Miss Gabriel's Gambit (3 page)

“The middle,” Caroline replied.

“Then I shall have it for you in a trice,” Sylvia said, plunging into the wardrobe once more and emerging to wave the absent hat triumphantly. “My abigail was always missing things upon that middle shelf, for there is a hollow in the cabinet that allows things to slip to the back.”

“This was your room?” Caroline asked, her face flushing in mortification. “Oh, Syl. I am so sorry.”

Sylvia shook her head, annoyed that she had been so remiss in that slip of tongue. “I do not grudge it to you, widgeon, and do not worry yourself, for you will find it devilish chilly here if the family chooses to winter in town. Still, by then you should be married.”

“With a husband to keep me warm?” Caroline giggled.

“Caro, do not let your mother hear you speaking so vulgarly,” Sylvia warned. She tied the ribbons beneath the girl’s chin. “Now fly, else your mama might take it upon herself to come seeking you and I can just imagine what she will think of the mess that this room is in.”

“Daisy will take care of it when she returns,” Caroline said with assurance, giving her cousin a light kiss on the cheek. “Bond Street, beware, for I am on my way.”

Sylvia laughed as Caroline flounced out the door, but the smile faded as the sound of her aunt’s shrill tones wafted up the hall and she caught the mention of her own name. As she quietly closed the door, Sylvia had little doubt she was being blamed somehow for Caroline's sluggishness.

From the window, Sylvia watched as the footman handed Caroline and her mother into the antiquated carriage. Once the lumbering vehicle turned the corner, Sylvia let the curtain drop and sat heavily upon the bed looking at the wall-paper of sea-green silk. Was it only six years ago that she and Uncle Miles had chosen the pattern?

It had been so exciting. They had come early to Town, before Aunt Ruby was due to join them as chaperone for Sylvia’s Season. For all her travels abroad with her parents, Sylvia had never truly seen London and Uncle had taken her to visit all of its attractions, the Tower, Astley’s Royal Amphitheater, the opera. But then, he had become ill and they had returned to Crown Beeches.

For a moment, Sylvia allowed herself to wonder what would have happened if she had been allowed that spring in London. So many girlish dreams had been put aside since then, visions of a marvelous fair-haired man who would see beyond her face and figure into her very soul, value her for what was within. Perhaps it was fortunate never to have been given that opportunity, she thought, for foolish dreamers make the most stupid mistakes. It was frightening to think how close she had come to giving herself to a dream, a man who, when viewed in the clear light of truth, was not even the faintest shadow of her imagination. She sniffed, brushing the tears of self-pity from her cheek.

“Syl?” A voice called. The door flew open after a perfunctory rap and a young boy came running into the room. “Boniface said that you were in here. Why are your eyes red, Syl?”

Sylvia sought refuge in a rebuke. “No gentleman comes racing into a room like that, Miles. You shall exit and enter the room properly. Immediately.”

Miles thrust out his lower lip defiantly.

“Immediately, young man,” she commanded. “For if I have to wait too long for your compliance, I doubt we shall have any time to play this morning.”

The boy’s belligerence faded and he ran out the door, closing it loudly behind him. Sylvia glanced at the mirror and dabbed a bit of Caro's powder over the tell-tale redness as Miles knocked loudly.

“Who is it?” Sylvia asked.

“‘Tis I, Sir Miles Gabriel,” the boy declared, deepening his voice. “May I have your highly esteemed permission to enter the chamber, Miss Gabriel.”

“Enter, kind sir,” Sylvia said, dropping a mocking curtsy as she opened the door. “Sir Miles.”

Miles bowed stiffly and Sylvia was hard set to match his air of false dignity. Her lower lip began to tremble, but Mile’s face remained perfectly placid. When he took her hand, serving it a smacking wet kiss, Sylvia burst into laughter.

“I win!” Miles declared with a chortle. “I out-faced you.”

“Indeed you did, you wretched boy,” Sylvia conceded. “However did you manage to keep your countenance during that performance?”

“By doing just as you said. I thought of something extremely serious- Mama in one of her fits of temper,” the boy said, watching dismayed as his cousin’s face fell. “I’m sorry, Syl. Was that why you were crying?”

