She glanced around, at his friends and their wives, most of whom were in a delicate condition, saw the happiness they’d found shining in their eyes-other fitting accolades. Only Christian yet sat alone. She pondered that, then a bright laugh drew her gaze to Belinda-testing her wings with one of the younger gentlemen.

Looking swiftly around, Madeline located her brothers-all three, amazingly, were behaving themselves much as if their good behavior was their wedding gift to her. Her lips quirked, bittersweet; they would be returning to school in a few weeks, and when next she saw them Harry would be grown, with Edmond following closely. Her time to be devoted solely to them was at an end, but Gervase was now there to take them through the next phase, teaching them to be men, something she wouldn’t have been able to do, and there was no man she more wished them to emulate.

In return…her gaze drifted to Annabel, and Jane, then back to Belinda, still smiling at the besotted young man. She would take the three girls in hand. Although she had no great liking for London, for them she would brave the ton and the Season and make sure they were presented properly. Sybil and Muriel would help, but Madeline accepted that, much as with her brothers the primary role had fallen to her, with Gervase’s sisters she would be their mentor, their true guardian.

She wondered if Gervase would view her teaching them to fight and defend themselves, at least to a point, unladylike; regardless, she considered that a necessary accomplishment preparatory to their come-outs.

Life went on. One role ended, another began.

And yet another was developing, not here yet, which was just as well; by her calculations, she had eight months to get all the necessary arrangements to her liking before the next addition to their melded family made an appearance.

Her gaze drifted to Gervase; she smiled. She hadn’t told him yet; she was saving the news as a surprise for later that night.

Gervase felt her gaze, turned and caught it-caught the secretive, madonnalike smile that played about her lips. She was so serene these days; she’d managed the organization of their wedding with an effortless ease that had left him amazed. The bombardment of decisions had left him reeling-had sent him slinking away to hide in his library. She’d smiled and let him go, and handled all with gracious aplomb.

Thank God he’d had the sense to marry her.

Leaving those with whom he’d been conversing, he strolled to her side, took her hand and drew her to her feet. When her brows rose in question, he smiled. “Come and waltz.”

He led her to the floor, swung her into his arms, into the revolutions-and they both relaxed, let the barriers they deployed with all others, thin veils, true, but still there, fall. They smiled into each other’s eyes, and simply shared the moment. That curious, fabulous, infinitely precious unity of feeling, of being.

They’d danced the first waltz long ago; there was little by way of formalities remaining. The musicians were supplying a steady stream of waltzes that a large number of couples were enjoying.

Following his gaze around the room, Madeline sighed, a contented sound. “It’s gone well, I think.”

“It has.” He waited until she met his eyes. “But regardless of all else, I have all I need of the day. You.”

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.

Charles and the others had misinterpreted his earlier comment. He hadn’t suggested that him falling in love would not be straightforward-he’d stated that for him, finding the perfect wife was not destined to be straightforward. As it wasn’t, for one very simple reason.

Whoever said falling in love was straightforward?

In that, he could prove Charles wrong. For him, falling in love had been the easiest, most straightforward and natural thing in the world. As he recalled. What, in his case, made matters anything but straightforward was the difficulty he faced in marrying the lady in question.

Not least because she was already wed.

Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back against the chair. A parade of memories flickered past his mind’s eye-all the things that had happened, all the things he couldn’t change.

In the distance, he heard the front doorbell peal; one part of his mind tracked Gasthorpe’s footsteps as he went to answer the door…but then the past dragged him back, wrapped him in soft arms and the wreathing scent of jasmine.