“Incorrect.”
The word fell into the room like a stone into still water, sending ripples of shock through the crowd. Rees’s confident expression crumbled into confusion, and then indignation.
“That is impossible,” he protested. “The answer is clearly—”
“In traditional interpretation,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon interrupted smoothly, “this riddle has been deemed unanswerable. It is a test not of wit, but of recognizing when one faces the impossible. The ancient scholars considered it a measure of wisdom to acknowledge defeat. You have lost the challenge, Mr. Harcourt.”
Victoria’s knees nearly buckled with conflicting waves of relief and horror. She had won. Or rather, he had lost, which amounted to the same thing for her purposes. Yet watching the bewilderment on his face, seeing his friends’ shocked expressions, she felt like the lowest creature alive. Something about that final riddle felt wrong, manipulated, but her desperate need for salvation drowned out the voice of conscience.
Whispers erupted through the crowd. “Failed the challenge... traditional stakes... what does that mean... five thousand pounds...” The words swirled around Victoria as she pressed herself deeper into the shadows, her whole body trembling. The trap had sprung, and there would be no escape for either of them now.
***
The chandelier crystals above spun in Rees’s vision, though he could not tell whether it was from wine or shock. He stood in the center of the Lyon’s Den’s main floor, acutely aware of every eye upon him, feeling their collective gaze pressing against his shoulders. The letter M. It had to be the letter M. He’d solved that riddle a dozen times at country house parties and had won bets with it at Oxford. The answer was clear.
“Madam, with all due respect, you are mistaken,” he said, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the indignation burning in his chest. “The traditional answer to that riddle has always been—”
“The traditional answer according to drawing-room games, perhaps,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon interrupted, her veiled face turning toward him with serpentine grace. “But the Ancient Riddle Challenge follows older precedents. Observe.” She produced a yellowed document from the depths of her gown, unfolding it with theatrical precision. “From the Byzantine collection, translated from the Greek: ‘The third riddle shall be without answer, for wisdom lies in knowing when victory is impossible.’”
“That is absurd.” The words burst from him before he could stop them. “You cannot simply declare a riddle unanswerable after the fact. It is...” He paused, aware that his voice had risen and people were pressing closer to witness his distress. Pride made him straighten his shoulders and smooth his expression into something more controlled. “Very well. A wager is a wager, however unconventional the terms.”
He reached for his purse, ignoring the sting in his hand while calculating whether he had enough banknotes to cover the five thousand pounds. If not, he would send a promissory note in the morning. The amount would sting as it represented a significant portion of his yearly income, but it would not ruin him. A lesson learned about accepting challenges while in his cups.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s gloved hand touched his wrist, stopping him with gentle but firm pressure. “The stakes were not monetary, Mr. Harcourt.”
“Not monetary...” Lord Forge murmured as he stepped closer, his gaze locked on the scene.
Ice crystallized in Rees’s veins. “I beg your pardon?”
“The contract you signed.” She produced the document with a flourish, holding it up for all to see. “Here, in your own hand. You agreed to traditional stakes as decreed by ancient custom, not monetary forfeit.”
“Traditional stakes meaning...” But even as he asked, a terrible understanding began to dawn. The archaic language of the contract, the references to antiquity, the way she had deflected his question about monetary equivalents. The whispers of her matchmaking.
“Marriage,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, the word dropping into the room like an executioner’s axe. “The Ancient Riddle Challenge has, for centuries, been a means of settling matrimonial negotiations. The historical precedents are clear.” She unfurled another document, this one bearing official seals and ribbons. “There is much precedent. Observe. All recognize the binding nature of riddle challenges in matters of matrimony. Most importantly, Mr. Harcourt, you made a wager. As a gentleman, you now must honor it.”
“This is madness.” The words came out strangled, his composure cracking. “You cannot seriously suggest that I am bound to marry someone because I failed to answer an impossible riddle.”
“Not impossible,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon corrected. “Unanswerable. There is a significant philosophical difference. And yes, Mr. Harcourt, that is precisely what I am suggesting. You signed the contract before fifty witnesses. Your honor as a gentleman demands fulfillment of the terms.”
The implications crashed over him. Refuse, and he would be known throughout London as a man who welched on his wagers. His membership at White’s, at Brooks’s, at every respectable establishment would be revoked. No gentleman would do business with him. His family’s reputation would be tainted. His brother Sebastian would be furious, his parents mortified. His unmarried sister Chloe stained by his actions. The scandal would follow him everywhere—Rees Harcourt, the man without honor.
His hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white with the effort of not putting one through the nearest wall. The wine that had made him feel invincible an hour ago now soured in his stomach.
“Who?” The word came out rough, forced through clenched teeth. “Who am I obligated to marry?”
Movement in the crowd drew his attention. A figure stepped forward from the shadows near a marble column, draped in mourning black that made her seem like a smaller echo of Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Slender hands rose to pull back the heavy veil, revealing a face that Rees recognized with a jolt of shock.
Lady Victoria Richmond.
He knew her, of course—everyone in their circle was known, at least by sight and reputation. Dark hair arranged in elegant curls, refined features that would have been beautiful if not for the pallor of distress that painted them now. Deep eyes that would not quite meet his, focused somewhere past his shoulder as if she could not bear to see his reaction.
For a moment, neither moved. Then the whispers started, rippling through the crowd.
“Richmond’s daughter...”
“The garden scandal...”
“Lord Sterling...”
