The eighth book in the Bastion Club series, 2008

August 1816

London

He should make her wait.

Thoughts and wild conjecture roiling in his head, Christian Michael Allardyce, 6th Marquess of Dearne, slowly descended the stairs of the Bastion Club. He’d been nursing a brandy and his despondency in the library when Gasthorpe, the club’s majordomo, had appeared with a note.

A note summoning him to face his past.

That past awaited him in the front parlor, the room he and the club’s other six owners-all ex-members of one of the more secret and select arms of His Majesty’s services who had established the club as their bolt hole against the importuning ladies of the ton-had stipulated as the only room in which ladies were to be permitted. In the months since the club’s opening, that rule had, incident by incident, fallen by the wayside, but Gasthorpe had rightly shown this particular lady into the formal front parlor.

He really should make her wait.

She’d said she would, twelve years ago, but then another had come along, and while he’d been buried deep in Napoleon’s Europe, she’d lightly thrown aside her promise to him, and fallen in love with and married a Mr. George Randall.

She was now Lady Letitia Randall.

Instead of the Marchioness of Dearne.

Deep in his heart, where nothing and no one any longer touched, he still felt betrayed.

She’d been Lady Letitia Randall for eight years. Although he’d returned to England ten months ago, and he and she moved in the same, very small circle, they’d exchanged not one word. They hadn’t even exchanged nods. Even that was too much to expect of him, given their past. She seemed to understand that; coolly detached, haughtily distant, as if he and she had never been close-never been lovers-she’d studiously kept her distance.