Miss Gabriel's Gambit (9 page)

Knowing the attention of the Ton to be as fleeting as a child’s, Brummel moved rapidly. The sun had not set twice since the incident at Green Park, when, with David and Petrov in tow, the Beau presented himself at the Gabriel’s door. The tide of callers was at high crest; the large saloon filled to capacity with nary an empty chair to be had. Yet, when Brummel and his party were announced, vacancies beside the hostess mysteriously appeared.

As the Beau did the pretty, a curious hush settled over the room as all awaited the pronouncement of the oracle of fashion. The atmosphere was much as the air of anticipation around the pit before a cockfight, for Mrs. Gabriel was obviously a prime target for Brummel’s famed sarcasm. Despite her irreproachable bloodlines, her clothing with its surfeit of fripperies was quite tasteless and her mannerisms bordered on the vulgar. It seemed certain that the reigning monarch of the mode would rip the encroaching female to shreds.

Unfortunately, they were destined to be disappointed on that score, for Brummel confined himself to polite inconsequentials. However, those who knew him best recognizing the gleam of devilish intent behind the Beau’s otherwise bland expression. There was entertainment yet to come.

“How, unfortunate that your niece continues to be indisposed,” Brummel declared, his smile chill. “I confess myself deeply disappointed, for I came expressly to congratulate her upon her brave actions.”

“Bishop checks queen,” Petrov whispered under his breath. “He informs that the girl has his interest.”

With his elbow, David nudged the Russian to silence.

“You are acquainted with my niece?” Mrs. Gabriel asked with a croak of surprise.

“Only by dint of her excellent reputation, as yet,” Brummel allowed. “But I am looking forward to meeting her once the Season begins. As we all are.” He scanned the crowd demanding their accord. “One can only hope that she will soon recover, so that we may express our admiration.”

David watched in amusement as the visitors bobbed their heads in agreement, like a collection of well-dressed puppets. As for Mrs. Gabriel, her jaw dropped, agape as the mouth of a child’s nutcracker. David imagined that he could hear the grinding of gears as she cracked the shell of Brummel’s statement to reveal the kernel of his intent.

 The Beau skewered the woman with his eyes, while he applied his final stroke of calculated social pressure. “I must confess my admiration for you, Mrs. Gabriel,” Brummel declared, inclining his head in a gesture of approval. “I vow, I know of few relations would be kind enough to stand their kin for a Season, even despite your vast resources. You do, after all have your own child to launch. My sources inform me that your daughter is wholly in accord with sharing her debut with her cousin. Beauty
and
family possessed of a generous spirit!” He regarded Caroline, like a priest pronouncing a benediction of approval.

“Game is ending, mine friend,” Petrov mumbled, watching with delight as Caroline colored delicately, flattered at Brummel’s notice. “His opponent is cornered. Check and mate.”

Petrov was undoubtedly correct, David realized, as he marked that Mrs. Gabriel too, was flushing, albeit far less prettily. She could not escape Brummel’s maneuver without seeming the most miserly of mushrooms, accounting mere money of more import than familial obligation. Denial of her imputed generosity would mean the loss of Brummel’s tacit endorsement and likely, Society’s censure. It was time for his move on this tandem board.

“I am sorry George, if you misunderstood -“ David began.

“Misunderstood? Do not say so, Lord Donhill? ” Brummel said, raising his quizzing glass. “
Do
I mistake the matter, Mrs. Gabriel?”

 Mrs. Gabriel had no choice but to smile and acquiesce weakly. “The poor darling would have none of it, at first,” Mrs. Gabriel lied. “I vow, the girl is so proud; don’t want to take so much as a farthing from me, her own aunt. Nonetheless, I have decided that she ought to have a Season, despite the fact that she don’t have a pennypiece to her name and that she is fully four-and twenty.” The woman’s eyes narrowed in self-satisfaction, having in one sentence assured that Sylvia would present no serious competition to Caroline. Sylvia’s beauty and courage might be universally praised, however adulation cost nothing. Ultimately, the serious suitors would go to the girl with the dowry rather than the poverty stricken spinster. Indeed, David noticed more than one look of consternation amidst the general murmurs of approval.

“Draw?” Petrov questioned.

David shook his head. “No, from the look in George’s eyes, he has another move yet.”

“Is that so?” Brummel asked, making a show of wiping his quizzing glass before placing Mrs. Gabriel under the scrutiny of his lens once more. “I had understood that your niece is something of an heiress.”

