“His argument was we were wastrel ne’er-do-wells who came and went as we pleased, traveled the world, and so on. In all fairness, I must say that now I’ve met my great-aunts and their female army, I can see the old boy’s point. He must have felt trapped by his position, sentenced to live his life surrounded by a tribe of doting, meddling females.”
A frisson, a shudder, ran around the table.
Tristan’s expression grew grim. “Consequently, when his own son’s son died, and then his son as well, and he realized I would inherit from him, he devised a devilish clause to his will. I’ve inherited title, land, and houses, and wealth for a year—but if I fail to marry within that year, I’ll be left with the title, the land, and the houses—all that’s entailed—but the bulk of the wealth, the funds needed to run the houses, will be given to various charities.”
There was silence, then Jack Warnefleet asked, “What would happen to the horde of old ladies?”
Tristan looked up, eyes narrow. “That’s the devilish heart of it—they’d remain my pensioners, in my houses. There’s nowhere else for them to go, and I could hardly turf them into the streets.”
All the others stared at him, appreciation of his predicament dawning in their faces.
“That’s a dastardly thing to do.” Gervase paused, then asked, “When’s your year up?”
“July.”
“So you’ve got next Season to make your choice.” Charles set his tankard down and pushed it away. “We’re all in large measure in the same boat. If I don’t find a wife by then, my sisters, sisters-in-law, and dear mother will drive me demented.”
“It’s not going to be plain sailing, I warn you.” Tony Blake glanced around the table. “After escaping from my godmother’s, I sought refuge in Boodles.” He shook his head. “Bad mistake. Within an hour, not one, but two gentlemen I’d never before met approached and asked me to dinner!”
“Set on in your club?” Jack voiced their communal shock.
Grimly, Tony nodded. “And there was worse. I called in at the house and discovered a pile of invitations, literally a foot high. The butler said they’d started arriving the day after I’d sent word I’d be down—I’d warned my godmother I might drop in.”
Silence fell as they all digested that, extrapolated, considered…
Christian leaned forward. “Who else has been up to town?”
All the others shook their heads. They’d only recently returned to England and had gone straight to their estates.
“Very well,” Christian continued. “Does this mean that when next we each show our faces in town, we’ll be hounded like Tony?”
They all imagined it….
“Actually,” Deverell said, “it’s likely to be much worse. A lot of families are in mourning at the moment—even if they’re in town, they won’t be going about. The numbers calling should be down.”
They all looked at Tony, who shook his head. “Don’t know—I didn’t wait to find out.”
“But as Deverell says, it must be so.” Gervase’s face hardened. “But such mourning will end in good time for next Season, then the harpies will be out and about, looking for victims, more desperate and even more determined.”
“Hell!” Charles spoke for them all. “We’re going to be”—he gestured—“precisely the sort of targets we’ve spent the last decade not being.”
Christian nodded, serious, sober. “In a different theater, maybe, but it’s still a form of war, the way the ladies of the ton play the game.”
Shaking his head, Tristan sat back in his chair. “It’s a sad day when, having survived everything the French could throw at us, we, England’s heroes, return home—only to face an even greater threat.”
“A threat to our futures like none other, and one we haven’t, thanks to our devotion to king and country, as much experience in facing as many a younger man,” Jack added.
Silence fell.
“You know…” Charles St. Austell poked his tankard in circles. “We’ve faced worse before, and won.” He looked up, glanced around. “We’re all much of an age—there’s what? Five years between us? We’re all facing a similar threat, and have a similar goal in mind, for similar reasons. Why not band together—help each other?”
“One for all and all for one?” Gervase asked.
“Why not?” Charles glanced around again. “We’re experienced enough in strategy—surely we can, and should, approach this like any other engagement.”
Jack sat up. “It’s not as if we’d be in competition with each other.” He, too, glanced around, meeting everyone’s eyes. “We’re all alike to some degree, but we’re all different, too, all from different families, different counties, and there’s not too few ladies but too many vying for our attentions—that’s our problem.”
“I think it’s an excellent idea.” Leaning his forearms on the table, Christian looked at Charles, then at the others. “We all have to wed. I don’t know about you, but I’ll fight to the last gasp to retain control of my destiny. I will choose my wife—I will not have her foisted, by whatever means, upon me. Thanks to Tony’s fortuitous reconnoitering, we now know the enemy will be waiting, ready to pounce the instant we appear.” He glanced around again. “So how are we going to seize the initiative?”
“The same way we always have,” Tristan replied. “Information is key. We share what we learn—dispositions of the enemy, their habits, their preferred strategies.”
Deverell nodded. “We share tactics that work, and warn of any perceived pitfalls.”
“But what we need first, more than anything,” Tony cut in, “is a safe refuge. It’s always the first thing we put in place when going into enemy territory.”
They all paused, considered.
Charles grimaced. “Before your news, I would have imagined our clubs, but that clearly won’t do.”
“No, and our houses are not safe for similar reasons.” Jack frowned. “Tony’s right—we need a refuge where we can be certain we’re safe, where we can meet and exchange information.” His brows rose. “Who knows? There might be times when it would be to our advantage to conceal our connections with each other, at least socially.”
