dripped with luxury, and she should not have been surprised by it—she’d paid a fortune for the privilege of an appointment, after all.

At the time, she’d thought she was paying for secrecy, not extravagance. It seemed she was paying for both.

She looked to her chaperone as they reached the top of the staircase and turned down a well-lit corridor, lined with closed doors. “Are you Dahlia?”

72 Shelton Street was owned by a mysterious woman, known to the ladies of the aristocracy only as Dahlia. It was Dahlia with whom Hattie had corresponded in the lead-up to the evening. Dahlia who had asked her a handful of questions about desires and preferences—questions that Hattie had barely been able to answer for her flaming cheeks. After all, women like Hattie were rarely given the opportunity to explore desire or to have preference.