The Lady Chosen (Bastion Club 1)

“I see!”

“Well, that was quick work!” Rising, Charles grabbed the decanter and replenished their glasses. “We have to toast this. Let’s see.” He struck a pose before the fireplace, his glass held high. “Here’s to you and your lady, the delightful Miss Carling. Let’s drink in acknowledgment of your success in determining your own fate—to your victory over the meddlers—and to the inspiration and encouragement this victory will provide to your fellow Bastion Club members!”

“Hear! Hear!”

Charles and Deverell both drank. Tristan saluted them with his glass, then drank, too.

“So when’s the wedding?” Deverell asked.

Tristan studied the amber liquid swirling in his glass. “As soon as we lay Mountford by the heels.”

Charles pursed his lips. “And if that takes longer than expected?”

Tristan raised his eyes, met Charles’s dark gaze. Smiled. “Trust me. It won’t.”

Early the next morning, Tristan visited Number 14 Montrose Place; he left before Leonora or any of the family came downstairs, confident he’d solved the riddle of how Mountford had got into Number 16.

As Jeremy had, at his direction, already had the locks on Number 16 changed, Mountford must have suffered another disappointment. All the better for driving him into their snare. He now had no option other than to rent the house.

Leaving Number 14 by the front gate, Tristan saw a workman busy setting up a sign atop the low front wall of Number 16. The sign announced that the house was for rent and gave details for contacting the agent. Deverell had wasted no time.

He returned to Green Street for breakfast, manfully waited until all six of the resident old dears were present before making his announcement. They were more than delighted.

“She’s just the sort of wife we wished for you,” Millicent told him.

“Indeed,” Ethelreda confirmed. “She’s such a sensible young woman—we were awfully afraid you might land us with some flibbertigibbet. One of those empty-headed gels who giggle all the time. The good Lord only knows how we would have coped then.”

In fervent agreement, he excused himself and took refuge in the study. Ruthlessly blocking out the obvious distraction, he spent an hour dealing with the more urgent matters awaiting his attention, remembering to pen a brief letter to his great-aunts informing them of his impending nuptials. When the clock chimed eleven, he put down his pen, rose, and quietly left the house.

He met Charles at the corner of Grosvenor Square. They hailed a hackney; at ten minutes before noon, they pushed through the door of the Red Lion. It was a popular public house catering to a mixture of trades—merchants, agents, shippers, and clerks of every description. The main room was crowded, yet after one glance, most moved out of Tristan’s and Charles’s way. They went to the bar, were served immediately, then, ale mugs in hand, turned and surveyed the room.

After a moment, Tristan took a sip of his ale. “He’s over there, one table from the corner. The one that keeps looking around like an eager pup.”

“That’s the friend?”

“Fits the description to a tee. The cap’s hard to miss.” A tweed cap was sitting on the table at which the young man in question waited.

Tristan considered, then said, “He won’t recognize us. Why don’t we just take the table next to him, and wait for the right moment to introduce ourselves?”

“Good idea.”

Once again the crowd parted like the Red Sea; they installed themselves at the small table in the corner without attracting more than a quick glance and a polite smile from the young man.

He seemed terribly young to Tristan.

The young man continued to wait. So did they. They discussed various points—difficulties they’d both faced on taking up the reins of large estates. There was more than enough there to provide believable cover had the young man been listening. He wasn’t; like a spaniel, he kept his eyes on the door, ready to leap up and wave when his friend entered.

Gradually, as the minutes ticked by, his eagerness ebbed. He nursed his pint; they nursed theirs. But when the clang from a nearby belltower sounded the half hour, it seemed certain that he for whom they all waited was not going to appear.

They waited some more, in growing concern.

Eventually, Tristan exchanged a glance with Charles, then turned to the young man. “Mr. Carter?”

The young man blinked, focused properly on Tristan for the first time. “Y-yes?”

“We’ve not met.” Tristan reached for a card, handed it to Carter. “But I believe an associate of mine told you we were concerned to meet with Mr. Martinbury over a matter of mutual benefit.”

Carter read the card; his youthful face cleared. “Oh, yes—of course!” Then he looked at Tristan and grimaced. “But as you can see, Jonathon hasn’t come.” He glanced around, as if to make sure Martinbury hadn’t materialized in the last minute. Carter frowned. “I really can’t understand it.” He looked back at Tristan. “Jonathon’s very punctual, and we’re very good friends.”