The standing event—known only as Dominion—was part masked ball, part wild revelry, part casino, and entirely confidential. Designed to provide club membership and trusted companions with an evening catering entirely to their pleasure . . . whatever that pleasure might be.
Dominion had a single, driving purpose: Ladies’ choice.
There was nothing Dahlia liked more than providing women access to their pleasure. The fairer sex was not treated fairly in the slightest, and her club was built to change that.
Since arriving in London twenty years earlier, she had made money in scores of ways. She’d sculleried in dingy pubs and dank theaters. She’d minced meat in pie shops and bent metal into spoons, and never for more than a penny or two for the work. She’d quickly discovered that daytime work didn’t pay.
Which was fine with her, as she had never been suited to daytime work. After chamber pots and meat pies turned her stomach and metalwork left her palms sliced to ribbons, she’d found a job as a flower girl, racing to empty a basket of fast-wilting posies before dark. She’d lasted two days before a hawker in the Covent Garden market had seen her keen eye for a customer and offered her work selling fruit.
That had lasted less than a week, until he’d backhanded her for accidentally dropping a bright red apple in the sawdust. When she’d come to her feet, she’d put him into the sawdust himself, before sprinting from the market, three apples in her skirts—worth more than her pay for a week.
But the event had been surprising enough to attract the attention of one of the Garden’s biggest fight men. Digger Knight had been on a constant hunt for tall girls with pretty faces and powerful fists. Brutes are one thing, he used to say, but the belles win the crowd. Dahlia turned out to be both.
She’d been taught well.
Fighting wasn’t daytime work. It was nighttime work, and it paid like it.
It paid well. And it felt better—especially for a girl from nowhere who was full of betrayal and anger. She didn’t mind the sting of the blows and she quickly found her sea legs from the dizziness that came the morning after a bout . . . and once she learned how to see a blow coming, and how to avoid the ones that would do real damage? She never looked back.
Turning her back on flowers and fruit, Dahlia sold her fists instead, in fair fights and dirty ones. And when she’d seen the kind of money that the latter could earn her, she sold her hair to a wigmaker in Mayfair who shopped the Garden wholesale. Long hair was weakness . . . and bad for business for a bareknuckle girl.
The short-haired, long-legged nearly fifteen-year-old had become a legend in Covent Garden’s darkest corners. A girl with a lean, sinewy form and, somehow, a punch like oak, whom no man wished to meet on a darkened street, especially when flanked by the two boys who came with her, who fought with a young, feral rage that brought ruin to anyone who faced it.
Together, they made money hands over those fists, building an empire, Dahlia and those boys who quickly became men—her brothers in heart and soul if not in blood—the Bareknuckle Bastards. And the trio sold their fists until they no longer had to . . . until, eventually, they were unbeatable. Unbreakable.
Royal.
And only then did Queen Dahlia build her castle and claim her place, no longer in the business of flowers or apples or hair or fights.
And to her subjects, she offered a single magnificent thing: choice. Not the kind she’d been afforded—lesser of multiple evils—but the kind that let women have access to their dreams. Fantasies and pleasure, made good.
What women wanted, Dahlia provided.
And Dominion was her celebration.
“You dressed for the occasion, I see,” Zeva said.
“Did I?” Dahlia replied with a raised brow. The scarlet corset she wore above perfectly fitted black trousers skimmed her lush curves beneath a long, elaborately embroidered topcoat in black and gold, lined with a rich golden silk.
She rarely wore skirts, finding the freedom of trousers more useful while working—not to mention, a valuable reminder of her role as proprietress of one of London’s best kept secrets and queen of Covent Garden.
Her lieutenant slid her a look. “Coy does not become you. I know where you’ve been for the last four days. And you haven’t been wearing velvet and silk.”
A raucous cheer came from the roulette wheel nearby, saving Dahlia from a reply. She turned to watch the crowd, taking in the wide, delighted smile of a masked woman, anonymous to all but the owner of the club, as she pulled Tomas, her companion for the evening, in for a celebratory kiss. Tomas was nothing if not a willing participant, and the embrace ended to whistles and huzzahs.
No one would believe that to all of Mayfair, she was a shelf-bound wallflower who lost her voice with men. Masks were infinite power when they were chosen.
“The lady is running hot?” Dahlia asked.
“Third win in a row.” Of course Zeva was keeping track. “And Tomas isn’t exactly a cooling influence.”
Dahlia offered a half smile. “Nothing escapes your notice.”
“You pay me very well for that to be the case. I notice everything,” the other woman said. “Including your whereabouts.”
Dahlia looked to her factotum and friend and said, quietly, “Not tonight.”
Zeva had more to say, but kept quiet. Instead, she waved a hand in the direction of the far end of the room, where a collection of masked women stood huddled in private discussion. “The vote will fail tomorrow.”
The women were aristocratic wives, most legions smarter than their husbands, and all as (or far more) qualified to hold seat in the House of Lords. Lacking the proper robes did not keep the ladies from legislating, however, and when they did, they did it here, in private quarters, beneath the notice of Mayfair.
Dahlia turned a satisfied look on Zeva. The vote would have made prostitution and other forms of sex work illegal in Britain. Dahlia had spent the last three weeks convincing the wives in question that this was a vote in which they—and their husbands—should take interest, and ensure did not pass. “Good. It’s bad for women and poor women the most.”
It was bad for Covent Garden, and she wouldn’t have it.
“So is the rest of the world,” Zeva said, dry as sand. “Have you got a bill to pass for that?”
