Miss Gabriel's Gambit (18 page)

“Whatever do you mean, Ivan?” Caroline asked. “I had thought that you were poor as a church-mouse.”

“And still you love me, my sweet,” Ivan said, looking at her fondly. “But poor, I am not.”

David began to laugh. “Something of an understatement, would you not say, Ivan?”

The Russian reddened, tugging at his collar as if it had suddenly become too tight. “I do not know how to be saying this, Caro.”

“Shall I?” David asked. Ivan nodded.

“Ivan is a partner in my business, Miss Gabriel,” David said. “He just did not wish anyone to know that he had soiled his hands in trade. I believe his assets more than equal my own and I am considered something of a nabob.”

Caroline looked at Ivan, her eyes wide with questions.

“Is true,” Ivan said, weakly. “I do business. I roll in filthy lucre. Are you still loving me, Caro?”

“You Russian idiot!” she exploded. “Of course, I love you, even though you are rich.”

Miles looked from his sister to Petrov, utterly baffled. “You are angry because he told you that he has money? Why?” he asked Caroline.

“Because Mr. Petrov concealed something of great importance,” Caroline declared sniffing in high dudgeon.

“But you liked him without the money anyway,” Miles said. “So why are you acting barmy?”

“Why, indeed?” David asked. “You are a lucky man, Petrov, to know that Miss Gabriel values you for yourself and not your fortune.”

“Yes,” Petrov said proudly. “The luckiest of men and now, there is to be no more meeting behind your Mama’s back, Caroline.”

“Well, you should have trusted me,” Caroline said, softening, unable to maintain her anger in the face of Petrov’s happiness.

“In everything, my sweet,” he murmured, taking her hand.

David felt a stab of envy, watching the two exchanged whispered confidences as they walked together.

“I am so happy for them,” Sylvia said. “I am sure that my aunt shall not oppose the match now.”

Happy for them, or for yourself
?
David wondered. Highslip is available once more.

“Do people always act stupid when they’re grown-up?” Miles asked, tugging at David’s sleeve. He was panting, half-running to keep up with the stride of the adults.

“Sometimes,” David said, glad for the interruption of his direction of thought.

“I don’t know if I want to grow up,” Miles said.

“I am afraid you have no choice, m’boy,” David said, hoisting the child onto his shoulders. “Unfortunately, some of us grow up later than others,” he murmured to himself.

Miles squealed with delight. “Thank you, sir. This is famous; almost as good as being up in a tree.”

“David, your jacket!” Sylvia exclaimed. “‘Tis all muddy now from Miles’ boots.”

“Why, so it is,” David agreed, ruefully, “but my young friend here seemed a trifle worn from his tangle with the wind.”

She looked at him, his hair tousled, the glasses sliding to the tip of his nose and the perfection of his cravat spattered with mud; and she laughed. “I almost believe I prefer you this way, David. Disorder suits you.”

“As perfection suits Highslip?” David retorted, regretting his mention of Highslip almost at once. Sylvia’s face became shuttered and she fell into a silence that lasted until they parted at the park gate.

* * * *

That afternoon, in the parlor, Sylvia could scarcely keep her eyes open as the gilt clock ticked away the time. Her aunt refused to excuse her until Colber paid his promised call. Even the knowledge that Hugo was watching her in his usual surreptitious manner could not keep her from drowsing and the endless drone of gossip was surprisingly soporific. More than once, a jab of reminder from Caroline’s elbow jerked Sylvia awake.

“Ah, Mr. Brummel,” Mrs. Gabriel greeted the dandy with pleasure as he entered the room. It seemed that her pointed warning to Lord Donhill the previous night had not alienated the arbiter of fashion as she had feared.

Brummel eyed the chair for dust before seating himself beside his hostess and regaling her with the latest gossip.

“You do not say!” Mrs. Gabriel exclaimed. “A vast fortune?”

Sylvia sat upright with a start, jarred by her aunt’s loud surprise.

“Rich as Croesus,” Brummel assured the matron solemnly. “An inheritance is what I heard.”

“Why Mr. Petrov is so modest,” Mrs. Gabriel said, more in annoyance than approval. She had almost let that bird slip from her hands. A rich Russian who was, she reminded herself, well-connected, was worth far more than an out-of pocket earl. She gave Lord Highslip a calculating look. ‘Twas best not to put him off yet, she decided, not until Caroline’s nest was feathered. However, encouraging Petrov would require enduring Lord Donhill and perhaps angering Highslip. It was a risk she would take.

