The Perfect Lover (50 page)

Tristan’s face grew grim. “Consequently, when his own son’s son died, and then his son as well, and he realized I would inherit, 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, lips curled. “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?”

“Next July.”

“So you’ve got the 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 Warnefleet 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 intense 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 and sober. “In a different theater, maybe, but it’s still a form of war—at least it is the way the ladies of the ton play the game.”

“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.” Shaking his head, Tristan sat back in his chair.

“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 Warnefleet sounded somber, echoing their feelings.

Silence fell . . .

“You know . . .” With one long finger, Charles St. Austell poked his tankard in circles. “We’ve faced worse before, and won.” He looked up, glanced around at their faces. “We’re all much of an age—there’s what, five years between us?—we’re all facing a similar threat, and all 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 glanced 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 chose my wife—I will not have her foisted, by whatever means, upon me. We now know, thanks to Tony’s fortuitous reconnoitering, that 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 news.” 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, determined. “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. “Someplace 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, 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, then rose.

Charles inclined his head to Christian. “I give you the bastion that 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.

New York Times
-bestselling author Stephanie Laurens specializes in writing historical romances set in Regency England. Her first such novel was
Captain Jack’s Woman
, published by Avon Books in 1977. Ms. Laurens is best known for her long-running, award-winning tales of the ducal Cynster dynasty:
Devils’ Bride
;
A Rake’s Vow
;
Scandal’s Bride
;
A Rogue’s Proposal
;
A Secret Love
;
All About Love
;
All About Passion
(the story of “honorary Cynster” Gyles Rawlings); the “twin novels,”
On a Wild Night
&
On a Wicked Dawn
;
The Perfect Lover
; and
The Promise in a Kiss: A Christmas Novel
, about the founders of the Cynster dynasty. All these titles are available from PerfectBound e-books. Ms. Laurens is also the author of The Bastion Club novels, commencing with
The Lady Chosen
and
A Gentleman’s Honor
in late summer 2003. She resides in a leafy bayside suburb of Melbourne, Australia with her husband and two daughters and their cats, Shakespeare and Marlowe. Please visit www.stephanielaurens.com.

Jacket design by Beth Middleworth
Jacket art by Michel Legrou/Media Photo Group
Front jacket typography by David Gatti

ALSO BY STEPHANIE LAURENS

On a Wicked Dawn
On a Wild Night
The Promise in a Kiss
All About Passion
All About Love
A Secret Love
A Rogue’s Proposal
Scandal’s Bride
A Rake’s Vow
Devil’s Bride
Captain Jack’s Woman

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

THE PERFECT LOVER. Copyright © 2003 by Savdek Management Proprietory Limited. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBound™.

Excerpt from THE LADY CHOSEN. Copyright © 2003 by Savdek Management Proprietory Limited.

PerfectBound™ and the PerfectBound™ logo are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

MS Reader edition v 1. March 2003 ISBN 0-06-053192-4

Print edition first published in 2003 by HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

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