Chapter Five #3
“In my experience, simple is often harder than it looks,” Mr. Osbourne replied, casting a rueful glance upward, toward the ladies’ gallery. “Are they going to be controlling the music, I wonder? Perhaps they are already deciding who amongst us should make it to the next round.”
Something about Mr. Osbourne’s question gave Tom pause.
Though it was of course impossible to control completely, it was entirely possible that Mrs. Dove-Lyon would give the ladies the means to pause the quartet, allowing them the opportunity to influence who made it into a seat and ultimately, down the aisle.
He’d hoped he’d made a good enough impression upon Miss Morehouse to dissuade such an action.
One of the staff, whom Tom recognized as a dealer from one of the card tables, motioned for the gentlemen to form a circle in front of the chairs while Mrs. Dove-Lyon addressed the crowd.
“If you have not laid your bets on this round,” she said, “you have a moment left before this round begins.”
Tom wanted to roll his eyes as he watched slips of paper being thrust into the hands of some of the Lyon’s Den’s dealers who were threading their way through the crowd.
Only Mrs. Dove-Lyon would take an opportunity like this to take even more coin from an event which, he was quite sure, would keep the Lyon’s Den well stocked with the best food and drink in all of London for the foreseeable future.
“I am starting to have something of a sympathy for my poor horses,” Mr. Osbourne said, watching the frenetic betting happening around them.
Once the bets had been made, Mrs. Dove-Lyon held up her arm, a bright-red cloth dangling from between her fingers.
“When the music begins, you will move clockwise around the circle and continue until the music stops,” she said, her voice silencing the crowd once more. “When it does, you are to find a seat in the circle. The gentleman who remains standing is out.”
She waved the handkerchief, and as promised, music started playing from the gallery above.
It was a lively tune, and after a few awkward steps, the contestants began circling the chairs.
The whole thing felt silly, which Tom imagined was part of the spectacle.
He’d marched up and down the Spanish countryside more times than he could recall, and while that had been punctuated by moments of terror, the monotony was remarkably similar.
After the fourth—or was it the fifth—time circling the chairs, Tom’s mind began to wander.
The music stopped.
It took Tom and the rest of the gentlemen in this ridiculous game precious seconds to react. But once they did, the mad scramble for a seat began. And as promised, one man was left standing.
“Mr. Hornsby,” the widow declared. “You are removed from the game.”
One of the staff escorted the gentleman away from the others.
“Gentlemen, restore your places and stand,” the widow said, before encouraging the crowd to make their bets once more.
While they did so, another chair was removed, making the circle of chairs a little smaller.
When the music struck again, Tom paid closer attention, watching the others, watching the chairs.
With each successive round, the music seemed to speed up, feeding on the energy of the crowd which found itself entranced by this simple, yet competitive little game.
After four rounds, there were seven left, including Tom and Mr. Osbourne, who’d nearly collided with another of the contestants before claiming the last seat.
The music started once more. The lively notes of Lady Mary Ramsay filled the hall from two violins.
It was one of Georgiana’s favorites, and she’d played it at a Boxing Day recital at Whetherby.
He’d remembered her cheeks glowing as she played it for the servants at the meal to celebrate the season.
Nostalgia washed over him as he recalled the day when everyone at the great estate could forget their troubles, and just be—lord and servant, steward and master, Tom and Georgie.
The fiddles stopped, and the frantic dash toward the chairs brought Tom out of the memory. He raced for the last seat, nearly tipping over the chair as he did so, leaving a Mr. Anthony Green standing, red faced before he stalked away.
“Well, I’m glad that is over,” Mr. Osbourne said, rubbing his hands together as if he’d claimed a personal victory. “I will need some cake and a bit of brandy after all that.”
Tom couldn’t help but smile at Mr. Osbourne. The man wasn’t wrong. One ridiculous game over. He could use a little brandy as well.
“Aren’t you interested in meeting your potential bride?
” he asked. Tom wanted time to ingratiate himself to Miss Morehouse.
While he had no idea how the remaining two games were to be played, Mrs. Dove-Lyon had made it clear that in the end, it would be the ladies who would choose.
Though he’d been thoroughly rejected by the one woman who’d claimed his heart, he was not a lovestruck boy any longer.
His heart was no longer on offer and any of the three women waiting in the parlor who understood that would be his wife.