The second Bastion Club novel from bestselling author Stephanie Laurens! Beautiful Alicia Carrington's family is desperate, but when her lies lead to a dead body, only the quietly confident Anthony Blake -- member of the Bastion Club -- can protect her. Anthony's duty soon falls way to passion, forcing Alicia to decide: is her love worthy of the truth?

The Season has yet to begin, and the second member of the Bastion Club, tall, handsome Anthony Blake, Viscount Torrington, is already a target for every matchmaking mama in London. None of their flighty daughters can fix his interest, but a certain lady does...

Alicia is living a deception. Desperation has caused the determined but penniless lady to boldly launch her ravishing younger sister into the ton and have her make a spectacular match. By masquerading as the widowed "Mrs. Carrington" Alicia can act as the perfect chaperone…but fashionable ladies are not accused of murder...

When Tony Blake discovers Alicia standing over a dead body in his godmother’s garden, every instinct tells him she is innocent. His connections allow him to take control of the investigation, his social prominence provides her public support, but it is more than honor that compels him to protect her and to do everything in his seductive power to make her his.

The Bastion Club
Montrose Place, London
March 15, 1816

"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.

"Trentham sends his regrets." At the head of the table, Christian didn't bother keeping a straight face. "He didn't sound all that sincere. He wrote that he had more pressing engagements, but wished us joy in our endeavors. He expects to be back in town in a week, however, and looks forward to supporting the six of us through our upcoming travails."

"Kind of him," Gervase quipped, but they were all grinning.

Trentham -- Tristan Wemyss -- had been the first of their number to successfully achieve his goal, the same goal they all were intent on attaining. They all needed to marry; that common aim had spawned this, their club, their last bastion against the matchmakers of the ton.

Of the six of them as yet unwed, gathered this evening to share the latest news, Tony felt sure he was the most desperate, although why he felt so restless, so frustrated, as if poised for action yet with no enemy in sight, he couldn't fathom. He hadn't felt so moody in years. Then again, he hadn't been a civilian, an ordinary gentleman, for years, either.

"I vote we meet every fortnight," Jack Warnefleet said. "We need to keep abreast of events, so to speak."

"I agree." Gervase nodded across the table. "And if any of us has anything urgent to report, we call a meeting as needed. Given the pace at which matters move in the ton, two weeks is the limit—by then, the ground has shifted."

"I've heard the patronesses of Almack's are thinking of opening their season early, such is the interest."

"Is it true one still has to wear knee breeches?"

"On pain of being turned away." Christian raised his brows. "Although I've yet to ascertain just why that would be painful."

The others laughed. They continued trading information -- on events, the latest fashions and tonnish distractions -- eventually moving on to comment and caution on individual matrons, matchmaking mamas, dragons, gorgons, and the like -- all those who lay in wait for unsuspecting eligible gentlemen with a view to matrimonially ensnaring them.

"Lady Entwhistle's one to avoid—once she sinks her talons into you, it's the devil of a job to break free."

It was their way of coping with the challenge before them.

They'd all spent the last decade or more in the service of His Majesty's government as agents acting in an unofficial capacity scattered throughout France and neighboring states, collecting information on enemy troops, ships, provisions, and strategies. They'd all reported to Dalziel, a spymaster who lurked, a spider in the center of his web, buried in the depths of Whitehall; he oversaw all English military agents on foreign soil.