“He does not flash his blunt like some; Colber, for instance, poor devil was always waving his purse about. ‘Tis that what got him into trouble I suppose,” Brummel said.

“What trouble, Mr. Brummel?” Caroline asked.

“Surely, you have heard, Miss Gabriel,” Brummel said. “Mr. Colber was set upon by thieves as he was leaving his club last night. They beat him severely, left him for dead. It is unknown if he will recover.”

The room began to whirl as Sylvia looked into Hugo’s eyes. There was a disturbing look of triumph in that hard blue gaze. It was absurd and yet, as she thought of Colber and Lord Entshaw’s mysterious accident, a dread certainty rose within her. She remembered the horse that her uncle had purchased from Hugo’s father so long ago.

Mrs. Gabriel gave a cry of dismay as Sylvia rose abruptly and excused herself. “The poor dear, she is quite overset, for Mr. Colber was most attentive to her,” Mrs. Gabriel said.

No one saw Highslip smile triumphantly as Sylvia left the room.

Lord Highslip sat before the bow window at White’s staring out into the darkness of St. James Street. Brummel, Alvanley and their crowd were at Carlton House disporting themselves with Prinny, so Highslip could trespass upon the sacred spot with impunity. Those members of the club who considered rebuking him immediately thought it better to leave the earl be when they saw the formidable expression upon his face.

Indeed, Highslip had ample reason to brood. He was out of pocket three-hundred pounds, money he could ill afford. Worse still, the blunt had been an utter waste. Helena Greenvale had failed.

It had seemed an excellent plan at the time. Highslip had approached Lord Balton’s daughter, dangling David Rutherford before her like a carrot before a mare, but the chess-playing chit had proven far cannier than he had anticipated. Although Helena had considerable confidence in her skills, she had hesitated to challenge Lord Donhill, demanding some surety for the risk to her reputation should she fail to win. Helena had deemed the possible damage to her character worth five-hundred guineas, but Highslip had managed to discount the price of her good name to three-hundred. The shrew had demanded her payment in advance, win or lose.

For a short time this afternoon, it had seemed that Highslip had invested wisely. Helena had played her match boldly, striking blow after blow until it seemed that Donhill would be subject to an utter rout, but the man had only been biding his time. Bit by bit, the chessmaster had beaten back her assault into abject defeat.

Three-hundred pounds, thrown away
, Highslip clenched his fists as he contemplated the pack of creditors that had begun to haunt his door. It was little consolation that Helena’s payment had come from Colber’s purse. The only thing that was keeping the duns at bay was the possibility of his marriage to Caroline Gabriel, yet, even that hope of financial salvation seemed more remote. Her mother, the greedy bitch, had smelled the possibility of money, now that Petrov’s fortune had become widely known. At Almack’s Mrs. Gabriel had allowed the Russian to dance with her daughter twice, while restricting the earl to only one country dance. Petrov would have to be taken care of, Highslip decided, but it was far too soon. Three accidents to Gabriel suitors in so short a time would certainly be remarked.

Highslip glared at the carriage lamps passing in the street below as he considered his options. He would have to bring Caroline to heel before they put him in the Fleet. Luckily, the chit seemed biddable enough, passing pretty too, except for that unfortunate nose, but when compared to her cousin, Caroline came out the complete loser.

Sylvia... that marvel of female flawlessness ... Highslip's blood boiled as thought of the woman that had nearly been his; a face as perfect as his own, a form that would make the gods envious; snatched from him at the lip of the grave by that querulous old fool of an uncle. Breaking his attachment to Sylvia was by far the hardest thing that Highslip had ever done, but there had been no choice. Love alone would not support. Poor girl, she had been overcome with relief the other day not to be put upon any longer by that purse-proud cit. The way that she had looked at him just before she had left the room had made him long to tell her of his secret gallantry on her behalf, but he could not. She loved him still, he knew, although her heart was broken.

