Miss Gabriel's Gambit (8 page)

“Could have been worse,” Petrov said. “Just as well you were not killing the rogue, though. In this country, magistrates are getting involved, such simple matters are becoming too messy.” Suddenly, his face lit with a smile that transformed his mournful visage. “A pun! I am understanding now. ‘Out damned spot,’ from the Shakespeare play, no?
Hamlet
?”

“
Macbeth
,” David corrected absently, as he finished binding the wound.

Harjit rose to his feet, salaaming toward Sylvia awkwardly. “You have saved my life, young miss,” he said, softly in Hindi. “It is a debt which I can never repay.”

“It is not to me the obligation is owed, but to Lord Donhill. In truth, it is I who am the greater debtor, for it was more than my life he saved. I suspect my honor was at risk as well,” Sylvia replied in the same tongue, regaining her composure at last.

David looked at her in surprise, flushing at her praise. “You speak Hindi?”

But before Sylvia could give the obvious answer to the question, Petrov saw the full extent of the damage to David’s attire and let out a despairing wail. “By my mother’s soul, David. Look at you! Your riding jacket,” Petrov cried. “Is mud upon it. You use your neckcloth for bandage. Your knees are bloody, ai! Muck and grass stains will be remaining upon your breeches forever.”

“Cut line, Ivan,” David said, casting him an annoyed glance. “You are not my nursemaid.”

“Highslip will be having my head,” Petrov declared tragically, his accent gaining added flavor with emotion. “Your new riding costume is shambles, all within an hour. You are having to change before we meet Brummel for breakfast, David. Then off to Weston’s for you, mine friend.”

“That is
shambles
, Ivan,” David said, smiling. “And I shall be damned it I set foot in that pin-pusher’s parlor again. If you do not cease this arrant nonsense, I swear that I shall find the first mud puddle that I may, dip my boots in it and splatter you as well.”

Petrov recoiled in horror, as if the dirty pool were imminent. Sylvia let out a peal of laughter, causing the men to look upon her in shocked surprise. It was an infectious sound, neither light nor musical, but a whole-hearted invitation to mirth. Soon, both David and Petrov were clasping their sides and even Harjit’s lips were stretched in a broad smile.

“Holoo, Syl,” Miles called, galloping across the field, followed in the distance by Caroline and the groom. “Are you alright? Caro would go slow; didn’t want to lose that confounded hat,” he said disparagingly as he slid from his horse.

“Is a most charming hat, a crime to lose so beautiful an adornment,” Petrov declared, smoothly, as he helped Caroline dismount. “Entirely suitable to your loveliness.”

Caroline’s annoyed expression disappeared. She gazed into the Russian’s worshipping face as she spoke. “You see, dear brother,” Caroline declared, the very picture of sisterly sweetness. “I told you there was no need to gallop neck or nothing. Sylvia did not really need us at all.”

* * * *

Despite his declaration that he would risk damnation rather than another encounter with Weston, David Rutherford was once more consigned to purgatory at the tailor’s hands. After their belated breakfast, Petrov added his pleas to both Highslip and Brummel’s adamant demands. Thus, Lord Donhill found himself swiftly transported yet again to Bond Street and stripped to his small clothes. The damp chill bit at his bare legs as he stood, fearing to move in the pin-infested half-finished garments. Rain drops fiercely pelted the windows of the Bond Street shop, but David was far away, thinking of Sylvia. When they had delivered her home, the girl’s aunt had given her the devil of a time, rebuking her niece as if the vile attack had been her own fault. It was all that he could do to hold his temper, knowing there was nothing that he might say that would help her. David was roused from his reverie by the sound of raised voices.

“I say, the yellow!” Highslip declared, picking up a bolt of silk, his eyes alight.

“With his skin? Are you mad?” Brummel declared in emotional tones. “’Twould cause David to look hopelessly sallow.”

“But surely a touch of color ...”

“Darker shades are far more becoming,” Brummel declared, his gaze stony.

“Please,” David groaned. “We have been at this for the better part of an hour now. I feel like a veritable pincushion. My limbs ache and my neck is stiff from standing like a piece of pasteboard. Can we go home?”

“Now, now, milord,” Weston said, as he entered the fitting room, carrying a bolt of deep blue fabric. “We shall be finished shortly.” The master tailor proceeded to unwrap a length for Brummel’s inspection much in the manner of a magician producing a miracle from thin air. The Beau rewarded Weston with a pleased nod.

