Miss Gabriel's Gambit (2 page)

“Be telling her what you will,” Petrov said with morose dignity. “I am having no need to court my cousin’s favor. Is certain she plans to be marrying me off one way or another. And I am suspecting that she has plans for poor David here. Is talking of him with matchmaking gleam in her eye. She commands that you are coming next Wednesday.”

“I absolutely refuse to be fodder for the matrimonial cannon,” David said, sounding much like a petulant child. “I will simply not go.”

“You cannot be refusing,” Petrov said, aghast at the very idea of such defiance. “You will be making enemy of one of most powerful women in the Ton. Is almost to be like a command from the Tsar, David. She is
Patroness
.”

“I was unaware that a Patroness is the equivalent of Royalty” David declared.

“Damned close to it,” Highslip said. “Petrov is right. You must go to Almack’s, else you commit social suicide.”

“’Twould be equally suicidal for him to attend looking like that,” Brummel commented, with a raised brow punctuating a look of considered castigation.

“And what is wrong with my clothes?” David asked, rising slowly.

Brummel suddenly felt a twinge of misgiving. It was one thing to tweak the nose of a man like David Rutherford when he was sober. His intellectual bent and soft spoken ways tended to cause his friends to forget his sheer physical power. Rutherford’s six foot frame was not one of those gaunt physiques that made one think of a toothpick. Lord Donhill was as formidable with his fists as he was on the chessboard.

In fact, it was David’s prowess with his fives that had cemented the peculiar friendship between the arbiter of fashion and the unkempt newly-titled nabob. At first, Brummel had been inclined to dismiss Rutherford because of his dress, only worthy of the Beau’s notice by the occasional caustic remark. But one night, when he and Rutherford chanced to leave the club together and were set upon by footpads, David had handily dispatched the attackers. Brummel owed the man his life and now, the master of mode whom society styled “Beau,” had set upon a way to repay the debt.

“What is wrong with my clothes?” David repeated in puzzlement, slumping back into his seat.

“Everything,” Brummel said, acerbically, determined to take his friend in hand. “Weston would cringe at that coat and I have yet to determine the precise purpose of that sorry slip of rag hanging at your neck.”

“You mean this?” David asked, picking up the end of his neckcloth to polish his spectacles.

Brummel groaned. “You are hopeless, David. How will you ever attract the fair sex if you disdain proper dress? I ought to despair of you.”

“Do so, by all means, George,” David said. “For even my Sikh valet has told me that I am a hopeless cause. ‘Tis just as well, since my experience has left me no wish to attract eligible members of the predatory sex. Perhaps you might be so good as to convey your negative opinion to the Countess Lieven? In my sorry garb and with my churlish ways, I am surely unfit for the sacred salons of Almack’s,” David said.

“Oh, she will have you.” Brummel sighed. “Dorothea always gets her way. I would wager that you will soon be dressed, trussed and leg-shackled, David. Nothing can save you,”

“I have no intention of getting caught in the parson’s mousetrap, George,” David declared. “Moreover, I refuse to be wrapped up like some prettified parcel. The contents of the package are the same regardless of the ribbons about it.”

“But one must make an effort,” Highslip said.

“Why?” David asked, blinking as he tried to focus his eyes. He knew he was well on the way to being foxed, but the brandy seemed uncommon smooth as he downed the contents of his glass. “If I were looking to wed, I have shekels aplenty, a decent bloodline, don’t look like a leper. That’s all the women want, anyway. But I am not looking to be a lifetime prisoner. I simply refuse to play Lieven's game.”

“You forget your newly acquired title,
Lord
Donhill, although you disdain to use it. The words ‘your ladyship’ are music to any woman’s ear,” Brummel said, toying with his quizzing glass.

“Pah! A mere baron.” David waved his hand in dismissal, then poured the brandy unsteadily, spilling near as much on the table as in the glass. “‘Tis not as if I am an earl, like Highslip here.”

Highslip nodded in silent agreement.

 “You underestimate your attractions, David,” Brummel declared earnestly, “and the skill of your opponents. This is a woman’s game, one where your vaunted skills of logic will only work against you.”

Petrov tipped back his glass. “Why are you not making your own rules then?” he asked, his eyes rolling as his head drooped slowly to the table.

