Chapter Eight
“All hail the most delectable goddess of love, for whom our gallant suitors tonight are vying. The one and only…”
The voice paused and a collective intake of breath rippled through the crowd.
“…Aphrodite!”
A cheer rose, together with what sounded like a rumble of thunder—a hundred pairs of feet stamping on the floor of the gaming hall on the other side of the door.
Cordelia clasped her hands together to dispel the tremors in her body. A light hand touched her arm.
“Sweet girl, there’s no need to fear what’s about to happen.”
“I wish I could believe you, Isidore.”
Her companion smiled.
“Take it from an old whore, my darling. Those men out there are more afraid of us than we are of them. Liken them to mice in the bathtub—benign creatures, though many women will scream at the sight of them. But they can be removed quickly and humanely. Or disposed of in a trap if they become too much of a nuisance.”
Isidore winked, and Cordelia managed a smile.
“There’s my brave girl!” Isidore said. “And you needn’t concern yourself with whether any of tonight’s competitors will recognize you. The kind of man who visits doxies never bothers to look at our faces, and besides—yours was always covered by your mask, was it not?”
She lifted her hand and caressed Cordelia’s head.
“None of them saw this glorious mane of dark hair, nor had the delight of taking it in their hands while you brought them to pleasure,” she said.
“The man you choose tonight will be the most fortunate of men to have entered the Lyon’s Den.
And do not forget, darling—in the Lyon’s Den, it’s the woman who has both the liberty of choice and the power of refusal.
If none of the men satisfy your requirements of a husband, then you may refuse them all. Bessie would not object.”
“Would she not?”
Isidore let out a soft laugh and linked her arm with Cordelia’s.
“Bessie has the ability to bring forth the perfect partner for every woman who comes to her,” she said.
“An old friend of mine is blissfully happy after having secured Bessie’s services”—she cocked her head to one side and grinned—“even though she threatened to punch her suitor at the altar. But a little conflict in a marriage is to be relished, yes? A woman relishes the prospect of taming her husband.”
“Isn’t it the husband who tames the woman?”
“The husband likes to believe that. If a clever woman can help him maintain that belief, then she has succeeded. And you, Cordelia my love, are a very clever woman. Now—shall we?”
The cheering in the gaming hall rose in a crescendo, focusing into a single word.
“Aphrodite! Aphrodite!”
“Ready?” Isidore said.
Cordelia nodded.
“Then go and reign triumphant.”
Isidore opened the door and Cordelia stepped into the gaming den where Coriolanus and Aufidius awaited her.
“And here she is!” the master of ceremonies cried. “All hail the goddess Aphrodite!”
“Hail! Hail!” the crowd cried as Coriolanus and Aufidius each took one of Cordelia’s hands and led her through the room.
The crowd parted, waving and whooping as Cordelia’s companions guided her toward a raised platform upon which sat a throne fashioned in gilded wood carved in an intricate pattern, upholstered with scarlet fabric.
A small flight of steps led to the platform and the cheering increased as she ascended them and took her place on the throne.
She turned to see the master of ceremonies, who leaned toward her and winked behind his mask.
“Puck?”
“Puck wouldn’t be seen dead in this dreadful toga,” he whispered. Then he winked again. “Well—not for just anyone.”
Whistles and professions of love joined the cheers. Puck straightened his stance then raised his hands and, at length, the crowd grew quiet.
“The goddess of love has descended from the heavens, to be worshipped!” he said. “Five gallant suitors—five gods—are come with an offering that awaits her approval. Place your final wagers on the suitor—and gift—that will emerge victorious and win the heart and hand of Aphrodite!”
A clinking of coins and murmur of voices filled the air.
Then Puck unfurled a scroll in his hand and raised it.
“No more bets!” he said. “Now, the gifts from each suitor will be presented to Aphrodite!”
Five masked men dressed in cloaks paraded into the hall, each carrying a scarlet cushion to match the fabric on Cordelia’s throne.
Forming a line, they paraded around the hall to a chorus of “oohs” and “aahs,” then they climbed the platform and stood before her in a line.
Each man wore a label around his neck: Dionysus, Eros, Poseidon, Hephaestus, and Apollo.
“I now call for silence while the goddess makes her choice!” Puck cried. “Fair Aphrodite, the power of choice is bestowed upon you.” Then he leaned toward Cordelia and whispered in her ear. “They’re all gorgeous, darling. One’s a veritable god.”
Cordelia glanced over the gifts. The first, a diamond necklace, sparkled in the light, the facets refracting into myriad colors.
Pretty enough, but the design reminded her of a thrall collar.
It was unlikely that much thought had gone into its acquisition.
The suitor would have, most likely, tasked his manservant with the purchase.
The second was a bouquet of orchids so large that it obscured the man holding it—a gift from someone who believed that the larger an item was, the more a lady preferred it.
The third was a silk gown. Who the devil purchased a gown for a woman they’d not even met? Whom had he tasked with providing the measurements? A mistress, perhaps? In which case he’d wish to continue patronizing her as a reward for helping him to secure a dowry.