“Excellent,” Brummel said, fingering the cloth critically. “This blue is just the ticket.”

David blinked in disbelief. “But it is nearly the exact shade of the one we examined half of an hour ago.”

“‘Nearly’ is insufficient,” Lord Highslip declared, shaking his head disapprovingly. “A gentleman’s sartorial splendor must be perfection in itself. Why, I spend well above an hour each morning refining the appearance of my neckcloth.”

“I can well believe it.” David snorted derisively. “Ouch!” he yelped, as Weston stuck him with a pin.

“My apologies, milord,” the tailor said, twitching the sleeve of the garment into place, “but you do persist in moving. These broad shoulders require careful fitting for the proper result.”

“I can barely move a muscle in your damned jackets,” David said, looking murderously at his tormentor, half-suspecting that the man had pricked him on purpose. “All I did was shrug my shoulders and the thing came apart. Do not make this one so tight and I do not see why you cannot give me a few pockets here and there!”

Weston looked at Brummel and shook his head. “I cannot, Mr. Brummel. I simply cannot do it,” he said, his eyes rolling heavenward.

“I shall speak to him,” Brummel said, watching as the tailor left the room muttering in dismay. The Beau turned toward David, who was shrugging off the half-finished garment with hasty relief.

“You agreed to the wager,” Brummel said, in much the same tones one would use to chide a recalcitrant child.

“I pledged to dress properly,” David declared, pushing his spectacles further up upon his nose. “I did not expect to submit to torture.”

“If you would not persist in ruining your garments,” Lord Highslip said in a sneering voice, “you would not require so many trips to the tailor. Ripping coats to shreds with a shrug, mud on your riding costume, blood on your linen,”

“The mess was unavoidable,” David said, looking at the earl belligerently.

“A gentleman does not soil his hands in that manner.” Highslip sniffed.

“I suppose I should have left the lady to her own devices!” David replied.

“Highslip!” Brummel stepped between the two men. “Would you stop behaving as if David did the damage deliberately? Before he left us, Petrov himself testified that the ruin was necessary.”

David gave Highslip a satisfied smirk.

“However,” Brummel continued. “You must replace the injured garments, David, with clothing of equal quality and stop abusing Weston. The man is an artist of the highest order and you must treat him with care.”

It was Highslip's turn to curl his lip.

“Now, while we wait for Weston to return, tell us a bit more about the incident this morning,” Brummel said with a sigh, sensing the need for an immediate diversion. It was all too much like acting as tutor for two uncommonly belligerent boys,

David hesitated.

“Come, come,” Brummel urged, “it is most gallant of you to protect her. Even so, the story will be bandied up Bond Street and down Drury Lane before the sun sets, I would wager”

“No more wagers for me,” David groaned. “One is more than sufficient.”

 “You might as well serve us up the name,” Highslip demanded. “After all, it’s no less than the chit’s own fault for acting the amazon.”

Brummel silenced Highslip with a warning glare. “As Petrov so rightly told you, this is too remarkable a tale not to make the rounds,” Brummel reasoned. “The servants will inevitably talk, David. Moreover, if the girl’s relation is the gorgon your friend describes, then you may be sure the story will be told with enough relish to flavor it as scandal broth. However, if
I
disseminate the
on dit
in a flattering light-“

“You are very sure of your credit, George,” David said.

“My friend, you have yet to learn that gossip is the very coin of society and the power of my purse is far from modest,” George said, turning to the mirror to make a slight adjustment to his own neckcloth. “Now give me the name of your Amazon and I will go forth to dispense this news as if it were the veriest gold.”

“I would not style her an amazon, George,” David said. “She was however, most courageous and undoubtedly the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

“And what is the name of this vision?” Highslip asked derisively. “Were you wearing your glasses?”

David glared at Highslip. “Her name is Miss Sylvia Gabriel, the late Sir Miles’ niece.”

“It is unlike you to speak in such superlatives, David,” Brummel said, intervening once more. “I shall look forward to making her acquaintance during the Season.”

“It is unlikely that you shall have the opportunity,” David said with a frown. “The girl has no dower to speak of and her aunt means to keep her under wraps.”

“A shame, if she has half the beauty you say,” Brummel said.