“Indeed she
was
, once,” Mrs. Gabriel pronounced with no little relish. “But when Sir Miles passed on, not a trace of the fortune was found. Not that my brother by marriage misspent it, mind. I suspect he invested badly on her behalf” she hastened to add as she saw the dawning of disapproval among her audience.

“Or as you mentioned, it may be squirreled away in hiding somewhere,” David added, fortifying Brummel’s position.

“Indeed,” Brummel said slowly. “So there is the distinct possibility that the money will be found.”

“It would be misleading to say so,” Mrs. Gabriel declared, speedily attempting to damp such speculation. “Heaven knows that we have tried to locate the treasure, but the late Sir Miles’ will was a model of confusion. I believe the poor man was out of his head with all his mutterings of ‘fool’s mates’ and other such chess terms.”

“Ah, if the clues are in chess jargon, then my friend Donhill here, might be able to help. He breathes, eats and sleeps the game,” Brummel said. “And he certainly owes your niece a favor, for ‘twas his servant’s life that she saved.”

“The man is playing two boards in tandem, David; you are also a pawn, I am thinking,” Petrov said softly, his lip twisting wryly. “Is check mate again.”

David nodded in discomfited agreement. Although he had given some thought to Sir Miles’ chess will, and would gladly examine it, he could not like being so publicly committed to a cause that might very well be hopeless. From the speculating looks being cast his way, it seemed that Miss Gabriel’s marital prospects would be largely determined by his success or failure.

“It was most foolhardy of her! Especially to put herself at risk for a mere servant! The girl ought to have waited for help,” Mrs. Gabriel pursed her lips in disapproval. From the nods among her audience, there were not a few who agreed.

“Unfortunately, Mama, there was no time to wait for rescue.” Caroline countered with just the right tone of polite disagreement. “I believe that Mr. Brummel has the right of it. My cousin is a heroine, stepping into the breech as she did!”

“This cousin is having courage
and
wit, using the Beau’s opinion as shield for her own,” Petrov observed quietly to David. “Loyalty, brains and beauty, is much to be admiring of her.”

 As if guided by some inner clock, Brummel arose at the correct time, bowing over Mrs. Gabriel’s pudgy fingers as he bade his farewells. In a mere twenty minutes, he had accomplished most of his goals. Sylvia Gabriel had been elevated to the ranks of eligible maidens, although her fortune was phantom and her person seen by but a few. George devoutly hoped that the girl was as much a beauty as his friend and Highslip asserted, for it would not do to have anything less than an absolute stunner imbued with his cachet. However, Brummel had no intention of relying exclusively on the likelihood of locating the lady’s inheritance. There was one last parting shot to attempt.

“You have my admiration, Madame,” Brummel proclaimed, pouring liberally from the butterboat. “Your generosity is beyond compare. Even though your brother-by-marriage is at fault for your niece’s difficulties, you were not obligated to provide for a Season and her marriage.”

David held his breath, stunned by George’s sheer nerve. Brummel’s implication was clear. Not content with the mere promise of a Season, the Beau had opted to inveigle for the pledge of a
dot
as well.

But this time, Mrs. Gabriel held her ground. “I only wish that I could provide dear Sylvia with a dowry. My own Caroline was, of course, extremely well provided for by her late papa, but it is all I can do to provide Sylvia with an entree into society. Of course one may only hope that Sylvia’s fortune will be recovered.” The quality of her voice reflected her utter skepticism regarding the likelihood of the event.

Brummel took the setback in stride. “Indeed,” he reflected. “Stranger things have been known to occur. I bid you farewell, most-munificent madame.”

 “Pooh,” she declared, waving her hand in dismissal. “’Twas the least I could do.”

“And you may be sure, it will be the absolute
least
she can do,” David muttered darkly to Petrov as Brummel led them triumphantly out the door.

...

For Sylvia, the days that followed seemed like travelling in the midst of a whirlwind. Over Miles’ protests, she was yanked from the nursery and dragged on a rapid tour of shoddy shops and second-rate seamstresses, for true to David’s prediction, Mrs. Gabriel was doing the very least she could.

