Page 29 of Lyon of Least Resistance

“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.