The others nodded, exchanging glances.
Christian put their thoughts into words. “We need a club of our own. Not to live in, although we might want a few bedchambers in case of need, but a club where we can meet, and from which we can plan and conduct our campaigns in safety without having to watch our backs.”
“Not a bolt-hole,” Charles mused. “More a castle…”
“A stronghold in the heart of enemy territory.” Deverell nodded decisively. “Without it, we’ll be too exposed.”
“And we’ve been away too long,” Gervase growled. “The harpies will fall on us and tie us down if we waltz into the ton unprepared. We’ve forgotten what it’s like…if we ever truly knew.”
It was a tacit acknowledgment that they were indeed sailing into unknown and therefore dangerous waters. Not one of them had spent any meaningful time in society after the age of twenty.
Christian looked around the table. “We have five full months before we need our refuge—if we have it established by the end of February, we’ll be able to return to town and slip in past the pickets, disappear whenever we wish…”
“My estate’s in Surrey.” Tristan met the others’ gazes. “If we can decide on what we want as our stronghold, I can slip into town and make the arrangements without creating any ripples.”
Charles’s eyes narrowed; his gaze grew distant. “Some-place close to everywhere, but not too close.”
“It needs to be in an area easily reachable, but not obvious.” Deverell tapped the table in thought. “The fewer in the neighborhood who recognize us the better.”
“A house, perhaps…”
They tossed around their requirements, and quickly agreed that a house in one of the quieter areas outside but close to Mayfair yet away from the heart of town would serve them best. A house with
reception rooms and space enough for them all to congregate, with a room in which they could meet with ladies if necessary, but the rest of the house to be female-free, with at least three bedchambers in case of need, and kitchens and staff quarters—and a staff who understood their requirements…
“That’s it.” Jack slapped the table. “Here!” He grabbed up his tankard and raised it. “I give you Prinny and his unpopularity—if it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be here today and wouldn’t have had the opportunity to make all our futures that much safer.”
With wide grins, they all drank, then Charles pushed back his chair, rose, and lifted his tankard. “Gentlemen—I give you our club! Our last bastion against the matchmakers of the ton, our secured base from which we’ll infiltrate, identify, and isolate the lady we each want, then take the ton by storm and capture her!”
The others cheered, thumped the table, and rose.
Charles inclined his head to Christian. “I give you the bastion which will allow us to take charge of our destinies and rule our own hearths. Gentlemen!” Charles raised his tankard high. “I give you the Bastion Club!”
They all roared their approval and drank.
And the Bastion Club was born.
Chapter
One
Lust and a virtuous woman—only a fool combined the two.
Tristan Wemyss, fourth Earl of Trentham, reflected that he’d rarely been called a fool, yet here he stood, gazing out of a window at an undoubtedly virtuous lady and indulging in all manner of lustful thoughts.
Understandable, perhaps; the lady was tall, dark-haired, and possessed a willowy, subtly curvaceous figure displayed to advantage as, strolling the back garden of the neighboring house, she paused here and there, bending to examine some foliage or flower in the lush and strangely riotous garden beds.
It was February, the weather as bleak and chill as in that month it was wont to be, yet the garden next door displayed abundant growth, thick leaves in dark greens and bronzes from unusual plants that seemed to thrive despite the frosts. Admittedly, there were trees and shrubs leafless and lifelorn scattered throughout the deep beds, yet the garden exuded an air of winter life quite absent from most London gardens in that season.
Not that he possessed any interest in horticulture; it was the lady who held his interest, with her gliding, graceful walk, with the tilt of her head as she examined a bloom. Her hair, the color of rich mahogany, was coiled in a coronet about her head; he couldn’t from this distance divine her expression, yet her face was a pale oval, features delicate and pure.
A wolfhound, shaggy and brindle-coated, snuffled idly at her heels; it usually accompanied her whenever she wandered outside.
His instincts, well honed and reliable, informed him that today the lady’s attention was perfunctory, in abeyance, that she was killing time while she waited for something. Or someone.
“M’lord?”
Tristan turned. He was standing in the bay window of the library on the first floor in the rear corner of the terrace house at Number 12 Montrose Place. He and his six coconspirators, the members of the Bastion Club, had bought the house three weeks ago; they were in the process of equipping it to serve as their private stronghold, their last bastion against the matchmakers of the ton. Situated in this quiet area of Belgravia mere blocks from the southeast corner of the park, beyond which lay Mayfair, where they all possessed houses, the house was perfect for their needs.
The library window overlooked the back garden, and also the back garden of the larger house next door, Number 14, in which the lady lived.
Billings, the carpenter in charge of the renovations, stood in the doorway studying a battered list.
“I think as we’ve about done all the new work, ’cepting for this set of cupboards in the office.” Billings looked up. “If you could take a look and see if we’ve got the idea right, we’ll get it done, then we’ll start the painting, polishing, and cleaning up, so’s your people can settle in.”