Sylvia shook her head. “You are too curious by half, Miles. I have a mind to declare you a cheater, for my hand is wet as a mop. That kiss could not fail to discompose me. Now, come, let us repair to the schoolroom and get to our lessons.”

Miles groaned. “I didn’t cheat. There ain’t need to punish me so.”

“No youngling, I should not have accused you wrongly, for I vow you are becoming almost as good at keeping a straight face as your namesake. Dear Uncle Miles always said that the ability to keep your opponent from reading your visage was the most important gambit of all.”

“And I am good?”

“Very good,” she said fondly. “Now, we do Geography today and as our subject is India, I shall tell you the story of what occurred between my Papa and the Rajah of Ranjipoor. He wagered a chess set you see, made of gold and silver.”

“Truly?” Miles asked.

“Truly,” Sylvia answered, raising her hand in avowal. “The pieces were carved of lapis and ivory and I shall finish the tale if you are upstairs before me.” With those words, she hitched up her skirts and raced up the wide staircase, the boy, with a whoop of dismay at her head start, followed swiftly.

The Sikh moved with silent steps, his spotless white turban and jacket, a vivid contrast to the dark velvet of the curtains. With a mercuric motion, he pulled the draperies of the bedchamber open, letting a flood of sunshine into the darkened chamber.

The figure on the bed stirred, pulling the covers over his eyes with a woeful moan. “Damn you, Harjit. Have you no respect for the dying?”

“It is not imminent death that plagues you,” Harjit Singh replied with the familiarity of an old servant. “But the effects of a surfeit of liquor upon a man who rarely indulges. If I disturb you, it is only upon your orders to wake you without fail before twelve of the clock.”

“There is no need to shout, Harjit,” David’s muffled voice begged from under the covers. “Belay those orders, close those curtains and allow me to die in peace.”

There was a choking sound, something of a cross between a cough and an arrested groan. The Sikh ran to the bedside with the wash basin just as David cast up his accounts.

“There now,” Harjit said as he placed the bowl aside to wipe the sweat from his master’s brow. “With your stomach purged, you shall be feeling much improved, I think. Here, drink this.”

The cup of brew that had somehow materialized in the Sikh’s hand smelled noxious and looked twice as vile as its odor, but David downed it at once, willing to try anything that would dull the dreadful hammering in his skull. He lay back on the pillow, utterly drained, feeling a flush of heat as Harjit’s concoction spread through his body.

“I have had such strange dreams, Harjit,” David murmured weakly as the pounding receded. “There was a curious wager ...”

“Regarding chess and your marriage,” Harjit supplied as he tossed the contents of the bowl out the window into the garden below. The Sikh’s lips curled slightly upwards. The gardener had been quite vocal in his remarks about “‘eathen furriners.”

David sat bolt upright, wincing at the pain in his head. “Then it was real.”

“Indeed, I had the whole from Petrov sahib’s groom, who delivered you early this morning. Lord Highslip has already sent a note round that you are to meet him at Weston’s establishment at precisely two this afternoon. I am to meet with his valet for instruction in the art of properly dressing a gentleman.”

David threw the servant a baleful look. “You are most pleased by this, I take it, Harjit Singh. Ever since you entered my employ you have been bullying me to enter the ranks of man-milliners.”

Harjit bowed. “I only do your will, Rutherford sahib. If you had no desire to dress in a manner suiting your rank, who am I, your humble servant, to thwart your wishes?”

“Humble, humbug and ‘sahib’ my stockings,” David said, putting a cautious foot on the lush carpet. The world whirled for a moment and settled into a somewhat normal perspective. “Get me my clothes, oh humble servant, but do not try to trick me up like some Bond Street lounger just yet. I have a few hours of comfort left before Highslip suits me, boots me and styles me and damme, I shall enjoy them. The brown jacket, Harjit!”

On his way to the wardrobe, the Sikh’s sure step faltered. “Not the dung-coat of many pockets,” he begged. “It is an offense to the eye, the execrable handiwork of a dog’s son who masqueraded as a tailor. Do you so hate me, milord, that you thus humiliate me before the world?”

“I do not know why you malign that garment so, for it is wonderfully comfortable and I have as many places as I might require to carry my things. And I’ll have the buckskin breeches as well,” David added, taking wicked pleasure in Harjit’s woeful expression. “And do not call me ‘milord,’ Harjit.”

