Chapter 3
The blue door of the Lyon’s Den swung open, and Rees blinked against the sudden brilliance of crystal and gilt that overwhelmed his liquor-adjusted vision.
He swayed slightly, catching Alistair’s shoulder for balance.
Alistair laughed at something the doorman said, the sound echoing off marble columns that stretched toward a ceiling painted with clouds and cherubs in a risqué interpretation of classical mythology.
“Good God,” Alistair said, steadying Rees while gaping at their surroundings. “This makes White’s look like a country tavern.”
The main hall sprawled before them, lit by three enormous chandeliers that cast rainbows across every surface.
The thick carpets muffled their footsteps, creating an odd sensation of floating.
Around them, London’s wealthy and dissolute clustered at tables unlike anything Rees had seen in conventional gaming houses.
At the nearest table, a group of men leaned forward intently, watching a row of candles burn. Each candle varied in size and color, from tall and thin to short and fat. Money changed hands rapidly as one after another flame flickered out, the winners celebrating while losers called for more wine.
“They are betting on which one burns fastest,” Rafe observed, his eyes bright with interest. “That fellow just won fifty pounds because his candle had an air pocket in the wax.”
A waiter appeared at Rees’s elbow, offering a tray of crystal glasses filled with something sparkling gold in the light.
Rees took one, his injured hand smarting at the sudden movement.
The first sip revealed champagne so fine it made him forget the name of whatever swill they had served at the club last week.
The bubbles danced on his tongue, enhancing the pleasant haze around his thoughts.
“The food,” Alistair groaned, having discovered a sideboard laden with delicacies. “You must try this. I think it is some sort of salt-packed caviar, but I have never tasted anything like it.”
Rees accepted the morsel on a small golden spoon, the salt and richness exploding across his palate. His stomach, already warm with wine, welcomed this new addition enthusiastically. He took another glass of champagne from a passing tray.
“Look there,” Rafe nudged him, pointing to another table where patrons sampled small glasses of various colored liquids. “They are wagering on who can identify the most spirits blindfolded. That fellow just named something from Japan. Sake, they are calling it.”
The room spun with activity and excess, a feast for senses heightened by alcohol. Rees found himself grinning, caught up in the infectious energy of the place.
Then his body went rigid.
Across the room, leaning against a marble pillar, stood Damian Herford, Lord Sterling.
The reprobate had followed them. Angry heat swept through Rees as peered at Sterling.
The man’s dark hair was perfectly styled, his evening clothes impeccable, that familiar sneer playing at his lips as he surveyed the room.
A pretty woman hung on his arm, giggling at something he had said, and the sight of it made Rees’s vision tinge red.
The crystal glass in his hand creaked ominously. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached, and the pleasant haze evaporated, replaced by fury that burned through his veins.
“No.” Rafe’s hand came down firmly on his shoulder, having followed his gaze. “Absolutely not, Rees. You are not going to cause a scene here.”
“I am not going to cause anything,” Rees said through gritted teeth. “I am simply going to walk over there and break his nose. Possibly his jaw. Definitely several ribs.”
“You are drunk,” Alistair pointed out, blocking his path. “And this is not the place. If you start a brawl in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s establishment, you will be banned from every decent club in London.”
“It would be worth it,” Rees said, but forced himself to look away, to take another sip of champagne even though it now tasted rancid. The rational part of his mind knew his friends were right. The drunken part wanted blood.
A hush fell over the room. The chatter died instantly, glasses paused midway to lips, and even the candle-watchers turned their attention to the grand staircase at the hall’s far end.
A woman, Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon, he assumed, descended with theatrical precision, each step calculated for effect.
Her black gown seemed to absorb light, the fabric moving like liquid shadow.
Her face was hidden behind a veil of black lace that added to her commanding presence.
The entire room held its breath as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Gentlemen,” her voice carried effortlessly. “Tonight, I offer you something special. A challenge from antiquity itself—the Ancient Riddle Challenge.”
