Nothing that happened inside the brothel was illegal, so she’d never thought too much about them, except in two instances—first, they were regularly used to bring guests to the club who were not trusted to know its location and, second, they were sometimes prepared for entertainment—periodically a member took an interest in the idea of a dungeon.
But she knew better than most that where there were women in power, there were too often men who would stop at nothing to snatch it from them, and she would do whatever was necessary to protect the staff and clients of 72 Shelton.
Veronique nodded, apparently satisfied. “Done.”
“What’s next?”
The rest of the conversation ranged over the inner workings of the club—the arrogant and brilliant chef that Grace had brought in from Venice, who was constantly at odds with the pastry chef with a streak of the perfectionist. The preparations for September’s Dominion two weeks hence—the first of the autumn, and always the most elaborate. The arrival of a unique trio—two men, and a woman with a particular skill with ropes that filled a specific void in the services the club was able to offer members.
After three quarters of an hour, Zeva and Veronique were through with their reports. They’d stood to leave, and made their way to the door before Zeva turned back. “One more thing.”
Grace looked to her lieutenant.
“There’s a new bill in debate in Lords. Loads of good in it—safety for molls, punishment for culls who do them ill, age restrictions for workhouses, fresh water pipes for the rookeries.”
All issues directly affecting Covent Garden and the East End. Surprise flared. “Whose bill?”
“Lamont and Leighton.”
Two of the most decent dukes in Britain. “Who is debating it?”
A little shrug. “The good ones.”
Grace shook her head. “It won’t pass. There aren’t enough lords who care about our world.” If one thing was true, it was that rich aristocrats steered wildly clear of taking care of the poor.
Zeva nodded. “Well. They talk, anyway.”
“Let me know when they do more.” She looked to Veronique. “And tell the girls that my private business is just that—private.”
Veronique smirked. “What private business?”
Grace couldn’t help her little huff of amusement, the sound lost to the tentative knock at the door. With a tilt of her head, she opened it, revealing the fresh face of a girl of twelve or thirteen. Her grey-green eyes slid from Veronique to Zeva, then behind, to Grace, when they rounded in surprise and flew back to her employer. “I—they told me downstairs to come up.”
“Report,” Veronique said.
The girl pulled off her cap, releasing a riot of black curls, and looked to Grace, her nervousness clear.
Grace smiled, remembering her own nervousness at that age—and how she had learned fast to push it away when with adults, for fear of revealing weakness that was too easy to take advantage of. “Go on then.”
“’Ere’s a visitor.”
Grace stood at the word. A code.
“Where?” Veronique asked.
“The Rookery.”
Grace came around the desk. For years, her spies had been tasked with watching Devil and Whit in the Rookery where they lived and worked—to ensure that her impulsive brothers were not dragged into hotheaded trouble. Since Grace had inherited sisters-in-law, however, news from the Rookery had slowed to a trickle. It seemed her brothers had turned their hotheaded trouble into the more valuable work of loving their wives.
But this report—a visitor in the Rookery—indicated that something uncommon was happening there . . . something that wasn’t right.
A visitor wasn’t as innocuous as it sounded. It meant a stranger. Usually someone out of place, asking questions that weren’t his business. Often, it meant someone asking questions about the Bareknuckle Bastards. The girls were trained to pay close attention and immediately report whenever anyone came asking about two young boys and a girl who might have turned up years earlier.
But they hadn’t been in hiding for a year—the freedom still fresh enough that Grace didn’t take it for granted. “What kind of visitor?”
The girl looked to Veronique, who nodded. “Go on.”
“He’s a big brute. Haulin’ boxes to the warehouse for the Bastards,” she said.
A ship had come into port the day before, and would have been emptied the previous evening.
Evening.
She watched the girl, who shoved her hands in her pockets and shuffled her feet, clearly hesitating. Grace recognized the uncertainty. The girl had a hunch. A hunch Grace had, as well.
“That doesn’t sound out of the ordinary,” she said, approaching. “What made you come here?”
Those enormous eyes lifted to hers. “It’s full sun.”
Correct. The Bareknuckle Bastards didn’t move cargo in the daylight. It was too risky.
What were they up to?
Grace nodded. “So it is. What’s your name?”
“Victoria, mum.” The girl bobbed fast as she could—an East End curtsy.
Surprised by the name, Grace looked to Zeva and Veronique, taking in their knowing smiles. “Well, I wouldn’t lay odds against this one, at least.” She reached into her pocket and tossed a coin to the girl, who caught it out of the air with a speed that rivaled her own as a child.
The girl would have made a great fighter—but she’d never have to prove that, because she’d have work with Grace as long as she wanted it.
“You did well, Victoria. Thank you.”
Another bob, and the girl was headed for the door, almost there before she seemed to remember something and turned back.
“Oh, and there’s another thing . . .” The girl paused, fiddling with her cap, then found her voice more quickly than before. “They say ’e’s a toff.”
Chapter Thirteen
She found her idiot brothers exactly where she expected to find them—on the rooftops overlooking the yard of the Bastards’ warehouse, deep in the Covent Garden Rookery.
“Don’t get too close,” she said as she approached them, having used the vast network of the Garden’s maze of interconnected buildings to get to them. “You wouldn’t like someone with sense to push you right over the edge.”
Devil looked over his shoulder at her, his brows rising in amusement. Of course he was amused. Devil liked nothing better than playing puppeteer with those around him. “Ah! You’re here! And just as it’s getting interesting.”
Her heart pounded as she drew closer, tilting her head, expecting to hear jeers and hoots from the yard below, where a crowd had no doubt assembled to watch whatever elaborate scheme her brothers had concocted.
She was surprised to hear quiet instead.
Quiet made her heart pound harder. Quiet was more dangerous.
Grace came abreast of them, and they eased aside, making space between them for her as they’d done for two decades, since the night they’d run. And as unsettled as she was high on that rooftop, she was never so at home as she was with these men—brothers in name if not blood, and proof that family was found, not born.
But that did not mean they would not feel her wrath if they’d mucked everything up.