Page 23 of Lyon of Least Resistance

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?”