“Give it time,” Dahlia replied as they passed through the room to a long hallway, where several couples were taking advantage of the darkness. “Nothing moves as slowly as Parliament.”
Zeva gave a little huff of laughter behind her. “You and I both know there’s nothing you love more than manipulating Parliament. They should give you a seat.”
The corridor opened up on a large, inviting space filled with revelers, a small band of musicians at one end, playing a rousing tune for the collected audience, many of whom danced with abandon—no mincing steps, no careful space between couples, no discerning eyes watching for scandal—or, rather, if they were watching, it was for enjoyment and not censure.
The duo wove through the crowd along the edges of the room, past a sinewy man who winked at them as the woman in his arms stroked over his muscled chest, which looked as though it might burst the seams of his topcoat. Oscar, another employee—his work, the lady’s pleasure.
A scant handful of the men in attendance were not employees, each having been properly vetted beforehand, checked and rechecked via Dahlia’s far-reaching network—made up of businesswomen, aristocrats, politicians’ wives, and a dozen women who knew and wielded the most complex of power: information.
The orchestra rested as a songstress moved to the center of the raised stage where they sat, a young black woman whose voice rose like heaven, big enough to echo around the room, bringing the dancers to an out-of-breath standstill as she trilled and scaled in a bright aria that would bring down any house on Drury Lane.
A collection of awed gasps sounded around the room.
“Dahlia.”
Dahlia turned to face a woman in brilliant green, elaborate mask to matc
h. Nastasia Kritikos was a legendary Greek opera singer, one who had herself brought down houses across Europe. With a warm embrace, she nodded to the stage. “This girl. Where did you find her?”
“Eve?” A smile played across Dahlia’s lips. “In the market square, singing for supper.”
A dark brow rose in amusement. “Is that not what she does tonight?”
“Tonight, she sings for you, old friend.” It was the truth. The young woman sang for access to Dominion, where a handful of other talented singers had been catapulted to stardom.
Nastasia cast a discerning eye at the stage, where Eve sang an impossible run of notes.
“That was your specialty, wasn’t it?” Dahlia said.
The other woman cut her a look. “Is my specialty. I wouldn’t call hers perfect.”
Dahlia gave her a little, knowing smile. It was perfect, and they both knew it.
With an enormous sigh, the diva waved a hand in the air. “Tell her to come see me tomorrow. I’ll introduce her to some people.”
The girl would be treading the boards before she knew it. “You’re softhearted, Nastasia.”
Brown eyes glittered behind a green mask. “If you tell anyone, I’ll have this place burned to the ground.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” Dahlia grinned. “Peter has been asking for you.” It was the truth. Besides being a proper London celebrity, Nastasia was also a coveted prize among the men in the club.
The older woman preened. “Of course he has. I suppose I can spare a few hours.”
Dahlia laughed and nodded to Zeva. “We’ll find him for you, then.”
That sorted, she pushed forward, through the crowd that had collected to listen to the soon-to-be-famous songstress, to a small antechamber, where faro games routinely became heated. She could feel the excitement in the air, and she drank it in—and the power that came with it. London’s most powerful women, collected here for their own pleasure.
And all because of her.
“We’ll have to find a new singer,” Zeva grumbled as they weaved through the gamers.
“Eve doesn’t want to be the downstairs entertainment at our bacchanals forever.”
“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.
And he’d fallen in love with her.
This time, the angels who rescued him were not soft, and they did not sing. They came for him with strength and power, hoods low over their heads keeping their faces in shadow, coats billowing behind them like wings as they approached, boots clicking on the cobblestones. They came armed like heaven’s soldiers, blades at their sides turned flaming swords in the light of the ship that burned on the docks—destroyed at his command, along with the woman his brother loved.
This time, the a
ngels were soldiers, come to punish and not to save.
Still, it would be rescue.
He had pushed to his feet as they approached, prepared to face them head-on, to take the punishment they would deliver. He winced at the pain in his leg that he had not noticed earlier, where a shard from the mast of the destroyed hauler had seated itself in his thigh, coating his trouser leg in blood, making it impossible to fight.
When they’d been close enough to strike, he’d lost consciousness.
And that’s when the nightmares had come, not the stuff of beasts and brutality, not full of sharp teeth and sharper terror. Worse than all that.
Ewan’s dreams were full of her.
For days, he dreamed of her touch, cool at his brow. Of her arm lifting his head to drink bitter liquid from the cup held to his lips. Of her fingers, running over the aches in his muscles, easing the sharp pain in his leg. Of the scent of her, like sunshine and secrets, like the smile of that first angel, all those years ago.
He’d nearly woken a dozen times, a hundred. And that, too, made the dream a nightmare—the fear that the cool cloth at his brow was not really there. The terror that he might lose the gentle care for the wound in his thigh as the bandage changed, that the taste of the bitter broth she fed him might be fantasy. That the slow spread of salve over his wounds was nothing but fever.
And always, he dreamed the touch remained long after the salve was gone, soft and lingering, tracing over his chest, smoothing down his torso, exploring the ridges there.
Always, he dreamed her fingers on his face, smoothing over his brows and tracing the bones of his cheek and jaw.
Always, he dreamed her lips at his brow. On his cheek. At the corner of his mouth.
Always, he dreamed her hand in his, their fingers tangled, her palm warm against his.
And the dreaming it made it a nightmare—the aching knowledge that he’d imagined it. That it wasn’t she. That she wasn’t real. That he couldn’t return the touch. The kiss.
So he lay there, willing himself to dream, to live the nightmare again and again, in the hope that his mind would give him the last of her—her voice.
Daring and the Duke EPB Page 2