“Very good.” Tristan stirred. “I’ll come now.” He cast a last glance at the garden next door, and saw a tow-headed boy racing across the lawn toward the lady. Saw her turn, see, wait expectantly…clearly the news she’d been anticipating.
Quite why he found her fascinating he had no idea; he preferred blonds of more buxom charms and despite his desperate need of a wife, the lady was too old to be still on the marriage mart; she would certainly already be wed.
He drew his gaze from her. “How long do you think it will be before the house is habitable?”
“Few more days, p’raps a week. Belowstairs is close to done.”
Waving Billings ahead, Tristan followed him out of the door.
“Miss, miss! The gentl’man’s here!”
At last! Leonora Carling drew in a breath. She straightened, spine stiffening in anticipation, then unbent to smile at the bootboy. “Thank you, Toby. Is it the same gentleman as before?”
Toby nodded. “The one as Quiggs said is one of the owners.”
Quiggs was a journeyman-carpenter working on the house next door; Toby, always curious, had befriended him. Through that route Leonora had learned enough of the gentlemen-owners’ plans for next door to decide she needed to learn more. A lot more.
Toby, tousle-haired, bright color in his cheeks where the wind had nipped, jigged from foot to foot. “You’ll need to look sharpish if’n you want to catch ’im though—Quiggs said as Billings was having a last word, and then the gentl’man’d likely leave.”
“Thank you.” Leonora patted Toby’s shoulder, drawing him with her as she walked quickly toward the back door. Henrietta, her wolfhound, loped at their heels. “I’ll go around right now. You’ve been most helpful—let’s see if we can persuade Cook that you deserve a jam tart.”
“Cor!” Toby’s eyes grew round; Cook’s jam tarts were legendary.
Harriet, Leonora’s maid, who’d been with the household for many years, a comfortable but shrewd female with a mass of curling red hair, was waiting in the hall just inside the back door. Leonora sent Toby to request his reward; Harriet waited only until the boy was out of earshot before demanding, “You’re not going to do anything rash, are you?”
“Of course not.” Leonora glanced down at her gown; she tweaked the bodice. “But I must learn whether the gentlemen next door were those who previously wanted this house.”
“And if they are?”
“If they are, then either they were behind the incidents, in which case the incidents will cease, or alternatively they know nothing of our attempted burglaries, or the other happenings, in which case…” She frowned, then pushed past Harriet. “I must go. Toby said the man would be leaving soon.”
Ignoring Harriet’s worried look, Leonora hurried through the kitchen. Waving aside the usual household queries from Cook, Mrs. Wantage, their housekeeper, and Castor, her uncle’s ancient butler, promising to return shortly and deal with everything, she pushed through the swinging baize-covered door into the front hall.
Castor followed. “Shall I summon a hackney, miss? Or do you wish for a footman…?”
“No, no.” Grabbing her cloak, she swung it about her shoulders and quickly tied the strings. “I’m just stepping into the street for a minute—I’ll be back directly.”
Snatching her bonnet from the hall stand, she plonked it on her head; looking into the hall mirror, she swiftly tied the ribbons. She spared a glance for her appearance. Not perfect, but it would do. Interrogating unknown gentlemen was not something she often did; regardless, she wasn’t about to quail or quake. The situation was all too serious.
She turned to the door.
Castor stood before it, a vague frown creasing his brow. “Where shall I say you’ve gone if Sir Humphrey or Mr. Jeremy should ask?”
“They won’t. If they do, just tell them I’ve gone to call next door.” They’d think she’d gone to visit at Number 16, not Number 12.
Henrietta sat beside the door, bright eyes locked on her, canine jaw
s parted, tongue lolling, hoping against hope…
“Stay here.”
With a whine, the hound flopped to the flags and, in patent disgust, laid her huge head on her paws.
Leonora ignored her. She gestured impatiently at the door; as soon as Castor opened it, she hurried out onto the tiled front porch. At the top of the steps, she paused to scan the street; it was, as she’d hoped, deserted. Relieved, she rapidly descended into the fantasy of the front garden.
Normally, the garden would have distracted her, at least made her look and take note. Today, hurrying down the main path, she barely saw the bushes, the bright berries bobbing on the naked branches, the strange lacy leaves growing in profusion. Today, the fantastical creation of her distant cousin Cedric Carling failed to slow her precipitate rush for the front gate.
The new owners of Number 12 were a group of lords—so Toby had heard, but who knew? At the very least they were tonnish gentlemen. Apparently they were refurbishing the house, but none of them planned to live in it—an unquestionably odd, distinctly suspicious circumstance. Combined with all else that had been going on…she was determined to discover if there was any connection.
For the past three months, she and her family had been subjected to determined harrassment aimed at persuading them to sell their house. First had come an approach through a local agent. From dogged persuasion, the agent’s arguments had degenerated into belligerence and pugnacity. Nevertheless, she’d eventually convinced the man, and presumably his clients, that her uncle would not sell.
Her relief had been short-lived.
Within weeks, there’d been two attempts to break into their house. Both had been foiled, one by the staff, the other by Henrietta. She might have dismissed the occurences as coincidence if it hadn’t been for the subsequent attacks on her.