Knave's Wager

She must know she could not win, yet her features betrayed no hint of distress or alarm. In spite of himself, Lord Brandon had to admire her sang froid, even as he acknowledged his own uneasiness. It was, after all, preferable that Robert know nothing of his family’s machinations. The young man was stubborn and, as Elise had reminded, impetuous.

“It seems we are at point non plus,” she said after a short, tense silence. “Yet how sordid we are, to goad and threaten each other. From you I had expected better. Of all I had heard, never once was it said Lord Brandon bullied women. What sport do you find in that?”

The marquess glanced at her calculating face.

“No sport at all, I agree,” he said cautiously. “The matter is so absurdly simple it is a wonder I have kept awake throughout.”

“Naturally. You are more accustomed to using guile. This requires neither wit nor daring. There is no difficulty, no challenge. I am an unworthy adversary. I cannot fight you on equal terms,” she said. “I am not even your social equal.”

Lord Brandon’s expression softened slightly. “If you were, my dear, we should not be having this discussion.”

“Thus I am left with no chance to better myself-—not even to make my future secure. You will have these letters in the end, and I do not doubt you will soon drive Robert from me as well. You have not the courtesy,” she added, her voice dropping, “to fight me fairly.”

“You yourself admit the match is unequal. What would you have?” he asked. Though his tone was lazy, Lord Brandon was fully alert.

“A champion,” she said. “I ask the right to choose a champion to fight on my behalf. Not Robert,” she added quickly, before he could express his disappointment. “A woman. One who is your social equal. One strong enough to defy you, which I dare not.”

“A champion, is it? You wish another woman—a lady, I take it—to wear your... er, favour? That bears at least the distinction of novelty. Pray elucidate.” He raised the wineglass to his lips.

“Madame Davenant,” she said.

He put the glass down.

“It is simple enough. Seduce her and I set Robin free as you and all your noble family wish. Fail, and you set me free—absolutely. You and all of them must cease to trouble me.”

Lord Brandon gazed consideringly at her for a long moment. Then he laughed and said, “Elise, you are a wicked woman.”

“There are many wicked women,” she answered with a shrug. “But I am intelligent.”

“That I readily admit. I had suspected so before. Now I am assured of it. You must know the challenge is irresistible.”

“I took care to make it so. I am not blind. I have watched how you change when you see her. The ennui leaves you. You are tense, like the hound when he scents the fox. You want her. That, any woman of my”—she paused briefly— “profession would know. But you will not have her, I think. Not this one, my handsome, powerful lord.”

“Naturally you believe so. You would not have proposed this otherwise.”

She smiled. “We understand each other, then. Do you accept the challenge?”

Lord Brandon’s reflections consumed approximately thirty seconds. Since he had not particularly cared in the first place what absurdity Robert committed, Robert’s future and his family’s distress were a minor consideration. Besides, they would be distressed only if Brandon failed, which was inconceivable.

In the second place, the marquess had fully intended to seduce Mrs. Davenant. That, after all, was why he had come to Town instead of boarding the first sailing vessel bound for the Continent. Elise’s challenge only added piquancy to the pursuit, made it a bit different—yes, more exciting, perhaps—than usual.

“I accept,” he said.

Lord Brandon was granted eight weeks in which to effect Mrs. Davenant’s fall from virtue. This was an absurdly generous amount of time. Elise, however, had laughingly maintained she might grant him an eternity and the result would be the same. Her patent belief in the task’s impossibility only heightened Lord Brandon’s zest for the chase. By the following day, one of the marquess’s most ingratiating servants had made the acquaintance of certain of Mrs. Davenant’s staff. Within another few days, Lord Brandon began receiving regular reports regarding the widow’s comings and goings.

These reports must have been accurate, for Lord Brandon and Lord Robert Downs were to be found strolling within sight of Hookham’s Circulating Library when Mrs. Davenant’s carriage stopped at the door, and aunt and niece disembarked.

“I believe I must step into Hookham’s for a moment,” said the marquess to his cousin.

Puzzled, Lord Robert glanced towards the building in time to see the widow enter it.

“Really, Julian, you aren’t going to try again, are you?” he asked incredulously. “She doesn’t want to know you, and I don’t see why you want to know her.”

The last words were spoken to air. Lord Brandon was already crossing the street. Curious, Lord Robert followed.

Since Mrs. Davenant had not seen either of the two men, she continued in an equable frame of mind. She even forbore commenting upon her niece’s unfeminine tastes when that young lady went hunting for equestrian books.

Lilith took herself the other way, where the novels were. She picked up a copy of Mansfield Park and began to skim it, to ascertain whether this new effort by the author of Pride and Prejudice would be as rewarding as its predecessors.

The hour being early, the place was not crowded, and the aisle in which she stood was empty. Since she was not interrupted, she soon became engrossed in the novel.

She was halfway through the first chapter when she became disagreeably aware of being watched. She looked up.

Not five feet from her, the long, elegantly clothed form of the Marquess of Brandon lounged against the bookshelves. He played idly with his walking stick while his green eyes regarded her with amusement. Her muscles tensed.

Lilith turned to exit in the opposite direction. That way, she found, was now blocked by a set of steps. Upon it a hapless clerk stood, a stack of volumes in one hand. These he was with great deliberation returning one by one to their places. There were two more stacks of books on the steps.

Lilith steeled herself, turned once more, and marched up to the marquess. He did not move out of her way. On the contrary, he had set his walking sti

ck across the narrow aisle.

She glanced at the walking stick, then up at him, her expression stony. He smiled. Her nerves prickled, but she had no intention of retreating. She took another step forward. He did not budge.

“Would you be kind enough to let me pass?” she asked coldly.

“It cannot be necessary. You have given me to understand I do not exist. In that case, you should not find it difficult to walk right through me.”

In one carelessly graceful movement, he came away from the bookshelf and planted himself directly in her path.

Lilith was a tall woman, and he was not a heavy-set man, yet that lean, athletic form with its broad shoulders shut out everything else from her sight. She was acutely conscious of a faint scent of sandalwood.

“I do hope you will make the experiment,” he went on, his voice dropping. “Surely you cannot expect a collision— though I should not object if there were.”

“Your remarks are not amusing, sir. Let me pass.”

“I am too tired. I am but recently—and not fully, I’m afraid—recovered from an illness. You had better scream for help. I haven’t the strength.”

“I see,” she said. “You wish to create a scene.”

“And you do not.” The green eyes glittered with mischief. “The question is, which of us has more to lose?”

The goading words and his oppressive physical presence turned her hot and cold simultaneously. “I have no wish to bandy words with you,” she said icily. “The aisle has two ends.”

“But it is bad luck to walk under ladders. I shall be obliged to warn you, very loudly, not to try it.”

“You just said you hadn’t the strength to raise your voice.”

“Did I? My senses must have been disordered. I am struck all of a heap to find you so... very... near.”

Though he had not moved, the space between them seemed to vibrate.

“You are silent,” he said. “Dare I hope the feeling is mutual?”

“I will not be the butt of your crude humour, sir.” With a strength born of anger and desperation, she pushed her way past him.