“The very thing!” David said, his thoughts coming together in a dance of drunken logic. He beckoned to a nearby footman. “Fetch the book,” Rutherford demanded and the servant quickly returned with White’s betting book, pen and inkwell. David’s shaky fingers moved through myriads of wagers regarding the progress of raindrops, the outcomes of horse races and courtships, until he found himself a blank spot. In a faltering hand, David scrawled upon the ledger, then passed the book to Highslip.

“‘I, David Rutherford, will only marry the woman who can beat me in a game of chess,’” Highslip read. “Famous! You have assured your freedom forever.”

Brummel frowned. “I cannot like it,” he said. “It seems an unfair wager.”

“How so?” Highslip asked.

“What incentive is there for any female to try?” Brummel asked. “Assuming she might not wish to marry him.”

“Is absurd. David is rich as Croesus, titled besides,” Petrov said, raising his bloodshot eyes once more. “Is contradiction, Brummel.”

“Consider the character of our mythical chess-playing female. She would undoubtedly be a woman of quality, for no female of the lower classes would have the ability to become expert at so intellectual a pursuit, especially a game so incongruous to her feminine nature. I posit that our mythical fair Goliath might even have a modicum of taste,” the Beau said with a sniff. “No woman of gentle breeding would give David a second look attired so. I have seen better dressed dustmen on a Sunday.”

“I shall add a thousand pounds to sweeten the pot,” Highslip declared. “That way if the female is addled enough not to wish to wed him, there shall be some incentive to take him on.”

“Excellent idea, Highslip. Even though your pockets are to let, I suppose that it is not too imprudent to make such a pledge. It is unlikely that you will ever be required to pay it,” the Beau said, his lip curling sarcastically. He touched his finger to his chin in thought, his eyes alight with a speculative look as he gazed at David. “But that is not enough. Every effort must be made to fashion this wager into a sportsmanlike proposition. Therefore, I give you, Highslip, the charge of dressing David appropriately for the length of the Season.”

“Surely that would take a veritable miracle worker,” Highslip protested.

“I would only entrust someone with the most exquisite taste for the task, Hugo” Brummel said, smoothly.

Highslip preened himself at the compliment. “Why thank you Brummel, I do try to keep up the standards. It is just ... well ...” He looked at Rutherford who sat elbows on the table, chin in hand, necklinen soaking in splashed liquor. The earl shrugged his shoulders eloquently. “It seems almost the undertaking of a Sisyphus.”

“A most noble effort, Highslip. For the sake of sport,” Brummel said, inclining his head graciously. Far better that someone else undertake to dress David, for it would not do at all if the Beau’s own protégé would fail in the realms of fashion. “I, of course, shall be available should any advice be required.” He added his scrawl beneath David’s recording the full details of the wager. “I vow, you shall be transformed David. Nonetheless, you may now enter the sacred portals of Almack’s in utter safety, for surely the woman does not exist who could trounce you on the board.”

David frowned, not at all sure if he wished to act the role of clay in Brummel and Highslip’s hands, but he shrugged that thought aside. With the terms of the wager set, he was safe from the harridans and harpies. “Now that my future is secure, gentlemen,” he said, rising unsteadily to his feet, “shall we raise a glass to the one who
did
rout me. My worthy opponent, Sir Miles Gabriel.”

“May he rot in hell,” Highslip said sullenly.

David dropped his glass in astonishment, its contents spewing across the chessboard. “What was that, Highslip?”

“Sir Miles? The old curmudgeon stuck his spoon in the wall nigh on a year ago,” Lord Highslip said.

David relaxed visibly. “It is ill to speak so of the dead,” he scolded. “Even though the Sir Miles you speak of must be some other man, for this was posted just three months ago,” he said, taking off his spectacles and holding the letter close to his eyes so he could make out the wavering scrawl. “This is Miles Gabriel of Northumberland. His estate is named the Crown Beeches.”

“Aye,” Highslip said. “And there he was buried, February before last. My estate marches with his. The old man was always toying with a chess board. Don’t know of any other baronet named Miles Gabriel in those parts.”

David shook his befuddled head, trying to clear his thoughts. “But that is impossible. I have his letter.”

Brummel took the paper from Rutherford’s hand. “‘December 10, 1810,’” he read. “How very extraordinary, David. It appears that you have been playing chess with a dead man. And more’s the shame of it, he has beaten you.”

