Grace should have expected she would have been followed. Over the years, she and Veronique had built a vast network of young spies throughout Covent Garden and beyond—housemaids and tavern girls and roof runners for messages. Criminals throughout London—throughout the world—used children as pickpockets and drunkblades because no one ever noticed children, but Grace found that girls were even more likely to be overlooked. Overlooked, and underpaid. And so she had made a point of giving girls good pay and even more power. They brought information to Veronique and Grace whenever there was news to be had—the more interesting the better.

Her donning a ball gown and heading into Mayfair was certainly interesting.

Still, Grace didn’t like it.

What else had they reported? Had they seen what had happened in the gazebo?

Zeva cleared her throat and said, “Yes, well, well done everyone. What were we discussing?”

You are a queen.

It was Grace’s turn to clear her throat. “Queens.”

She shouldn’t think of it. It had been a mistake. One night, lost to memory and nostalgia. To what might have been. He hadn’t even known it was she. Of course, now it seemed that all of Covent Garden knew that it was she.

Christ. This was what she got for buying fantasy instead of selling it.

Zeva was still talking. “Well, I for one sincerely believe that Elizabeth Regina would have been a proud member of 72 Shelton.”

“She’d have to get in line,” Grace said, welcoming the change of topic, laying a hand on a stack of new membership requests. “We grow more popular by the minute. I’ve three duchesses and, from what I can tell, the leader of a small country in here.”

“That’s what I want to discuss,” Veronique interjected. “I’m concerned about our growing popularity.”

Zeva sighed, “Ah, Veronique, ever the raincloud.”

Veronique shot the other woman a look. “We cannot all occupy ourselves with proper canapés.” She looked to Grace. “All I am saying is we’ve signed twenty-one new member agreements in the last month—”

“Twenty-three,” Zeva corrected.

“Fine. And there’s no sign that interest is waning. So, if we intend to continue to increase membership . . .” Veronique paused, catching Grace’s eye. “And I assume that we are?”

“I see no reason why we wouldn’t,” Grace said.

“Then we are going to require more security.” The head of 72 Shelton’s security detail spread her hands wide and sat back in her chair, on the opposite side of Grace’s desk. Casting a discerning gaze over the haphazard towers of newsprint, member dossiers, bank documents, and bills, she added, “At the very least, we’re going to need a dedicated guard outside this room to rescue you when you become trapped beneath the avalanche of paper that will one day bring you down.”

“Nonsense. I know where everything is,” Grace said, as Zeva laughed from her place. “How many do we need?”

Veronique did not hesitate. “Five.”

Grace’s brows shot up. As 72 Shelton was both a women’s club that prized discretion and a brothel that prized safety, it already had a fifteen-person security detail that worked in three shifts, round the clock. “Do you expect a run of murders?”

“There was a brawl three nights ago at Maggie O’Tiernen’s.”

“There is a brawl every three nights at Maggie O’Tiernen’s,” Grace said. The pub was legendary for its brash Irish proprietress, who loved nothing more than urging brawny sailors to fight for her honor—and the honor of keeping her company for an evening. “No one likes a spectacle like Maggie.”

“I hear it wasn’t an ordinary brawl,” Veronique said.

“Incited by someone?” Zeva asked.

“No one can confirm it,” Veronique replied, “but I don’t like it. Not on top of Satchell’s.”

A gaming hell for ladies, Satchell’s had been open for less than a year, but was already beloved of aristocratic women—in part because it was discreet, lushly appointed, and frequented by the Duchess of Trevescan, who was the kind of patroness any new business would do crime to have, a sparkling jewel with just enough scandal to make wherever she went seem worthy of time and funds.

Of course, Grace had known the duchess for long enough to know that she was interested in places where women congregated, full stop. “What happened at Satchell’s?”

“It was raided.”

Grace stilled. “By whom?”

“Could be competitors.” Veronique picked at something invisible on her breeches.

“Could be,” Grace repeated. Running a business based on vice didn’t exactly put a body in league with the best of men. “The queen’s got everyone looking to make money on women.”

“We’re proof it’s good business,” Zeva interjected.

Veronique shrugged. “Could be. Could also be the Crown. Could be Peel’s boys.” The newly minted metropolitan police force, eager to make a name for itself. “Men drunk on power and wielding clubs and fists and firearms all look the same.”

Grace nodded, something twisting in her gut. “Could be.”

“We don’t do anything illegal,” Zeva said. She was right. Prostitution wasn’t illegal. Neither were private clubs. The most illegal thing they did was pour smuggled liquor—but so did every men’s club in Mayfair.

Of course, they weren’t a men’s club in Mayfair. And that put them in danger. “No one likes it when women take their pleasure into their own hands,” Veronique said.

“No one likes it when women take their lives into their own hands,” Grace said.

If they were raided, no one would need to know what the members were up to in the Garden. The list of members’ names alone would scandalize Britain.

“We’ve a thousand enemies, the Crown, the police, and our competition only the most visible.” Grace looked to Veronique. “The Other Side was closed two weeks ago.”

Veronique’s brows rose. “That’s three.” She had the best sense for trouble Grace had ever known—something born of her time on ships. She knew when a match would burn out, and when one would light an inferno. If she believed something was happening, something likely was.

The Other Side. Maggie O’Tiernen’s. Satchell’s. Three places that catered to a female membership. All threatened in recent weeks.

“Peck?” Tommy Peck, Bow Street Runner. One of the decent ones, if his care for the girls in the Garden was any indication.

Veronique shook her head. “He hasn’t been seen.” She paused. “And there’s another thing.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve reason to believe the building is being watched.”

Grace didn’t like that. “How? We’ve guns on the roof and spies on all the others.”

Veronique shrugged. “Can’t prove it. Strange faces havin’ a wander. Boots awful shiny for Cheapside boys.”

Better safe than sorry. “Hire the security. And make sure the tunnels are clear before Dominion.” Before Grace had taken it over and turned 72 Shelton Street into an exclusive women’s club, the building had been an old smugglers’ hideout, with secret tunnels running hundreds of yards in multiple directions, in case of attack from other smugglers—or the Crown.