They shared a wicked sense of humor and an unquenchable thirst for adventure, and their friendship had sustained them through school and their subsequent studies at Cambridge. When they’d left university five years ago, they’d thrown themselves enthusiastically into town life, not rising until midday, drinking and flirting away the nights. They’d gleefully cultivated reputations as gamesters, reprobates, and all-around rogues.

But even London’s endless whirl of dissipation had begun to pall, and when Nelson trounced Napoleon at Trafalgar, the three of them had signed up to the Rifles, looking for adventure, naively convinced the war would all be over in a matter of months.

But their “short stint” in the Rifles had turned into three long, grueling years—years which had included any number of close shaves, hellish conditions, moments of elation and despair, hardship and loss.

Benedict shook his head. War had made men of them, had shown their previous existence to be shallow and frivolous. They’d made a pact, one evening, seated around a smoky campfire on a sodden field in Belgium, the dawn before Waterloo. A vow that when they returned—if they survived the battle ahead—they’d make their fortunes together.

Alex and Seb already had money, of course. Alex was wealthy in his own right, thanks to a generous maiden aunt who’d left him a tidy sum, and Seb was the younger son of a duke and had his own funds.

In stark contrast, Benedict’s father had left his offspring in dire straits. Benedict’s older brother, John, had inherited the title Earl of Morcott, but little else save a monstrous pile of debt, which Benedict felt honor bound to help him reduce. John had sold off everything that wasn’t entailed and had managed to retain the principle seat, Morcott Hall, and a few hundred acres, and was busy returning the estate to profitability. He was currently in town on the lookout for a wealthy wife, but Ben hadn’t caught up with him for weeks.

He’d offered John the money he’d received when he sold off his commission and left the Rifles, but John had staunchly refused. Not out of pride—he appreciated the gesture, but he insisted that Benedict invest in something to secure his own financial future.

And so Benedict had put his money in with Alex and Seb, and they’d opened the Tricorn Club, named after the three-cornered hat favored by rogues and highwaymen. They’d deemed the name both appropriate—since there were three of them in the joint enterprise—and suitably disreputable. The club, after all, would be open not just to an elite few, like White’s or Brooks’, but to any who could pay the subscription fee, honor their gambling debts, and abide by the house rules. The Tricorn was the most progressive of clubs: It welcomed lords and ladies, actresses and tradesmen, bankers and lawyers.