Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(22)

“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.”