She was already smiling, but her gray-green eyes softened, glowed with a serene light he was entirely content to bathe in for the rest of his life. He drew her closer, whirled her into a turn and gave himself over to the moment.

That sense of contentedness lingered, a gentle warmth about his heart.

Later, when he joined his ex-comrades and Jack Hendon at the side of the room in what had come to be something of a tradition, Christian raised a brow and asked after the traitor’s cargo.

“The authorities in Falmouth sent a platoon of sailors the day after you and Dalziel left. They sifted the entire beach, and turned up three other pieces, all relatively small—a tiara, a necklace and a filigree orb. Once the platoon had retreated, the locals descended. They searched even more diligently, but found nothing more. The consensus of opinion is that heavier, denser items would have much less chance of being washed ashore, so most of our last traitor’s thirty pieces of silver are almost certainly sitting on the ocean floor somewhere around the Manacles.”

Tony Blake grunted. “At least he’s been denied payment. That’s some consolation.”

Each and every one of them would much rather have seen him hang.

“If only,” Charles said, “there was something distinctive about him. But a dark-haired, well-spoken gentleman who at a glance looks and sounds like Dalziel covers at least a quarter of the aristocracy.”

“And we’re unlikely to get another chance at him.” Jack Warnefleet sipped the brandy he was nursing. “That’s what irks most.”

“Us, and Dalziel.” Deverell narrowed his eyes. “I can’t imagine he was happy, having got so close—on the same beach, in the same area—only to have the man slip through his fingers.”

Gervase frowned. “Not happy, no. Strangely, however, I think he’s resigned.” He arched a brow at Christian.

Who nodded. “I traveled back to London with him afterward. By the time we reached town, I got the impression he’d shut the door on the last traitor and all his works.”

“That meshes,” Tristan said, “with whispers I’ve been hearing over the last weeks that he’s expected to retire

within the next month.”

“He’d mentioned that he was tying up loose ends,” Christian said. “There can’t be that many more left.”

Charles raised his brows high. “Which leads to a very interesting question—once he retires, will we finally be able to learn who he is?”

They all considered that.

“Unless he becomes a hermit,” Tony said, “presumably we’ll run into him as his real self—Royce Whoever-he-is, Lord Whatever.”

“Curiosity is my besetting sin,” Charles quipped. “I can’t wait to fill in the blanks.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Jack Warnefleet raised his glass.

They all did, then Jack glanced around their circle. “We seem to have made a habit of this, gathering at each other’s weddings. As I recall, last time”—he nodded at Deverell—“at your nuptials, we all watched Gervase walk away, summoned back to his castle, and wondered what had called him back.” With an expansive gesture, Jack indicated the rest of the room. “Now we know, and here we are, dancing at his wedding.”

“This time, however”—Charles picked up the thread—“there’s only one of us left to wonder about.” He turned to Christian. And smiled. “You.”

Christian laughed, entirely unruffled, but then, Gervase thought, he was the least ruffleable of them all.

He made them a mock bow. “I’m desolated to report, gentlemen, that despite considerable reconnoitering, I’ve as yet failed to discover any lady over whom I feel compelled to make plans. Much as I salute your endeavors and their exemplary success, as the last member of the Bastion Club unwed, I find myself in no great hurry to change my status. Aside from all else, you have between you set the bar exceedingly high, and I wouldn’t want to let the side, as it were, down. I clearly need to polish my brass, as well as my address.”

They didn’t let it rest, of course, but teased and ribbed in a lighthearted, good-natured way. Christian, of them all, was the last man one would attempt to pressure—wasted effort. While he laughed and turned their comments aside with practiced ease, his stance didn’t waver in the least.

In the end, Christian himself pointed out, “As both the oldest and the most senior peer in the group, my path to finding the perfect wife was always destined to be the least straightforward.”

They all looked at him, trying to see past the comment, all sensing that it hid some deeper meaning. Whatever it was, none of them could fathom it.

Predictably, it was Charles who put their collective riposte into words. He fixed Christian with a wide-eyed look. “Whoever said falling in love was straightforward?”

Christian returned to London two days later. As he often did, he sought refuge at the Bastion Club. It was midafternoon when he climbed the stairs to the club’s library. Closing the door, he crossed to the tantalus, poured himself a brandy, then settled in one of the comfortable armchairs by the hearth. And sipped. And thought.

There was no other member staying at the club; he was the last one unwed, with no lady waiting at home, at the huge house in Grosvenor Square.

He thought back to Gervase’s wedding, to their gathering there, revisited the others’ words, the advice they’d jokingly offered him; he smiled as he recalled, but then Charles’s last words replayed in his mind and his smile faded.

Tags: Stephanie Laurens Bastion Club Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net