“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.