“Indeed, he does not do her justice,” Lord Highslip said softly, a strange look stealing across his face. “Sylvia is perfection, an Incomparable in every way.”

“You know the girl, Highslip?” David asked.

“I do,” Highslip said. “My estates march with her uncle’s land in Northumberland. I was well acquainted with Sylvia. In truth, we had something of an understanding.”

“Did you?” David queried the very idea somehow disturbing.

Highslip nodded, his eyes narrowing in anger as he spoke. “Sad thing when mere money comes in the way of true love. I suspect now that Sylvia regrets her choice. She could have come away with me. ”

“You proposed a runaway match?” Brummel asked, his eyebrows rose in surprise. Lord “High in the Instep” Highslip, as they styled him, was a notable stickler for propriety. It was hard to credit that he would so much as put a toe beyond the pale of proper behavior.

Highslip nodded. “Not strictly honorable I know, but such was the depth of my feelings. I think that if she had loved me well enough, we could have gone to Gretna. Unfortunately, my regard was not returned.”

David looked at the popinjay peer with a leery eye. Something about his story did not quite ring true. Still, there was no telling what a woman might do. His own mother was a prime example, marrying his father when his Uncle seemed ready to turn up his toes and then complaining bitterly when the older peer had unexpectedly recovered

In his experience, fond sentiments were given much lip-service, to be sure, but money and position were all that mattered in the end. Lucre won over love every time. Perhaps Sylvia had thought to entertain Highslip’s suit for his title and, David granted grudgingly, the earl’s looks were above the common.

Still, David found it difficult to believe that Sylvia Gabriel had heartlessly jilted Highslip. There was a gentle strength about Sylvia that would not countenance such behind-hand behavior. Moreover, David could not help but think that Miss Gabriel had been uncommonly sensible to avoid a lifetime sentence with the elegant earl.

“I, for one, account avoiding Gretna to the girl’s credit,” Brummel declared, pursing his lips. “A woman of valor, beauty and
reason
. Damme, ‘tis a crying shame that the most interesting female of the Season seems doomed to remain in the shadows. The chattering chits that it has been my misfortune to meet make me yawn with boredom. Unless ...” he cogitated aloud, a slow, sardonic smile dawning. “Such courage should not go unrewarded.”

“And what do you have in mind, George?” David asked, uneasily. “Miss Gabriel’s aunt is dead set against presenting her niece. While Caroline is well enough to look upon, Sylvia casts her cousin completely in the shade.”

“Ah,” said Brummel, “but that is precisely her merit, David. We shall contrive to make Miss Sylvia Gabriel fashionable. So fashionable, in fact, that her dear aunt will find that she cannot do without her.”

“It will not serve,” Highslip protested. “Sylvia has no dowry.”

“Beautiful women have been known to wed without the benefit of gilding,” Brummel stated. “What better reward for bravery than a husband, eh? Gentlemen, I hereby declare that Miss Sylvia Gabriel is the most desirable woman in London. Now, I shall go seek Mr. Weston.”

David was able to hold back until Brummel quit the room, then he burst into such a fit of laughter that his spectacles slid dangerously to the tip of his nose.

“You think he jests?” Highslip asked, tight-lipped with annoyance.

“He must be joking,” David said, the room reverberating with his bass chuckle. “The sheer presumption...”

“To the contrary, dear Donhill. Nothing could be simpler. Within the week, I would wager, Sylvia Gabriel will be the reigning Incomparable and there is little that anyone can do to prevent it.”

David soon found that Highslip had spoken no less than the truth. Brummel played his pawns in polite society with the finesse of a master. A few casual words in the correct ears and soon, Sylvia Gabriel’s name rolled upon every tongue. Her bravery was applauded, her beauty extolled and rumors of a mysterious lost fortune were carefully cultivated until the Ton was in a veritable tizzy, craving an encounter with the unknown paragon.

At the house on Belvedere Square, Mrs. Gabriel was at a loss to cope with the sudden flood of interest in her empty-pursed niece. She banished Sylvia to the nursery, claiming to the crowds of callers that the poor girl was overset by her ordeal. Caroline was pushed forth into the distinguished company, but it was plain even to the doting Mrs. Gabriel, that once the visitors found that Sylvia was not to be seen, they were not disposed to linger despite Caroline’s many charms.