The Lady Chosen

left England, only to discover on my return that some distant cousin twice removed had turned up his toes, and I’m now Viscount Paignton, with the houses, the income—and just like you all, the dire need of a wife. I can manage the land and funds, but the houses, let alone the social obligations—they’re a web far worse than any French plot.”

“And the consequences of failing could drive you to your grave,” St. Austell put in.

There were dark murmurs of assent all around. All eyes turned to Tristan.

He smiled. “That’s quite a litany, but I fear I can trump all your tales.” He looked down, turning his tankard between his hands. “I, too, returned to find myself encumbered—with a title, two houses and a hunting box, and considerable wealth. However, both houses are home to an assortment of females, great-aunts, cousins, and other more distant connections. I inherited from my great-uncle, the recently departed third Earl of Trentham, who loathed his brother—my grandfather—and also my late father, and me.

“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…”