Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(20)

Refusing to acknowledge the other aches—the ones that were proof of something else.

Her brothers stood sentry beyond the ring, two men who would protect her without hesitation. Two men who had protected her for years.

They told me you were dead.

The desperation in his words echoed through her.

“Grace!” he shouted from the center of the ring, and she turned back to look at him, bathed in golden light, impossibly handsome even now, even wrecked.

Veronique materialized from the shadows behind him, flanked by two other women with muscles that rivaled those of any Covent Garden strong arm. They approached and took hold of him, and the touch made him wild, fighting to be free even as he refused to look away from Grace.

He had no chance. The women were stronger than they looked, and he was not the first man to be exited from 72 Shelton Street.

Nor would he be the last.

Ewan cursed and shouted her name a second time.

She ignored the sound of it on his lips. Ignored the memory of it there. “You should have chosen us.”

She meant the three of them—Beast and Devil and her—didn’t she?

He stilled at that, his gaze somehow finding hers in the darkness. “I chose us,” he said. “You were to be duchess.”

We’ll marry, he’d promised her a lifetime ago, when they were too young to know that such things weren’t in the cards. We’ll marry, and you’ll be duchess. Pretty promises to a girl who no longer existed, from a boy who had never existed in the first place.

The memory of them should have made Grace sad, but she had wasted enough sadness on Ewan for a lifetime. And so she let the past make her cold.

She spun on him—all present. No longer Grace. Only Dahlia.

“Why would I settle for duchess?” she asked, the night cloaking her in fury and vengeance. “I was born the duke.”

She saw the words strike.

“Don’t return,” she said. “You will not find such a warm welcome next time.”

And with that, she turned her back on the past, and walked away.





Chapter Seven



72 Shelton Street

One Year Later



“You’re going to want to see this.”

Dahlia paused as she passed through the kitchens of 72 Shelton Street to inspect a platter of petits fours headed to one of the club’s upstairs rooms. “In my experience, very few good things come introduced with ‘You’re going to want to see this.’” With a nod of approval for the perfectly turned out cakes, she turned her attention to Zeva.

“This one does, believe it or not,” the factotum said, passing Dahlia a ledger sheet. “Congratulations.”

She looked to the bottom row of figures, curiosity, then surprise filling her as she scanned the entire document, calculating a long column of numbers to be certain she was reading correctly. One of Zeva’s dark brows rose in amusement. “The club’s most profitable month ever.”

“God save the Queen,” Dahlia said quietly, passing through the door to the oval salon, the magnificently appointed centerpiece of the club, checking the numbers once more.

Queen Victoria had been coronated only months earlier, and the crowning of a female monarch had done more than keep London in season for longer than usual—through the summer and into the autumn. It had given the city’s finest ladies the belief that they could have anything they desired, which made Dahlia fortuitously lucky, in that she was in the business of providing women just that.

“Yes, well, I shan’t go that far,” Zeva said. “I’ve no doubt she’ll be as invested in growing the Empire as her uncles, and without thought.”

“Without question,” Dahlia said. “Power at any price is the only certainty for a leader.”

Zeva gave a little huff of agreement as they crossed the large oval room, her rich eggplant skirts shimmering in the light as they brushed against Dahlia’s dark blue trousers, shot through with silver thread.

The oval salon of 72 Shelton was one of the lushest in London, appointed in rich blues and greens and boasting champagne and chocolates at every turn—and that was before the clients received what they actually came for.

Dahlia cast a discerning look around the salon, designed to serve several purposes. Members were brought there while rooms abovestairs were prepared, filled with requested food, drink, and various desired accoutrements. While waiting, the ladies had their pick of refreshments—the 72 Shelton Street kitchens were known for a wide variety of delicacies—and Dahlia made certain that the cupboards were stocked with regular clients’ preferences.

Every comfort was recorded and replicated, and with the utmost discretion. One lady preferred the green chaise by the window; one had an aversion to nuts; one sat in the darkest corner—terrified that she might be recognized, and still unable to resist the pull of the club.

Not that recognition was easy. Even on the quietest of days, club members were required to wear masks to en sure anonymity. Newer members often selected less complicated masks, some as simple as a black domino, but many were magnificently elaborate, designed to showcase a woman’s power and wealth without revealing her identity. There were currently six masked women in the salon, each enjoying the third purpose of the room.

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.