“You are a most contrary individual,” the Sikh said, surprised at the man’s vehement tones. “Why do you not wish me to address you properly?”

“Because there will be no such nonsense between us, my friend,” David said with a frown. “You have given your loyalty and friendship to David Rutherford, not some trumped up lordling. I cannot tell you how many people have been falling over themselves to fawn upon me in these months since I inherited my distant cousin’s empty title and the huge pile of debts that accompanied it. Now that I am a new gilded lord, I have suddenly become worthy of their notice. No, Harjit, do not ‘milord’ me, for now that I have lent myself to this accursed wager and the sartorial predominance of that popinjay, Highslip, I may have need of someone to remind me who I truly am.”

“As you wish,” Harjit said, presenting the brown woolen coat as if it were made of some vile substance. “But it is a pity if you believe that this wretched discard from an offal heap reflects your true self,” he mumbled under his breath.

Within a half of an hour, David was tooling his high perch phaeton though Mayfair. As he skillfully threaded his team through the dense traffic, he heartily wished that the Gabriels had remained ensconced in the hinterlands of Northumberland. Surely his duty and determination to pay proper condolences to the family would have proved paramount, a splendid means of avoiding his first steps of the journey down Brummel’s road to fashion.

Unfortunately, Lord Highslip had been quite certain that the Gabriel family had recently come to town for the Season. As David dismounted from his vehicle, he could see that the Earl was correct. An elaborate polished brass knocker in the shape of a rook was fixed on the door, indicating that the residents of the Berkeley Square address were at home.

David almost laughed aloud at the footman’s indignant expression as he opened the door.

“Trade is-“ The rest of his statement was forestalled by a proffered piece of pasteboard. To give the servant his due, he recovered rapidly, deciding to credit what he read above what he saw.

“Milord?” he asked, hesitantly, “how may I assist you?”

“I come regarding Sir Miles,” David said, recalling the purpose of his visit, becoming somber all at once. Even though the two men had never met, he would miss Sir Miles dreadfully. At the back of his mind, David had always looked forward to the day that they would face each other across the board. The realization that it would never be so and the game was ended forever was almost beyond bearing.

“Sir Miles?” the footman said, brightening. “I shall bring up your card to him immediately, milord. Do you care to wait in the drawing room?”

As the look of confusion cleared from the servant’s face, David’s spirits soared. It seemed that Highslip’s pronouncement regarding Sir Miles’ death was merely a wretched error.
Should have known better than to trust the judgment of a besotted man
, David thought, as the footman hurriedly showed the guest into the empty library and bade him to be seated in a well-stuffed leather chair. David smiled, anticipating Highslip’s dismay when he was confronted with his blunder. ‘Twould confound the pompous idiot indeed to find that he had mistakenly declared his old neighbor dead and buried.

David chuckled, looking about him at what was obviously a man’s room, its furnishings chosen more for comfort than a feminine eye for fashion. No Egyptian chaises or lacquered chinoiserie here; just walls of shelves, overflowing with leather-tooled bindings. He rose to run his fingers over the plethora of books on chess, opening a text in what appeared to be Arabic at random, only to shelve it when he spotted the latest edition of Allgaier’s treatises on the game. But David rapidly found that he could not concentrate on the German chessmaster’s ramblings and he returned the book to its place.

Restlessly, he roamed the room, trying to anticipate what he would say. Over the years, he had dreamt of this meeting, rehearsed it in his mind, but all the well-thought out phrases now seemed silly. Sir Miles’ letters had been an anchor in David’s life, their sound advice, warmth and wry wit, holding him steady amidst the turbulence. And in the chaos of those years the only sure order in a world where the rules were few was the certainty of the game.

Near the window was a simple wooden chess board and David noted with satisfaction that the configuration exactly reflected the inevitable denouement of last night’s move, the king lying on its side in abject surrender. Suddenly, he felt calm. How foolish to act as if Sir Miles were some stranger when there was perhaps, no one on this earth who knew him half so well. He stared into the fireplace, watching the tongues of flame lick the coals, as he remembered the man’s letters, every single one of them read and re-read almost to the point of perfect memory. Certainly, there was no need to be nervous.

“Milord?”