A Gentleman's Honor

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“WE’VE A MONTH BEFORE THE SEASON BEGINS, AND ALREADY the harpies are hunting in packs.” Charles St. Austell sank into one of the eight straight-backed chairs around the mahogany table in the Bastion Club’s meeting room.

“As we predicted.” Anthony Blake, sixth Viscount Torrington, took the chair opposite. “The action in the marriage mart seems close to frenetic.”

“Have you seen much of it, then?” Deverell sat beside Charles. “I have to admit I’m biding my time, lying low until the Season begins.”

Tony grimaced. “My mother might be resident in Devon, but she has a worthy lieutenant in my godmother, Lady Amery. If I don’t appear at her entertainments at least, I can be assured of receiving a sharp note the next morning, inquiring why.”

There were laughs—resigned, cynical, and commiserating—from the others as they took their seats. Christian Allardyce, Gervase Tregarth, and Jack Warnefleet all sat, then, in concert, all eyes went to the empty chair beside Charles.

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