Stephanie Laurens: The Lady Chosen

They headed steadily south, toward the sound of the sea, soughing in the darkness beyond the shore. Finally, they turned into Black Lion Street. At the end of the street lay the Channel, the border beyond which they’d lived most of the past decade. Halting beneath the swaying sign of the Ship and Anchor, they both paused, eyes on the darkness framed by the houses at the end of the street. The smell of the sea, the brine on the wind, the familiar tang of seaweed reached them.

Memory held them both for an instant, then, as one, they turned. Christian pushed open the door, and they went inside.

Warmth enveloped them, the sounds of English voices, the hop-infused scent of good English ale. Both relaxed, an indefinable tension falling from them. Christian walked up to the bar. “Two pots of your best.”

The landlord nodded a greeting and quickly pulled the pints.

Christian glanced at the half-closed door behind the bar. “We’ll sit in your snug.”

The landlord glanced at him, then set the frothing tankards on the bar. He shot a quick glance at the snug door. “As to that, sir, you’re welcome, I’m sure, but there’s a group o’ gen’lemen in there already, and they might not welcome strangers, like.”

Christian raised his brows. He reached for the flap in the counter and lifted it, stepping past as he picked up one tankard. “We’ll risk it.”

Tristan hid a grin, tossed coins on the counter for the ale, hoisted the second tankard, and followed on Christian’s heels.

He was standing at Christian’s shoulder when Christian sent the snug door swinging wide.

The group gathered about two tables pushed together looked around; five pairs of eyes locked on them.

Five grins dawned.

Charles St. Austell sat back in the chair at the far end of the table and magnanimously waved them in. “You are better men than we. We were about to take bets on how long you’d stand it.”

The others stood so the tables and chairs could be rearranged. Tristan shut the door, set down his tankard, then joined in the round of introductions.

Although they’d all served under Dalziel, they’d never met all seven together. Each knew some of the others; none had previously met all.

Christian Allardyce, the eldest and longest-serving, had operated in the east of France, often in Switzerland, Germany, and the other smaller states and principalities; with his fairish coloring and facility for languages, he’d been a natural in that sphere.

Tristan himself had served more generally, often in the heart of things, in Paris and the major industrial cities; his fluency in French as well as German and Italian, his brown hair, brown eyes, and easy charm had served him and his country well.

He’d never crossed paths with Charles St. Austell, the most outwardly flamboyant of the group. With his tumbling black locks and flashing dark blue eyes, Charles was a magnet for ladies young and old. Half-French, he possessed both the tongue and the wit to make the most of his physical attributes; he’d been Dalziel’s principal operative in the south of France, in Carcasonne and Toulouse.

Gervase Tregarth, a Cornishman with curling brown hair and sharp hazel eyes, had, so Tristan learned, spent much of the last decade in Britanny and Normandy. He knew St. Austell from the past, but in the field they’d never met.

Tony Blake was another scion of an English house who was also half-French. Black-haired, black-eyed, he was the most elegant of the group, yet there was an underlying sharpness beneath the smooth veneer; he was the operative Dalziel had most often used to intercept and interfere with the French spymasters’ networks, a hideously dangerous undertaking centered on the northern French ports. That Tony was alive was a testament to his mettle.

Jack Warnefleet was outwardly a conundrum; he appeared so overtly English, startlingly handsome with fairish brown hair and hazel eyes, that it was hard to imagine he’d been consistently successful in infiltrating all levels of French shipping and many business deals as well. He was a chameleon even more than the rest of them, with a cheery, hail-fellow-well-met geniality few saw beyond.

Deverell was the last man Tristan shook hands with, a personable gentleman with an easy smile, dark brown hair, and greenish eyes. Despite being uncommonly handsome he possessed the knack of blending in with any group. He had served almost exclusively in Paris and had never been detected.

The introductions complete, they sat. The snug was now comfortably full; a fire burned cheerily in one corner as in the flickering light they settled about the table, almost shoulder to shoulder.

They were all large men; they had all at some point been guardsmen in one regiment or another, until Dalziel had found them and lured them into serving through his office.

Not that he’d had to persuade all that hard.

Savoring his first sip of ale, Tristan ran his eye around the table. Outwardly, they were all different, yet they were, very definitely, brothers beneath the skin. Each was a gentleman born of some aristocratic lineage, each possessed similar attributes, abilities, and talents although the relative balance differed. Most importantly, however, each was a man capable of dicing with danger, one who would accept the challenge of a life-and-death engagement without a flicker—more, with an inbred confidence and a certain devil-may-care arrogance.

There was more than a touch of the wild adventurer in each of them. And they were loyal to the bone.

Deverell set down his tankard. “Is it true we’ve all sold out?” There were nods and glances all around; Deverell grinned. “Is it polite to inquire why?” He looked at Christian. “In your case, I assume Allardyce must now become Dearne?”

Wryly, Christian inclined his head. “Indeed. Once my father died, and I came into the title, any choice evaporated. If it hadn’t been for Waterloo, I would already be mired in issues pertaining to sheep and cattle, and no doubt leg-shackled to boot.”

His tone, faintly disgusted, brought commiserating smiles to the others’ faces.

“That sounds all too familiar.” Charles St. Austell looked down the table. “I hadn’t expected to inherit, but while I was away, both my elder brothers failed me.” He grimaced. “So now I’m the Earl of Lostwithiel and, so my sisters, sisters-in-law, and dear mother constantly remind me, long overdue at the altar.”

Jack Warnefleet laughed, not exactly humorously. “Entirely unexpectedly, I’ve joined the club, too. The title was expected—it was the pater’s—but the houses and the blunt came via a great-aunt I barely knew existed, so now, I’ve been told, I rank high on the list of eligibles and can expect to be hunted until I surrender and take a wife.”

“Moi, aussi.” Gervase Tregarth nodded to Jack. “In my case it was a cousin who succumbed to consumption and died ridiculously young, so now I’m the Earl of Crowhurst, with a house in London I haven’t even seen and a need, so I’ve been informed, to get myself a wife and heir, given I’m now the last of the line.”

Tony Blake made a dismissive sound. “At least you don’t have a French mother—believe me, when it comes to hounding one to the altar, they take the cake.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Charles raised his tankard to Tony. “But does that mean you, too, have returned to these shores to discover yourself encumbered?”

Tony wrinkled his nose. “Courtesy of my father, I’ve become Viscount Torrington—I’d hoped it would be years yet, but…” He shrugged. “What I didn’t know was that over the past decade the pater had taken an interest in various investments. I’d expected to inherit a decent livelihood—I hadn’t expected to succeed to great wealth. And then I discover the entire ton knows it. On my way down here I stopped briefly in town to call on my godmother.” He shuddered. “I was nearly mobbed. It was horrendous.”