Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(44)

She waved the duo—different as chalk and cheese and somehow the perfect team—into the chairs opposite her desk. “Who won’t last the year?”

“Victoria,” Zeva said, simply.

“I assume we discuss the queen and not a member?” Grace’s weekly meeting with her lieutenants almost always began with Zeva’s read on the latest scandal sheets. More often than not, some excitement relating to members was involved.

“Good God, yes. Can you imagine Queen Victoria, a member?” Zeva laughed, then said, “It would be good for business, I suppose.”

It would be terrible for business, Grace was certain.

“Anyway,” the other woman went on. “I read it in the news—and with Dominion coming up, it seems it should be added to the betting book. No one thinks a woman can last as monarch for any legitimate length of time.”

“You mean no man believes that,” Veronique snorted, crossing one buckskin-covered leg over the other and relaxing into her chair. “Women can easily remember that Elizabeth existed.”

“And rode men into battle,” Grace pointed out.

“Sadly, did not ride men in any other way, poor virgin queen,” Zeva said. “A bit like you, Dahlia.”

“That’s not what I hear,” Veronique said slyly.

Grace snapped her attention to her lieutenant. “What was that?”

Zeva’s eyes went wide and she flashed a smile broad enough to be seen from the rooftops beyond the window. “Oh, yes, let’s investigate! What was that?”

Veronique shrugged. “The girls talk.”

“The girls shouldn’t talk,” Grace said.

“You pay them to talk.”

“Not about me!”

Zeva’s attention bounced between them as though she watched shuttlecock. “What about her?”

“She went to Marwick’s ball,” Veronique said, waving a hand through the air, as though that would be enough information for Zeva. Forgetting that no amount of information was enough for Zeva.

Grace looked back at her ledger, the numbers swimming on the page as she willed the floor to open up and drag her to another, faraway land.

“Well, we knew she was doing that,” Zeva said.

“Yes, but apparently she didn’t spend all her time in the ballroom.”

“So?” A pause. A weighty, information-filled pause. “Oh. Ohhhhh.” Another pause, and a wolfish grin. “Where did she spend her time?”

“In the gardens,” Veronique whispered, loud enough for the entire building to hear.

“Dahlia! I must say,” Zeva said, putting a hand to her breast. “I’m really quite proud of you.”

Grace rolled her eyes.

“Well, we did suggest she get herself some fantasy,” Veronique said, smartly.

“Enough!”

“How interesting.” Another pause. “This is the same duke you beat black and blue a year ago? The one who wanted to make you his duchess?”

Not just duchess.

You are a queen. Tonight, I am your throne.

Her cheeks flushed at the memory of the words. Perhaps they wouldn’t notice.

“Oh, interesting . . .” Zeva said, noticing, of course. She paid Zeva to notice, as well.

“Tell me,” Grace said. “How is it you both are so very certain that I will not sack you?”

“For what, doing our job?”

Silence fell in the wake of the question. Veronique wasn’t amused. From the moment she joined Grace to build 72 Shelton Street, she’d managed the safety of the club’s members and staff with unwavering commitment. The only time she was not at the club was when her husband’s ship was in port—and even then, the captain joined her on the premises more often than not.

Grace should have expected she would have been followed. Over the years, she and Veronique had built a vast network of young spies throughout Covent Garden and beyond—housemaids and tavern girls and roof runners for messages. Criminals throughout London—throughout the world—used children as pickpockets and drunkblades because no one ever noticed children, but Grace found that girls were even more likely to be overlooked. Overlooked, and underpaid. And so she had made a point of giving girls good pay and even more power. They brought information to Veronique and Grace whenever there was news to be had—the more interesting the better.

Her donning a ball gown and heading into Mayfair was certainly interesting.

Still, Grace didn’t like it.

What else had they reported? Had they seen what had happened in the gazebo?

Zeva cleared her throat and said, “Yes, well, well done everyone. What were we discussing?”

You are a queen.

It was Grace’s turn to clear her throat. “Queens.”

She shouldn’t think of it. It had been a mistake. One night, lost to memory and nostalgia. To what might have been. He hadn’t even known it was she. Of course, now it seemed that all of Covent Garden knew that it was she.

Christ. This was what she got for buying fantasy instead of selling it.

Zeva was still talking. “Well, I for one sincerely believe that Elizabeth Regina would have been a proud member of 72 Shelton.”

“She’d have to get in line,” Grace said, welcoming the change of topic, laying a hand on a stack of new membership requests. “We grow more popular by the minute. I’ve three duchesses and, from what I can tell, the leader of a small country in here.”