Chapter Six
“Unicorn! Unicorn! Unicorn!”
Drunken chants filled the air as a man swarmed up one of the four ropes hanging from the gallery far above the gaming hall.
No, not a man. A giant.
Powerful arms as thick as tree trunks grasped the rope, bulging with the effort as he hauled himself up, the rope swaying from side to side.
An impressive sight of masculinity—or it would have been, were he not wearing the head of a unicorn. How the devil could he see where he was going?
James lifted his gaze to the gallery where the prize awaited the victor. The familiar black-clad veiled figure stood at the edge, her gloved hands on the balustrade.
A spider awaiting her prey.
Then another chant rose up.
“Minotaur! Minotaur!”
A second man, wearing the head of a bull, stumbled toward the bottom of the ropes, almost tripping over a rival who lay on the floor, limbs akimbo, wearing a mask in the form of a serpent.
He pushed aside the fourth competitor with a mask in the shape of a bird, and stretched his hands toward the rope amid applause and an exchange of coins.
Surely they weren’t still placing bets? Any man who bet against the unicorn was a fool. He’d almost reached the top, where the prize awaited.
And there she was, standing beside Mrs. Dove-Lyon, veiled in white.
Then the unicorn slipped and gasps rippled through the room. But he regained his hold and, amid roars of delight, hauled himself over the balustrade to stand beside his prize.
The black-clad figure drew the victor and his prize together.
“Reveal yourselves to the world!” she cried.
On the count of three, the unicorn took off his mask, while the prize lifted her veil.
But rather than the joy and triumph that James had anticipated, he saw nothing but horror on their faces as they stared open-mouthed at each other.
Then the bride-to-be lunged forward and punched her champion on the jaw.
He staggered back and collapsed, and peals of laughter echoed through the crowd.
Heaven help me! Is that what awaits me if I enter one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s games?
The man standing in front of James turned, and he recognized the redheaded fellow from last night—the inebriated Mr. Vernon.
“I say,” Vernon said, “it’s Mr. Fresh Meat! Surely you’re not afraid of a little bloodsport? I like a feisty woman myself—makes the taming all the more pleasurable.”
“I doubt anyone could tame her,” James said.
“Ha! That’s where you’re wrong. See?”
Vernon pointed toward the gallery, where the victor, who, having regained his footing, had pulled the woman to him and was kissing her in the manner of a beast claiming his female.
“I daresay she’ll be screaming his name tonight,” Vernon said, with a chuckle, “assuming she learns his name before he rides her.”
James winced as he watched the not-so-happy couple. Then the bride-to-be who, at first, appeared reluctant, relaxed into her suitor’s arms as he continued kissing her, and clung to him.
James’s pulse heightened at the sight, and he found himself envying the man. Was that all it took—a single kiss—to ensnare the heart of one’s intended?
Perhaps that was why…she refused to kiss him. To preserve her heart.
And his.
The couple on the gallery broke their kiss and the crowd burst into applause. Then they retreated through a doorway at the rear of the gallery and disappeared, followed by their black-clad hostess.
The tall youth who had escorted James last night appeared at his elbow with a glass of ruby-red liquid. James glanced at him and raised an eyebrow.
“Your second drink, courtesy of Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” the youth said. “She wishes to know whether you’ll remain here a little longer. She also asked me to remind you that your account with us is in credit to the sum of ten guineas.”
“There must be a mistake,” James said. “I haven’t—”
“No mistake, Lord Bedford, I assure you. Enjoy your drink. And spend your ten guineas wisely.”
James took the glass.
“Where’s mine?” James’s companion said.
“Awaiting you at the bar, Mr. Vernon, sir,” the youth replied, “where you can also settle your account, which is two weeks overdue. Perhaps you’d like to follow me?”
With a huff, Vernon nodded and, grumbling about the impropriety of discussing commerce in the company of gentlemen, followed the youth through the crowd. James retreated to a quiet corner among the shadows.
After a moment, the black-clad hostess reappeared at the top of the gallery, accompanied by the youth who had delivered James’s drink. The youth lifted his hand and a hush descended. Then he cast his gaze over the company, lingering for a heartbeat on James.
“Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye!” he cried.
Whispering broke out among the crowd, which was quickly shushed.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon wishes to invite intrepid lovers to partake in a game that will test your prowess in wooing a fair lady!” the youth cried.
“The prize, should you dare to strive for it, is the most exquisite bride, complete with a fortune of no less than eighteen thousand pounds. The game is to be called…”
He paused, as if for dramatic effect, then surveyed the room once more. For a second time, James could swear that the youth’s gaze lingered on him.
“…the Definitive Gift of Love!” the youth finished. “For ten guineas, each gallant competitor shall be tasked with procuring a gift for our fair lady.”
James caught his breath.
Ten guineas…
“What kind of gift?” a voice called from the crowd.
“The definitive gift,” the youth said. “A gift that tells the lady everything she needs to know about you to determine whether you are the perfect suitor. The gifts are to be presented next Saturday and the man whose gift she chooses to accept is the man who shall claim her hand.”
“Bugger,” a voice said, as Mr. Vernon appeared at James’s elbow.
“I don’t have ten guineas. Neither have I the funds to procure the sort of gift to win the hand of a lady already in possession of a fortune.
I’ve no intention of getting myself further into debt.
I don’t suppose you’d care to stand me a loan, old chap? ”
“I may be fresh meat here, but I’m no fool, Vernon,” James said. “It’s not a loan if you’ve no intention of paying it back.”
“Fair point,” Vernon said good-naturedly. “Can’t blame a chap for asking, though.”
He sauntered off, doubtless in search of more fresh meat to squeeze for ten guineas.
Toga-clad youths appeared, carrying tables covered in green baize, which they set out in a circular pattern, placing chairs at each.
The crowd dispersed, forming groups at each table and, shortly after, the clink of money exchanging hands filled the hall, the Lyon’s Den returning, once more, to the business of gaming.
A youth approached James, holding a notebook.
“Lord Bedford, may I put your name down for the Definitive Gift challenge?”
James glanced about the hall. Despite its decadence, the Lyon’s Den was less predatory than a Society ballroom.
Eighteen thousand was a tidy enough sum to maintain Bedford Hall and furnish Georgiana with a modest dowry.
A man of his rank oughtn’t expect to find love in a marriage—he certainly wouldn’t find it with a Society debutante.
And, if he won the challenge, he’d never again be required to attend a Society ball.
“Yes,” he said, before his sense of propriety could stop him. “Yes, you may.”
“Excellent,” the youth said, scribbling in the notebook. “We’ll expect you at seven, next Saturday, for your costume fitting—to lend a sense of carnival to the occasion.”
James drained his glass and the youth took it.
“Very good, Your Lordship,” he said. “Choose your gift wisely.”
James nodded, and the youth bowed and slipped away, accosting other would-be competitors.
What the bloody hell had he signed up for?