Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(21)

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.