Yet, despite the inferior quality of the establishments, the mediocre modistes exerted themselves once they heard the name of their customer. Here too, Brummel’s efforts had borne fruit. Word had spread. The patron saint of English fashion had given Sylvia Gabriel his blessing and any seamstress with even a soup
ç
on of ambition knew that this was an opportunity to shine. A damaged bolt of green silk was purchased at a pinchpenny price, an exquisite but unpaid-for riding habit was altered. Bit by bit, by dint of a skillful bit of cutting, a snatch of concealing embroidery, an inspired bit of styling, flaws were disguised, rips were remedied and defects transformed into accented embellishments. The aspiring seamstresses were eager to introduce their wares to the modish world and exerted themselves to produce garments that would garner the notice of the Ton. Sylvia was outfitted in a plethora of bargains.

Moreover, Mrs. Gabriel’s determination to deprive her niece of the frills and furbelows that adorned Caroline’s clothing worked in Sylvia’s favor. The simplicity of Sylvia’s gowns only served to accentuate her classic beauty and the dark colors that Mrs. Gabriel chose to contrast her niece’s age with Caroline’s youthful pastels, lent Sylvia an air of sophistication and distinction.

Any pleasure that Sylvia might have drawn from her new finery, however, was nearly destroyed by her aunt’s incessant groaning at even the paltriest of expenses. Every groat spent on Sylvia was begrudged and the delivery of every garment elicited a litany of grievance. Somehow, Sylvia was blamed for the turn of events that necessitated this depletion of her aunt’s purse.

Still, even Mrs. Gabriel’s constant grumbling could not completely surmount Sylvia’s excitement as their carriage crept up Pall Mall to number fifty, Almack’s. As the lines of carriages disgorged their well-dressed passengers, Sylvia felt a thrill of anticipation. Although Almack’s was often denigrated for its stale cake and inferior orgeat, it was the dearest dream of every well-born maiden to enter the assembly rooms’ portals, to dance every dance and perhaps, find true love treading a measure to the strains of the orchestra. Even though her head told her otherwise, Sylvia’s heart still felt the force of those long-ago girlish dreams

Nonetheless, Sylvia told herself that she harbored no delusions of love at first glance. Without a dowry, a decent suitor was less than likely, as well she knew. Idly, she wondered if she would encounter Hugo, Lord Highslip at Almack’s, for she knew that he was in town. Although she had called him “Hugo,” there was something about him that had always caused her to be mindful of his title, as if the earl’s diadem had been forever fixed upon his head.

With half an ear, Sylvia listened to her aunt’s list of strictures yet once again. Sylvia was not to put herself forward, not to smile overly much, not to talk too frequently or dance too boisterously. In short, she was adjured to fade into the shadows. It seemed that no matter how Sylvia comported herself, the evening would provide her aunt’s mill of displeasure with a bounty of grist to grind. As their conveyance edged to the entry and Aunt Ruby set forth more boundaries of behavior, Sylvia thought glumly that she might better have remained home to play chess with Miles.

Thoughts of chess led inevitably to thoughts of David Rutherford. Would he be at Almack’s, she wondered, conjuring up his face in the semi-darkness of the coach? The very prospect of his presence caused her spirits to rise. Chiding herself for her foolishness, Sylvia decided that it was most unlikely that Lord Donhill would appear at the Marriage Mart’s primary temple, especially since he had gone to such lengths to protect himself from the parson’s mousetrap. The terms of his notorious wager teased at the edge of her mind and she shoved those treacherous thoughts aside immediately.

 “Sylvia! Why are you daydreaming? We have arrived.” Aunt Ruby asked in annoyance as she compared her daughter’s looks to those of her niece. Somehow, Sylvia had contrived to make her gown look far better than it had seemed in the shop. Although it had not appeared so in the fashion plate, the dress was adorned with elaborate easing, accentuating the column of her neck and the whiteness of her shoulders. Sylvia had coiffed her hair in a simple psyche knot and a natural glow of excitement precluded the need for pinching cheeks.

Mrs. Gabriel gave a pat to her turban and composed her features, knowing there was no remedy for Sylvia’s unwanted company. Since Brummel’s visit, vouchers for Almack’s had arrived with gratifying speed. Invitations to routs and balls were piling upon her desk. The Beau’s patronage had assured the road to social acceptance and although Mrs. Gabriel would not deign to acknowledge so, Sylvia’s presence was a small price to pay for his cachet.

Still, the woman decided to take her own measures to make certain that Caroline was not completely eclipsed by her beautiful cousin. Fortunately, gossip had provided her with the perfect nostrum to dose away any guarded delight that Sylvia might feel. She would inform the child, for her own sake of course, lest she be disappointed by unwarranted expectations.