“Dahlia, toasting love,” Veronique teased. “The mind boggles.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “I am surrounded by love—two brothers in their domestic idyll, and look at this.” She waved a hand across the room in front of them. “Have you forgotten that I deal in it?”

“You deal in fantasy,” Zeva corrected. “That’s a different thing altogether.”

“Well, it’s a powerful thing nevertheless,” Dahlia brushed off. “And surely somewhere fantasy begets reality.”

“You could do with a fantasy now and then,” Veronique said, casting a cynical eye over the couples before them. “You should take one of the men up on their constant offers.”

Dahlia had been running the club for the better part of six years, having decided that there was absolutely no reason why the ladies of London shouldn’t have the same access to pleasure as their gentlemen—without shame or fear of harm.

After hiring Zeva and Veronique, the trio had built 72 Shelton into a ladies’ club, specializing in meeting the expectations and desires of a discerning clientele. They’d hired the finest cooks, the best staff, and the handsomest men they could find, and they’d built a place that was known for discretion, respect, safety, and high wages.

And pleasure.

For everyone but Dahlia.

As proprietress of the club, Dahlia did not partake in the benefits of membership for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that the men employed by the club—no matter how well paid—were employed by her. She slid an irritated glance at her lieutenants. “You two, first.”

It would never happen. Even if they did not ascribe to the same rules as the club’s owner, Veronique was happily married to a ship’s captain who, though he was too often at sea, loved her beyond measure. And, while Zeva was never without companionship, she was easily bored, and kept her relationships far from 72 Shelton Street so as not to complicate their inevitable end.

“Dahlia doesn’t need fantasy,” Zeva added with a smirk in Veronique’s direction. “She barely needs reality—though Lord knows she could use it now and then.”

Dahlia cut the other woman a look. “Watch it.” Over the years, she had taken a lover or two—men who, like her, weren’t interested in anything other than easy, mutual pleasure. But one night was often plenty—and none of the arrangements had ever been difficult to leave—for Dahlia, or for her companions. Still, she couldn’t resist rising to Zeva’s bait. “I’ve had plenty of reality.”

Both women turned to her, brows raised. Veronique spoke first. “Oh?”

“Of course.” She took a sip of champagne and looked away.

“When was your last dose?” Zeva asked, all innocence. “Of reality?”

“I’m not sure it’s your business.”

“Oh, it’s not.” Veronique grinned. “But we do like the gossip.”

Dahlia rolled her eyes. “I don’t know. I’m busy. Running a business. Paying your salaries.”

“Mmm.” Zeva did not seem convinced.

“I am! Some might call it an empire, considering the number of girls we’ve got on the rooftops.” The club at 72 Shelton was the central location for a wide network of informants and spies that kept Dahlia in knowledge and in business.

“Two years,” Veronique said.

“What?”

“It’s been two years since your last dose of reality.”

“How would you know that?” Dahlia asked, ignoring the heat rising in her cheeks.

“Because you pay me to know.”

“I absolutely do not pay you to know about my—”

“Reality?” Zeva offered.

“Could we stop calling it that?” Dahlia said, dropping her glass on a passing footman’s tray.

It did not matter that Veronique was right, or that it had been two years since she’d sought out . . . companionship. It wasn’t as though there were any particular reason for it.

“Wasn’t it two years ago the Duke of Marwick returned to London and began wreaking his havoc?”

“Was it?” Dahlia asked, ignoring the jolt that came with his name. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t keep tabs on the Duke of Marwick.”

He was gone, anyway.

“Any longer,” Veronique said under her breath.

Dahlia narrowed her gaze. “What was that?”

“Just remarking on how long it’s been,” Veronique replied.

“Not long enough, I’d say,” Zeva added, with a waggle at her brow. “Else she’d have been better satisfied.”

Veronique snorted and Dahlia rolled her eyes. “And to think, this is supposed to be a place of discernment.”

On cue, a squeal sounded from nearby, punctuated by a loud “Yargh!” and Dahlia turned to discover that the pirate Tomas had hefted his lady over his shoulder. Her skirts were hiked in all directions, revealing gossamer silk stockings tied with elaborate pink silk ribbons.

As she watched, the masked countess let out another delighted screech and promptly began beating Tomas about his broad shoulders. “Let me down, you brute! I shall never give up the location of the treasure!”

The Frenchman slid a hand up the back of the lady’s thigh, high enough that Dahlia imagined he’d reached ample, secret curves when he growled, “I already know the location of your treasure, wench!”

As the rest of the room cheered and clapped their amusement, the countess dissolved into giggles and Tomas started up the stairs, headed for room six, where a large bed awaited whatever sport was in their future.

“Oh, yes. Very proper,” Veronique retorted.

Dahlia smiled. “As I was saying earlier, if the ladies of London wish to play at being better off for having a queen, we shall aid them in their pursuits. And this month, the windfall we’ve received from the ladies will be shared with the staff—you two included, if you stop irritating me.”

“I shan’t turn it down, to be sure,” Zeva said, stopping at the edge of the salon, where a discreet exit led through a dark hallway to the front of the club, and a receiving room sat ready for additional guests. “However . . .”

“Come now, Zeva,” Dahlia said. “You’re the only person on earth who can find fault with the near doubling of our profits.”

“Your queen has increased profits, yes, but she’s also increased membership.” Zeva was all business, turning down the hallway and leaving Dahlia no choice but to follow. “There have been nine unexpected members tonight, all arrived without appointment.”

At the words, one of Veronique’s security appeared at the doorway nearest the entry to the club, indicating a situation that required the woman’s expertise. With a nod, she looked to Dahlia and Zeva. “Let’s see what kind of trouble they’re getting into.”

It wasn’t uncommon for a member to arrive without notice. The dual promises of the club were discretion and pleasure, and members often came and went as they pleased, eager to try the wide offerings of 72 Shelton. But nine unannounced women was a larger number than usual—and one that would strain the club’s resources.

“Remember, an increase in membership is an increase in power,” Dahlia said as she and Zeva moved quickly down the hallway. Every member of the club became a potential asset for Dahlia and her brothers—often at odds with Parliament, with Bow Street, with Mayfair, and with the London docks.