Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(84)

“I know it is for women,” he said.

“It is, on all nights but Dominion, and tonight, no man is here without a chaperone.”

He raised his brows. “And how do you keep the men at bay once they’ve experienced it?”

“An excellent question. Men are curious beasts, are they not? They at once wish to keep us out of their spaces and also loathe the idea of us making space for ourselves.”

“You know that better than anyone.”

His meaning was clear. She had been blocked from title, and threatened for her very existence even once she’d made it clear that she had no interest in that title. She swallowed, her thoughts clearly with his, and returned her attention to the room. “Guests are only allowed to attend with my express permission.”

“And you have them researched.”

She nodded. “Thoroughly. And once they are approved, they are ferried, blindfolded, from locations around the city by my own staff, and brought in through underground tunnels.”

He looked to her instantly. “I wasn’t.”

“No,” she said, softly. “You weren’t.”

Veronique had wanted him brought in with the rest of the men, insisting that of everyone who would be in attendance that night, Ewan was the one who was most dangerous—after all, hadn’t he always been?

“Why not?”

Grace had refused, laying her trust on the line. Her hope.

And she did not believe it was a mistake.

Please, she thought, don’t let it be a mistake.

“Because you are my guest.”

Something flared in his eyes, something like satisfaction. “And the show out front? Why, if everyone is entering in secret?”

She smiled. “Is it even a circus if there are no children to see?” He laughed at that, and she added, “Are they enjoying it?”

“Things are on fire; they are positively gleeful.”

“The more satisfied customers, the better,” she said, turning back to the room. The evening’s attendees were some of the most powerful and likeable people in London, Grace was proud to admit. The Duke and Duchess of L__ and the Marquess and Marchioness of R__ were both in attendance, husbands happily doting on wives. Lady N__ was back, this time with her partner; apparently there were no ships to be unloaded into the Bastards’ warehouse that evening.

But, as usual, the audience was largely female members of the club and their companions.

Grace watched the aerialist pull herself up to stand on the moving bar, then carefully balance on one foot and tumble over herself before returning to a seated position, petticoats high and wild and frothy, like those of the lady in the delightful Fragonard painting.

“Dahlia, you’ve outdone yourself!” Grace turned, smile on her face even as irritation coursed through her. Tonight was not hers—it was the club’s. Several feet away, the Duchess of Trevescan approached, champagne in one hand, and Henry, a very large, very accomplished companion, in the other.

“As ever, unmasked, I see, Duchess?”

The other woman waved a hand. “I don’t like how they smear my kohl.”

Grace tilted her head. “Well, if you are unconcerned, then so are we.”

The duchess looked past her, taking in a masked Ewan, long and lean, with his impossibly full lips and impossibly square jaw. The woman’s lips opened just slightly, her eyes going wide in surprise, and then something like . . . understanding. “I see you’ve a companion tonight, too, Dahlia.”

Grace ignored the wave of heat on her cheeks. “Even I am allowed a guest at times.”

“A guest,” said the Duchess, her eyes not leaving Ewan, who was looking down at her, the combination of the shadow of his mask and the dim lights of the room making it difficult to read his expression. “Well, how delightful to see you both.” She paused. “Together.”

She toasted them, sipped from her glass, turned a knowing look on Henry. “Shall we, darling?” When her companion grinned, she took hold of his arm and led him through the crush, toward the stairs to the rooms above.

Grace returned her attention to Ewan, who watched their disappearance, thoughtfully, before looking back to the trapeze at the center of the room. They watched the performer for a few minutes before Grace said to Ewan, “It took a week to install the trapeze for her, but I think it was worth it, don’t you?”

He grunted his agreement, and she looked at him, noticing for the first time that he was not watching the aerialist. He was watching the audience, most of whom were club members, many of whom were enjoying the more salacious offerings of the club, as often was the case at Dominion.

Around the perimeter of the room were a variety of couples—and one triad—in various states of pleasure—nothing outrageous—there were rooms abovestairs that afforded privacy, and several rooms on this very floor that would provide the absence of privacy, should participants’ pleasures lean in that direction. But couples dotted the furniture, curled in on each other, women sitting on men’s laps, skirts hiked to the knee for easy caressing. Directly across from them, Tomas whispered into the ear of a giggling Countess C__, draped artfully over his lap. Grace had enough experience to know that the two would be leaving momentarily for a room.

Across the room, Zeva stood in the doorway, ensuring that all was well and welcoming, and all in all, there was nothing out of the ordinary for 72 Shelton Street.