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.

But Ewan seemed unable to look away from it.

What was he thinking?

Her stomach flipped at the possibilities, not all of them good. “You are staring, my lord,” she offered, hiding her concern behind a teasing tone.

He did not look to her. “The men are not all guests.”

She watched his profile as he realized that 72 Shelton, besides being one of the finest clubs in London, was also one of its finest pleasure houses. “No.”

“And when you say pleasure . . .”

“However it comes.”

A little grunt. Understanding? Distaste? Disdain? Something else? “And when the men who are neither clients nor staff see what this place has to offer, how are they persuaded to keep it a secret?”

She heard it then. Fascination.

Something loosened within her. He wasn’t displeased. He was intrigued. And something else. He sounded . . . impressed. She smiled. “Once they are here, they quickly reveal their particular pleasures . . . which makes it easy for them to keep secrets.”

“Particular pleasures like what?” he asked, turning to her.

She exhaled, part relief, part shock. Because there, in his eyes, she finally saw what he was thinking, the dark centers of his amber eyes blown wide with desire.

He liked it, this world she had built.

He wanted a taste of it.

And that was something she understood.

“Pleasures like the one you are experiencing right now,” she said, softly, now more than willing to accommodate him. “Would you like to find a room and explore it?”

“You misunderstand,” he said. “I don’t want to watch them.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

Her brow furrowed. Nearly a decade of working in and around sex had made her something of an expert in knowing what clients wished. She was not usually wrong. “Would you prefer to be watched?”

He shook his head. “Not unless you would like that.”

A thrum went through her at the invitation. At the willingness to explore it with her. At the desire in his darkening eyes. She lifted her hand, brushing a lock of blond hair back from his brow. “What, then?”

Something shifted in him, freeing him, and when he leaned in, his voice was low and dark at her ear. “Watching these women take their pleasure here in this place that you have built . . .” He wiped a hand over his mouth, and Grace thought that she might never have liked anything more in her life than that. “It makes me want to watch you take yours.”

The words struck deep in her core, and she suddenly wanted that, too.

Needed it.

She didn’t hesitate.

She wove in and out of the rooms, where more acrobats and musicians and bawdy songstresses performed, and a teeming mass of people drank and ate and writhed in revelry. They pushed down a long hallway where two separate couples were locked in embraces, and into the theater space, where Nastasia Kritikos had taken to the stage, rolling and trilling an aria that would have made her the muse of Mozart himself.