Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(6)

“We could keep them longer than a month.”

“She’s too talented for us.”

“You’re the one with the soft heart,” came the retort.

“. . . the explosion.” Dahlia slowed at the snippet of conversation nearby, her gaze meeting that of a maid delivering a tray of champagne to the gossiping group. A barely-there nod indicated that the other woman was also listening. She was paid to, and well.

Still, Dahlia lingered. “Two of them, I heard,” came a reply, full of scandalized delight. Dahlia resisted the urge to scowl. “I heard they decimated the docks.”

“Yes, and imagine, only two dead.”

“A miracle.” The words were hushed, as though the woman actually believed it. “Were any injured?”

“The News said five.”

Six, she thought, gritting her teeth, her heart beginning to pound.

“You’re staring,” Zeva said softly, the words pulling Dahlia away from the conversation. What more was there to learn? She’d been there mere minutes after the explosion. She knew the count.

She slid her gaze past Zeva and over the crowd to a small door, barely there at the other end of the room—the seams of it hidden in the deep sapphire wall coverings, shot through with silver. Even the members who had seen staff use it forgot the unassuming opening before it had been snicked shut, thinking whatever behind it far less interesting than what was in front of it.

Zeva knew the truth, though. That door opened to a back staircase running up to private rooms and down into the tunnels beneath the club. It was one of a half dozen installed around 72 Shelton Street, but the only one that led to a private hallway on the fourth floor, concealed behind a false wall, which only three staff members knew existed.

Dahlia ignored the keen itch to disappear through it. “It’s important we understand what the city thinks about that explosion.”

“They think the Bareknuckle Bastards lost two lading men, a hold full of cargo, and a ship. And that your brother’s lady was nearly killed.” A pause. Then a pointed, “And they’re right.” Dahlia ignored the words. Zeva knew when the battle wasn’t to be won. “And what shall I say to them?”

Dahlia slid her a look. “Who?”

The other woman lifted her chin in the direction of the labyrinth of rooms through which they’d come. “Your brothers. What would you like me to tell them?”

Dahlia swore softly and cast a look over the shadowed crowd—packed several deep. By the entrance to the room, a notorious countess finished a filthy joke for a collection of admirers. “. . . the carrots go in the rear garden, darling!”

Peals of delighted laughter rang out and Dahlia turned back to Zeva. “Christ, they’re not here, are they?”

“No, but we can’t keep them out forever.”

“We can try.”

“They’ve a point—”

Dahlia cut the other woman off with a sharp look and a sharper retort. “You let me worry about them.”

Zeva lifted her chin toward the hidden door, and the stairs beyond. “And what of that?”

A hot wash came over Dahlia—something that might have been a blush if she were the kind of woman who blushed. She ignored it, and the pounding of her heart.

“You let me worry about that, too.”

A single black brow rose above Zeva’s dark eyes, indicating that she had legions more to say. Instead, she nodded once. “Then I shall hold the floor.”

She turned away and pushed back through the crowd, leaving Dahlia alone.

Alone to press the hidden panel in the door, to activate the latch, and to close it tight behind her, shutting out the cacophony of sound beyond.

Alone to climb the narrow stairs with quiet, steady rhythm—a rhythm at odds with the increasing pace of her heart as she passed the second floor. The third.

Alone to count the doors in the fourth-floor hallway.

One. Two. Three.

Alone to open the fourth door on the left, and close it behind her, cloaking herself in darkness thick enough to erase the wild party below, the world distilling to nothing but the room, its single window looking out over the Covent Garden rooftops, and its sparse furnishings: a small table, a rigid chair, a single bed.

Alone, in that room.

Alone, with the man unconscious in that bed.





Chapter Three


He’d been rescued by angels.

The explosion had sent him flying through the air, knocking him back into the shadows of the docks. He’d twisted in flight, but the landing had dislocated his shoulder, rendering his left arm useless. It was said that dislocation was one of the worst pains a body could experience, and the Duke of Marwick had suffered it twice. Twice, he’d staggered to his feet, mind reeling. Twice, he’d struggled to bear the pain. Twice, he’d sought out a place to hide from his enemy.

Twice, he’d been rescued by angels.

The first time, she’d been fresh-faced and kind, with a wild riot of red curls, a thousand freckles across her nose and cheeks, and the biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen. She’d found him in the cupboard where he hid, put a finger to her lips, and held his good hand as another—larger and stronger—had reset the joint. He’d passed out from the pain, and when he woke, she’d been there like sunlight, with a soft touch and a soft voice.