Excited murmurs rippled through the crowd. Several men stepped forward, reaching for their purses.
It was the black widow of Whitehall, to be sure, and Rees could not look away—no one could.
“Three riddles,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon continued, raising one gloved hand for silence. “Each more difficult than the last. Answer all three correctly, and you win five thousand pounds.”
Rees whistled low. That was a fortune. Enough to buy a small estate or fund a dozen shipping ventures. His competitive spirit stirred with interest.
“However,” the widow’s voice took on a note of warning, “should you fail, you forfeit the traditional stakes of such challenges. The terms are non-negotiable and binding. Who among you has both the courage and wit to accept?”
“Traditional stakes,” someone near Rees muttered. “What does that mean?”
“Money, obviously,” another replied. “What else would it be? Double the prize, most likely.”
Rafe elbowed Rees hard in the ribs, nearly causing him to spill his champagne. “You should accept. You are the cleverest man I know. Remember how you solved that impossible cipher at Cambridge? Won us a fortune from Professor Blackwood.”
“That was different,” Rees protested, though he was already considering it. The wine made everything seem possible. “That was mathematics and logic. Riddles are—”
“Riddles are exactly your strength,” Alistair joined in, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. “Remember last Christmas? You solved every riddle in that book Lady Pemberton brought out. Made the rest of us look like fools.”
“You are fools,” Rees said affectionately, but his gaze shifted to where Sterling stood watching. The man’s expression was skeptical and dismissive, as if he doubted anyone in the room had the intelligence to succeed.
That decided it.
The combination of wine, wounded pride, and the desire to prove himself superior to Sterling propelled Rees forward. “I accept,” he called, his voice carrying clearly through the hall.
The crowd parted for him as he approached Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Up close, she seemed even more mysterious, the veil revealing nothing of her features save the pale curve of her jaw. She produced a document from her voluminous skirts, presenting it with a flourish.
“The contract, Mr. Harcourt. Read it carefully.”
Rees took the parchment, trying to focus on the elaborate script that seemed to swim before his eyes.
Heretofore, whereupon, the party of the first part agrees to submit to traditional stakes as decreed by ancient custom.
.. His eyes glazed over the archaic language.
Something about riddles, something about forfeit, something about shall be binding and without appeal.
It never occurred to him to wonder how she knew his name.
“Traditional stakes means the monetary equivalent, correct?” he asked, already reaching for the pen she offered.
“Traditional stakes are traditional stakes,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon replied smoothly. “As they have been since such challenges were first issued in antiquity. Do you accept the terms?”
Rees’s pride would not let him back down now, not with Sterling watching, not with the entire room holding its breath. Besides, how difficult could three riddles be? He had been solving puzzles since childhood and had a first in classics from university.
He signed with a flourish that was only slightly unsteady from the sting in his hand as much as the spirits.
The room erupted in applause and cheers. Money began changing hands as side bets were placed on his success or failure. Rafe slapped him on the back so hard he nearly stumbled, while Alistair called for more champagne to celebrate.
“The challenge will commence in one hour,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon announced, taking back the contract with careful precision. “Mr. Harcourt, I suggest you use the time to... prepare yourself. Water, not wine.” She smiled.
“I am prepared now,” Rees said with a confident grin that made several ladies in the crowd fan themselves. The champagne made him feel witty, charming, unbeatable. “Bring on your riddles, madam. I will solve them all and donate the winnings to a foundling hospital.”
Sterling snorted from his position by the pillar, the sound carrying in a brief lull. Rees’s grin widened. He would show that man what a real gentleman could accomplish.
“One hour, Mr. Harcourt.”
As Mrs. Dove-Lyon glided away, her black gown trailing across the luxurious carpets, Rees accepted another glass of champagne from his celebrating friends.
The contract had already disappeared somewhere into the widow’s keeping, its contents forgotten in the haze of debauchery and anticipated triumph.
A nearby candle guttered like an omen, but Rees was too drunk and too proud to read the sign.