The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

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.”