He had no chance. The women were stronger than they looked, and he was not the first man to be exited from 72 Shelton Street.
Nor would he be the last.
Ewan cursed and shouted her name a second time.
She ignored the sound of it on his lips. Ignored the memory of it there. “You should have chosen us.”
She meant the three of them—Beast and Devil and her—didn’t she?
He stilled at that, his gaze somehow finding hers in the darkness. “I chose us,” he said. “You were to be duchess.”
We’ll marry, he’d promised her a lifetime ago, when they were too young to know that such things weren’t in the cards. We’ll marry, and you’ll be duchess. Pretty promises to a girl who no longer existed, from a boy who had never existed in the first place.
The memory of them should have made Grace sad, but she had wasted enough sadness on Ewan for a lifetime. And so she let the past make her cold.
She spun on him—all present. No longer Grace. Only Dahlia.
“Why would I settle for duchess?” she asked, the night cloaking her in fury and vengeance. “I was born the duke.”
She saw the words strike.
“Don’t return,” she said. “You will not find such a warm welcome next time.”
And with that, she turned her back on the past, and walked away.
Chapter Seven
72 Shelton Street
One Year Later
“You’re going to want to see this.”
Dahlia paused as she passed through the kitchens of 72 Shelton Street to inspect a platter of petits fours headed to one of the club’s upstairs rooms. “In my experience, very few good things come introduced with ‘You’re going to want to see this.’” With a nod of approval for the perfectly turned out cakes, she turned her attention to Zeva.
“This one does, believe it or not,” the factotum said, passing Dahlia a ledger sheet. “Congratulations.”
She looked to the bottom row of figures, curiosity, then surprise filling her as she scanned the entire document, calculating a long column of numbers to be certain she was reading correctly. One of Zeva’s dark brows rose in amusement. “The club’s most profitable month ever.”
“God save the Queen,” Dahlia said quietly, passing through the door to the oval salon, the magnificently appointed centerpiece of the club, checking the numbers once more.
Queen Victoria had been coronated only months earlier, and the crowning of a female monarch had done more than keep London in season for longer than usual—through the summer and into the autumn. It had given the city’s finest ladies the belief that they could have anything they desired, which made Dahlia fortuitously lucky, in that she was in the business of providing women just that.
“Yes, well, I shan’t go that far,” Zeva said. “I’ve no doubt she’ll be as invested in growing the Empire as her uncles, and without thought.”
“Without question,” Dahlia said. “Power at any price is the only certainty for a leader.”
Zeva gave a little huff of agreement as they crossed the large oval room, her rich eggplant skirts shimmering in the light as they brushed against Dahlia’s dark blue trousers, shot through with silver thread.
The oval salon of 72 Shelton was one of the lushest in London, appointed in rich blues and greens and boasting champagne and chocolates at every turn—and that was before the clients received what they actually came for.
Dahlia cast a discerning look around the salon, designed to serve several purposes. Members were brought there while rooms abovestairs were prepared, filled with requested food, drink, and various desired accoutrements. While waiting, the ladies had their pick of refreshments—the 72 Shelton Street kitchens were known for a wide variety of delicacies—and Dahlia made certain that the cupboards were stocked with regular clients’ preferences.
Every comfort was recorded and replicated, and with the utmost discretion. One lady preferred the green chaise by the window; one had an aversion to nuts; one sat in the darkest corner—terrified that she might be recognized, and still unable to resist the pull of the club.
Not that recognition was easy. Even on the quietest of days, club members were required to wear masks to ensure anonymity. Newer members often selected less complicated masks, some as simple as a black domino, but many were magnificently elaborate, designed to showcase a woman’s power and wealth without revealing her identity. There were currently six masked women in the salon, each enjoying the third purpose of the room.
Companionship.
With each woman was a doting male companion, dressed to accommodate the lady’s fantasy: Matthew, in his handsome soldier’s uniform, entertained an aging spinster in a beaded mauve mask; Lionel, in his dark formalwear that would give Brummell a run for his money, whispered into the ear of an ancient earl’s young wife; and Tomas, with his billowing shirt and tight breeches, long hair pulled back in a queue, eye patch a dark slash over his brow, entertained a lady with a remarkably active imagination . . . who knew precisely what she wanted: Tomas.
A laugh sounded, loud and authentic and decidedly more free than its Mayfair twin—Dahlia did not have to look to know it came from a widowed marchioness, laughing with the married baroness she’d loved since they were children. Later, they would take to an upstairs room and their mutual pleasure.
On the far end of the oval, where the windows looked out on the Garden, Nelson—one of the most skilled of the club’s workers, and paid well for that skill—leaned low into the ear of a particularly wealthy widow. The dowager countess in question was well into her fifties and only ever came to 72 Shelton when Nelson was available.
They laughed as he made a no-doubt scandalous suggestion, and waved over a footman, silver tray laden with champagne. Standing, Nelson guided her to her feet, taking two goblets in one hand and the widow in the other, escorting her to the lushly carpeted stairs and up to the room that awaited them. Their path took the lovers directly past Dahlia and Zeva, but Nelson had no attention to spare for the owner of the club—he remained riveted to his lady as they slipped by.
“If I didn’t know better,” Dahlia said quietly, as the private entrance to staff quarters opened behind her, “I’d say we were soon to lose Nelson to finer fettle.”
“I’m not sure you do know better,” Veronique interjected from her place behind them.
Dahlia shot her a look. “Really.”
“He has made himself available to her every evening this week . . .” Zeva replied, softly. The club’s employees were given their choice of clients—and while regular assignations were not uncommon, regular daily assignations were something to remark upon.
“Mmmm,” Veronique said. “He’s been more than willing to . . . raise the sail.”
“Mmm,” Dahlia said with a sage nod. “And so the dowager has secured her very own admiral.”
Zeva snorted a laugh. “You shan’t be making jokes when we lose one of our best men.”
“Quite the contrary. If Nelson would be happy with the widow, I shall wish him more than well.” Dahlia plucked a glass of champagne off a passing tray and toasted the air. “To love.”