Yet, Highslip wondered, his eyes narrowing, if her heart might be growing somewhat fickle. As he recalled the picture of Sylvia in Donhill’s arms, the blood rushed to the earl’s face infusing his countenance with a devilish cast. Unlike Entshaw and Colber, David Rutherford was not a true threat, the chess wager making the baron wholly ineligible and not worth the blunt it would cost to remove him from the game. Highslip had hoped that Helena would rid him of Donhill and the odious wager altogether, but now, he would have to make other plans. First though, he would have to find some sop to throw the creditors until he plighted his troth.

Highslip rose, turning from the window. The hour was late and he had little doubt that a likely flat could be found for fleecing, deep enough in the bottle and warm enough in the pockets. Like the answer to a prayer, Highslip spotted a group of three young sprigs, green as April and half-foxed by the looks of them.

“Sir,” one of them began. “Would you know where I might locate Lord Donhill?”

“In hell, I hope-” Highslip began, cutting himself off as he recognized the boy. Sylvia’s eyes stared out from a young man’s countenance, her delicate features hardened in a masculine visage. He cast about in his mind for the youth’s name. “Why I vow, ‘tis young William,” the earl declared, putting on a mask of joviality. “What brings you to London, lad?”

The young man’s face flushed with embarrassment as he recognized Lord Highslip. Although he was unfamiliar with the details of his sister’s broken betrothal, he knew that the earl had caused her a good deal of grief. “I have come at Lord Donhill’s request, milord. He wishes to speak to me regarding my late uncle.”

“Dear Sir Miles,” Highslip said, wearing a suitably grieved expression. “We all miss him so.” Unlike his sister, William’s face was ridiculously simple to read. Even as the earl did his utmost to lull the lad’s uneasiness, a scheme began to take shape in Highslip's head. “Unfortunately, I left Lord Donhill at a ball; I doubt that he will be here at all tonight. Surely you will find him at his residence tomorrow morning.”

The young man nodded, about to take his leave. “Thank you, Lord Highslip. I shall see him then.”

His companions looked up in awe. Lord Highslip, the noted Corinthian.

It could not have gone better had Highslip planned it so. “I find myself alone this evening,” he said. “Perhaps you and your friends might care to accompany me about town for a bit.”

The reluctant William did not have a chance. His friends clearly would not have forgiven him had he refused this golden bit of good fortune, an opportunity for them to see London in the company of the famous Lord Highslip.

“Thank you, milord,” William answered. “It would be an honor.”

* * * *

“Hsssst, Syl!”

At first, Sylvia thought she was still dreaming. She sat upright in her bed wondering where David had gone. He had been holding her in his arms, whispering words of endearment.

“Syl!”

The hissing syllable came again through the open window punctuated by a spatter of pebbles against the pane. Sylvia drew on her robe and peered out her window to the garden below. “Will?” she whispered. “Whatever are you doing here?” Luckily, the nursery stair connected with the garden door and she was able to go directly down to let her brother in.

“Syl, oh Syl.” Will broke into a sob as Sylvia hugged him to her. “I have been such a fool ... an utter fool.”

She smelled the liquor upon his breath. “It will look better in the morning,” she said comfortingly. “Although you will have the devil of a head. I shall get you past Aunt Ruby.”

“No, Syl,” he moaned, disengaging himself from her arms. “‘Tis far worse than being cast-away I fear.”

The expression of utter despair on his face was frightening. “Did you get sent down, Will?” Sylvia whispered in dread.

“Would that it were that simple,” Will groaned, sitting on a nearby bench, his head in his hands. “I have lost five-hundred and fifty pounds tonight, Syl.”

Five-hundred and fifty pounds. Aunt Ruby would never agree to pay that enormous sum to tow her nephew from the River Tick. As it was she begrudged every groat she spent on the lad above what Uncle Miles had provided.

“How?” she asked, sitting down beside him.

“Cards. Don’t ask anymore,” Will said, ashamed to reveal who held his vowels.

“You must ask for some time,” Sylvia said, her mind racing frantically for a solution. “In the meanwhile, Aunt Ruby must not find you like this. Your old room is still unoccupied, doss yourself there tonight and I will have a talk with Boniface.”

“What shall I do?” Will groaned.

A number of bitter retorts flew through Sylvia’s head, but she held her peace. Recriminations would do little good now. “Get some sleep,” she advised. “It will look better in the morning,” she repeated, trying to convince herself as much as her brother.

“I doubt it,” Will said.

So do I,
Sylvia thought to herself as she mounted the stair.