Chapter Six
The Lyon’s Den
Four in the afternoon
Elspeth giggled.
And Lady Elspeth Westridge never giggled. Apparently this unexpected reaction even startled Mrs. Dove-Lyon as well as Sinclair, who leaned forward and touched Elspeth on the shoulder.
“My lady? Are you all right?”
Elspeth pressed her fingers to her lips to control the giggles and nodded.
Her entire being felt as if she were vibrating with a pure joy she had seldom felt, if ever.
He heard her! Lord Timothy had listened to her questions and answered them without hesitation.
He barely blinked as she changed directions.
He knew Bertram, which even some of her acquaintances from the Royal Society lectures did not.
He did not scoff at her questions or responses, and he did not appear to think she was some type of oddity, as if she were an alien species previously undiscovered in the London environs.
Montagu certainly had. He had found her questions about travel ludicrous.
His entire goal seemed to be to move into his Scottish castle, and his main reasoning for pursuing a wife was for her money and someone to help him run the household once the renovation was complete.
One question about travel resulted in a five-minute diatribe about the road conditions between London and Scotland.
He freely admitted that many of his staff had given notice that they would not go with him, so he needed a partner to hire new ones, preferably from among the Scottish locals.
To be honest, Viscount Godwin felt like the better option in that moment.
Livingstone fared better in her eyes, although he remained a fidgety mess throughout the conversation.
Her first impression of the man at the one musicale where they met had been correct: chronic shyness consumed him.
He barely met her gaze the entire time. He did not mind travel, but as a means to an end instead of any great passion.
His goal in life—to spread the Gospel of Jesus Christ to the unsaved—meant that travel became a necessary evil.
He would be pleased to have his wife accompany him, and he would not mind if she pursued her own interests in “flora and fauna and whatnot, all that”—his words—but their primary focus in life would be sharing God worldwide.
What remained of her dowry would be used to cover travel expenses.
In other words, she would be an ornament, as a good wife should be.
The sound Sinclair had made deep in her throat echoed around the room like a gunshot. And Lady Elspeth began to wonder if Mrs. Dove-Lyon had not organized all this at the behest of her father, to teach her a lesson about how women are perceived in Society and how limited her choices actually were.
As if Elspeth did not already know. There was a reason she remained unmarried at the age of thirty.
But then Lord Timothy had entered the room.
Elspeth giggled again. When she found her voice, she lowered her hand back to her lap and looked at Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “I do not suppose it would be possible to simply choose one.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon sipped her tea. “No. You must choose two of the three so that the competition tasks can commence tomorrow. Part of what covers the expenses of this will be the wagers placed on who will win. I take it that you have selected at least one.”
Sinclair coughed.
Elspeth fought back another giggle, swallowing hard. “I have. I believe the competitors should be Lord Timothy and Mr. Livingstone.”
“I will notify them, as well as Mr. Montagu. We will convene here tomorrow morning at ten. One gentleman must win at least two of three tasks. They must both compete in the first task. If either wishes to withdraw after that first task, he may do so.”
“What are the tasks again?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded and pulled a piece of paper from her desk. “The first will be to tread water in the Serpentine.”
An image of Lord Timothy floundering in the water off the Falmouth docks slid through Elspeth’s mind. “Oh, dear.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon poured more tea into her cup. “I assure you that both gentlemen are adequate swimmers. I would not set the task otherwise. I do not wish anyone to die during these competitions. That would put somewhat of a damper on the whole enterprise.”
“Understandable.”
She slid the paper over to Elspeth. “Do you recognize these names?”
Elspeth scanned the list.
Vinca minor
Anemonoides nemorosa
Ficaria verna
Primula vulgaris
Hyacinthoides non-scripta
“Of course. These are rather common flowers in this area.” She pointed to each as she named them. “Periwinkle, wood anemone, lesser celandine, primrose, English bluebell.”
“These all grow in our garden, which is off the main gaming hall. The gentlemen will be given one half hour to put together a bouquet of these flowers.”
Elspeth’s brows furrowed. “That is a rather simple task.”
“They will only be given this list.” She pointed at the paper in Elspeth’s hand—which only listed the Latin names.
Pressing her fingers to her mouth again, Elspeth suppressed another giggle. Apparently, Mrs. Dove-Lyon knew how to rig a game without appearing to rig a game. And Elspeth would never dare accuse the woman of such a thing.
“And the third task?”
“If they make it that far, they will be asked to balance on a small box with one foot lifted. Whoever lasts the longest wins the competition.”
“Do you think they will last very long?”
“In my experience, very few men make it to the third task. Most men do not possess either the determination or the intelligence to succeed.”
“That seems to be a rather dim view of men.”
“And you are unmarried because . . .”
“My father would tell you it is because I read too many newspapers. And books. And that I like to dig in the dirt.”
“You realize he is most likely correct.”
“Yes. Which has brought us here.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded. “I will send the notices to Mr. Livingstone and Lord Timothy. Tomorrow morning, meet us at the Cake House near the Serpentine. Further instructions will follow.”
Elspeth stood, as did Sinclair. Unbidden, Helena appeared at the door and escorted them upstairs and out the ladies’ entrance, where a hansom cab waited, having been summoned by one of the Lyon’s Den staff.
As they settled in, Sinclair spoke evenly. “I think that went as expected. But I do have one question.”
“Which is?”
“When are you going to tell your father?”