* * * *

Sylvia Gabriel paused as she descended the stairs. It was well into mid-morning and the delightful effect of the sunlight streaming through the stained glass rosette above the door to the elegant Berkeley Square townhouse held her momentarily entranced. When she was a child, the shimmering reds and golds and greens had always seemed to her like the rays of some faerie’s wand coloring the delicate Chippendale pieces in the elegant foyer with wondrous magic.

A petulant call from below roused Sylvia from her reverie.

“Sylvia. Are you dawdling again?”

The young woman hurried down the remainder of the steps as her Aunt Ruby bustled into the foyer.

“Inferior quality, poorly stitched” Ruby Gabriel muttered, her lips pursed in her usual look of perpetual discontent as she tugged on her gloves. “You shall have to return them to the shop tomorrow and demand a refund, Sylvia. Did you mend the tear in my wrap?”

“Yes, Aunt Ruby,” Sylvia said, handing her the delicately embroidered shawl. As her aunt examined the repair critically, Sylvia held her breath. It had taken the better part of the morning to reweave the filmy threads. But apparently Aunt Ruby was satisfied as she wordlessly returned the shawl, presenting her back so that her niece might drape it upon her.

“Now where is Caroline?” Mrs. Gabriel asked, her florid face darkening with a frown. “The hour is already late and we must visit the modiste as well as the milliner. Sylvia, go and see what is keeping the girl,” she demanded, ignoring the presence of a maid who stood nearby.

Despite the fact that it was an errand more suited to the servant, Sylvia gratefully grasped at the excuse to be gone before her aunt found reason for yet another petty scold or worse, to demand that her niece accompany them on their expedition. As Sylvia hastened up the stairs, she prayed that her cousin was ready to depart before Aunt Ruby’s formidable temper crossed the border between annoyance and fury.

“Oh, thank heavens you’ve come,” Caroline wailed as soon as Sylvia entered the bedchamber. “I cannot locate my celestial blue bonnet and my maid is nowhere to be found. I do not understand what happened to it, for I am sure it was at the corner of the wardrobe shelf.”

“Daisy has the afternoon off, Caro. Now there is no time to dawdle, let us find the bonnet and hurry you away,” Sylvia said, an unintentional sigh escaping her.

“Poor Sylvia! Mama is in one of her moods and she has been venting it upon you again, hasn’t she?” Caroline asked. “Unlike the servants,
you
never have any time off.”

“It is enough to overset anyone, bringing a daughter out in her first London Season,” Sylvia said, peering into one of the myriad boxes that lined the wardrobe’s extensive shelves.

“That is no excuse for the way that she treats you,” Caroline observed, angrily. “Why it was bad enough when she did not replace Miles’ governess and set you to tutoring him, but since we have come to Town, I vow she has been treating you almost as if you are in her service, and not an upper servant at that.”

“It is good to be of some use, Caro,” Sylvia said quietly. “Far better than being a burdensome charge upon the family. Besides, I enjoy teaching young Miles. He is quite clever for a boy of nine years and very eager to learn.”

“Only because he adores you, Syl. I cannot count how many governesses and tutors our precocious Miles sent packing before he inherited the title and we came to live at Crown Beeches. Still, I cannot see how you bear mama’s treatment.
You
should be coming with us to Bond Street, visiting the modistes and shops. It is shameful that our uncle’s confounded will has brought you to such a pass,” the young girl said, tossing a hat carelessly upon the floor. “And disgraceful that my mama is too purse-pinching to stand you the cost of a Season,.”

“To what purpose, Caro?” Sylvia asked, picking up the bonnet and smoothing out the pink silk ribbons, replacing it carefully in its box before taking up the search once more. “I have no portion, not a pennypiece to my name. Indeed, it is fortunate that Uncle Miles set aside a fund for my brother Will’s tuition at Oxford, else we would be in a worse bumble-broth.”

“But you are so beautiful. Surely you could find a husband,” Caroline protested. “I vow, even in the plainest of gowns, you turn heads everywhere we go. You could be like one of the Gunning sisters. Why, they both wed dukes and ‘tis said that the Duke of Hamilton was in such haste to wed Caroline Gunning that he used a brass hoop from the bed curtains as a wedding ring. Both the sisters were empty of purse.”

“That was well over fifty years ago, Caro,” Sylvia said, smiling at the girl’s enthusiasm. “I would imagine the way of the world has changed. Men no longer marry a pretty face without it being attached to a healthy dowry.”
As well I know
, she added silently. “But now, where could that dratted bonnet have gone? Which shelf did you say?”