Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(24)

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?”

Dahlia made to turn away from the conversation, but the duchess set an emerald-gloved hand on her arm, staying her movement. Dahlia slid her a look. “You can’t be interested in whichever eligible bachelor they’re on about—”

The duchess smiled, but did not move her hand. “I like a good transformation story as much as the next.”

A new participant joined the conversation. “He was at the Beaufetheringstone ball last week—he danced every dance! One with me, and it was like dancing on a cloud. So skilled. And he’s so handsome now. And that smile! He’s not dour any longer.”

A sigh followed. “So lucky for you!”

Dahlia rolled her eyes. “Whoever the poor man is, he’s clearly in the market for a wife if he went from dour to dancing in a year.”

“Mmm,” said the duchess.

“My brother says he’s been at the club for a week, introducing himself to . . . fathers!” came a breathless reply.

The duchess looked to Dahlia. “In the market indeed.”

Dahlia offered the other woman a smug smile. “A tale as old as time. And not in the least bit interesting, except to say that I’ll fetch the betting book if you’d like to make a wager.”

“I hear he’s hosting a masquerade Wednesday, next.” The young woman’s slender hand touched the edge of her stunning golden mask as she tittered, “And here we are, already masked!”

“Well,” came the reply. “That does it—everyone knows a mask is for dalliances. I wager he’s already chosen her. There will be a new duchess before Christmas.”

Duchess.

The word sliced through the air.

It wasn’t he.

“Now that’s interesting,” the duchess in attendance said quietly. “It’s not as though there are eligible dukes just lying about.”

“No,” Dahlia said, distracted. “You had to hie off to a secluded isle for yours.”

“And he never comes when he’s called,” the duchess replied with a tsk. “But this one . . .”

Curiosity got the better of Dahlia. “Who is it?” One shoulder lifted, then fell in wordless ignorance, and Dahlia raised her voice to the women who had been speaking. “The duke you discuss,” she prodded, telling herself it was idle curiosity. Telling herself it was simply because information was currency. “Does this paragon of manhood have a name?”

It wasn’t he. It couldn’t be.

The young woman in the simple black domino answered first, eagerness in her tone, as though she’d been waiting for the moment she could speak to Dahlia. Her lips curved into the kind of smile that came with a magnificent secret, slow and easy, as though she had all the time in the world to share it.

“Who is it?” Dahlia repeated, sharp and urgent, unable to stop herself.

What in hell was wrong with her?

The young woman’s eyes went wide behind her mask. “Marwick,” she said simply. As though she wasn’t sucking all the air from the room.

Blood rushed into Grace’s ears, a roar of heat and frustration and anger clouding all her better judgment. And that name, rioting through her. Marwick.

Impossible. They had to be wrong.

Hadn’t she sent him away? Hadn’t he left, into the darkness?

She turned to the duchess. “I don’t believe it.” He couldn’t be back. He’d left a year ago and disappeared—there was no reason for him to be back.

Of course, it wasn’t true. There was a singular reason for him to be back.

The other woman plucked a glass of champagne off a passing tray with languid, casual movement, unaware of the thunder of Grace’s heart. Of the way her mind stormed. “And why not? Every duke needs a duchess.”