Voices rose among the crowd, which Puck silenced with a sharp retort.
“The goddess must decide for herself.”
“I’d take the necklace,” someone said. “Look at the size of those gems!”
“I’ll wager Dionysus has a decent pair of gems in his breeches. Look at the size of him!”
“Hush!” another said. “I’ve ten guineas on the house.”
The house?
The fourth gift was a thick piece of parchment. It was the deed to a townhouse on Curzon Street.
Heavens! Weren’t these men supposed to be desperate for cash? Perhaps the house was mortgaged and she’d be expected to repay any loan secured on it. Or did the man expect her to reside in the house while he cavorted around the country spending her fortune?
Perhaps Bessie had made a mistake in devising the challenge. How the devil was Cordelia supposed to determine a man’s character from a single gift?
Then she glanced at the final gift.
Nestled on the fifth cushion was a painting.
Not the elegant landscapes or portraits that adorned the halls of the Lyon’s Den with their thick, ornate gilt frames and heavy colors.
The little painting before her was a watercolor depicting a vase of roses.
The painting may not have been executed with much skill—one side of the vase had been drawn at an odd angle—and the work was smudged in places, but the brushwork around the petals indicated that the artist, though not a proficient, had taken much care.
Each rose had been painted a different color, ranging from a yellow so pale that it was almost white, to a dark purple.
And rather than restrict himself to depicting the bright colors of the blooms, he had taken care to give attention to the elements that most ladies might overlook—the evidence of wilting around the edge of some of the petals, the thorns jutting out from the stems, and a crack near the base of the vase.
It was the gift of a man who, rather than seeking to impress a woman he’d never met, had, instead, presented himself, laid bare before her, unadorned with finery.
Her hand shaking, Cordelia reached for the painting and traced the outline of the jar. Moisture stung her eyes and she blinked.
Then she withdrew her hand and returned to the throne.
Puck leaned toward her.
“Which one, darling?”
“The painting,” she whispered. “Apollo.”
Puck grinned and winked again, then stood erect and addressed the crowd.
“The goddess has made her choice! Gallant suitors, let us discover whether bliss awaits you at the hands of the goddess of love, or whether you’ll be ejected into darkness, to return another day to win the fair hand of another. Step forward, Dionysus, and I shall remove your mask.”
The man with the necklace obeyed, and Puck took the mask off to reveal Sir Matthew Tainton, triumph glittering in his eyes. Cordelia suppressed a sigh of relief. Sir Matthew was a notorious womanizer who’d been disinherited for spending a fortune on his mistress.
“Sir Matthew Tainton, your prize tonight is”—Puck hesitated, and Sir Matthew’s smile broadened as he offered his hand to Cordelia—“is the continuation of your bachelorhood and the chance to return and fight another day!” Puck finished.
“Oh, fuck!” Sir Matthew huffed, and a combination of laughs and curses threaded through the crowd.
“I thought he was a sure thing,” someone said. “The odds on her choosing that necklace were three to one. Bloody hell, that’s me down twenty guineas.”
Puck addressed each competitor in turn until only one remained. Apollo. Though he stood erect, Cordelia noticed a slight tremor in his form.
“Devil’s bloody stockings!” someone said. “Don’t say she’s chosen him? Dear God, the woman must be soft in the head.”
“Silence!” Puck said. Then he turned to the victor. “Fair Apollo, present Aphrodite with your gift, then reveal yourself to the company so that we might celebrate your betrothal.”
Hands shaking, the fifth competitor stepped forward, stumbling as his foot caught the hem of his cloak.
Laughter erupted, which was quickly silenced as Cordelia rose.
Apollo presented the cushion, and Cordelia picked up the painting and nodded.
“Aphrodite accepts your gift,” Puck said. “Do you, Apollo, accept your prize and betroth yourself to her irrevocably?”
He nodded. “Aye, I do.”
Cordelia’s stomach fluttered at the familiar timbre of his voice.
No…
“Then reveal yourself,” Puck said. “Shed your cloak and take the hand of your fiancée!”
Hands shaking, Apollo unlaced his cloak and dropped it to the floor, and Cordelia’s heart stuttered as she took in the perfectly tailored jacket, pale-blue waistcoat with understated embroidery, cream breeches, and polished calfskin boots.
Then, amid applause, he removed his mask to reveal a face she knew and loved—deep-set cornflower-blue eyes, a strong, straight nose, full lips, and well-defined cheekbones, framed with thick honey-gold hair.
Puck took the painting, then the victor reached forward and took Cordelia’s hand. She suppressed a gasp as he curled his fingers around her wrist, and the familiar flame of desire swelled in her blood.
But he gave no sign of recognition.
Perhaps Isidore was right. When a man took a whore, he cared not what her face looked like.
“Gentlemen!” Puck cried. “I present to you the happy couple! The fair Aphrodite and the gallant Apollo! Miss Cordelia Flowers, and James, Viscount Bedford!”