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 match. 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?”