Cavendish heaved a resigned sigh. “The last man left alive, you mean.”
“We’re talking about marriage.” Oliver chuckled. “It’s certainly been compared to imprisonment, but I daresay comparing it to death goes a bit far.”
“Have you ever heard of a tontine?” Warton said abruptly.
Sinclair drew his brows together. “It’s an investment program, isn’t it?”
“Some kind of lottery?” Oliver said. “Or wager?”
“A little of all that, really.” Warton thought for a moment. “If I recall correctly, subscribers contribute a certain amount to the tontine. The money can be invested or simply held. However, whenever a subscriber dies, his contribution is divided among those remaining. Eventually only one subscriber is left and the tontine is his. And I think,” Warton said slowly, “we should form one.”
“And the last man to marry wins?” Oliver’s gaze met Warton’s and he grinned. “We’ve wagered on nearly everything else through the years.”
“Now whose equating death with marriage?” Cavendish muttered.
“Are you sure you want to include me in this?” Sinclair shook his head. “You scarcely know me.”
“And yet we have invested a great deal in your railroad venture,” Warton said. “This will be considerably less of a risk than that, although”—he cast a look of suspicion over the group—“people have been known to kill over a tontine.”
“I’ll do it.” Cavendish nodded. “How much?”
Oliver shrugged. “It scarcely matters how much. The symbolism is the important thing.”
“Then I propose”—Warton thought for a moment—“one shilling each.”
“Then the winner receives a mere four shillings?” Cavendish shook his head. “Scarcely worth the effort.”
“Then you can marry first and forfeit your shilling.” Sinclair’s voice was sincere but amusement shone in his eyes.
“Yes, I see your point.” Cavendish grimaced. “Symbolism and all that. Very well, then, a shilling it is.”
“Gentlemen, we should make this official.” Oliver got to his feet and raised his glass. The other men followed suit. “Here’s to the last one among us to remain.”
“And for each of us who does not make it to that point, here’s to the respective woman of our dreams,”
Sinclair said.
“Wherever she may be, whenever we may find her.” Cavendish’s voice rang with sincerity. “She awaits us as inescapably as the night awaits the day.”
“Nicely said,” Warton murmured to Cavendish. “Very poetic.”
“There’s more.” Cavendish cleared his throat. “And in regards to that unknown lady in question…” He thought for a moment. “Let her be lovely.”
Sinclair grinned. “Let her be rich.”
“Let her be”—Warton paused—“forthright. As for the union itself”—he chuckled—“let it be painless.”
Cavendish sighed. “Let it be passionate.”
“Let it be blissful.” Sinclair smiled.
“And gentlemen, above all…” Oliver raised his glass higher. “Let it be love.”
About the Author
VICTORIA ALEXANDER was an award-winning television reporter until she discovered fiction was much more fun than real life. She turned to writing full time and has never looked back. Victoria grew up traveling the country as an Air Force brat and is now settled in Omaha, Nebraska, with her husband, two teenaged children, and a bearded collie named Sam. She firmly believes housework is a four-letter word, there are no calories in anything eaten standing up, procrastination is an art form, and it’s never too soon to panic.
And she loves getting mail that doesn’t require a return payment. Write to her at P.O. Box 31544, Omaha, NE 68131.
www.eclectics.com/victoria
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