Miss Gabriel's Gambit (21 page)

 He pushed idly at the chess hourglass, watching the sand run down in a steady stream, one hour’s worth of time in each glass for a total of two hours. Two hours to decide the rest of his days. Unbidden, Sylvia’s words came to mind. “People’s lives are not pieces to be lost and won by skill or luck.” No matter of luck there, he had well and truly lost her by his own stupidity. Now, it seemed to matter little if he lost himself.

David heard a high-pitched snigger, the sound as familiar as a filthy song that cannot be erased from memory however much one tries. It was Highslip’s laugh.

“I am wagering against you,” the earl called when he noticed that he had caught Donhill’s attention.

“‘Tis your money to lose,” David replied, his casual shrug belying the smoldering anger within. If Sylvia was foolish enough to accept Highslip’s blandishments it was none of his concern, but David would be damned if he would bankroll her seducer. His apathy diminishing, David tipped the hourglass back, emptying it once again to set it in readiness. Would that time could be recalled so easily.

There was a stir at the door and the wagers and speculation ceased momentarily as the crowd gave way for the dark figure. She was swathed from head to toe in swirling robes. The voluminous black fabric yielded no clues as to age or form. The heavy dark veiling shielded her face from even the most penetrating of eyes. She moved toward the chair with a silent grace that suggested youth.

“I am Madame Echec. My conditions, zey have been met?” she asked.

Her voice was low and throaty with age or guile; the accent could be true French or a mere disguise, it was impossible to determine. David gestured toward the hourglasses, about to speak when Petrov stepped forward.

“To the letter, Madame, we have been obeying your demands. However, before we are beginning, is one requirement I am proposing,” the Russian said.

The black cloaked head inclined, listening.

“Lord Donhill risks everything, you- nothing. If you are losing, you must unmask yourself,” Petrov demanded. “Or else you may be retiring now, your identity safe.”

There was a general murmur of approval, for the dandies of St. James had been less than pleased to be deprived of their sport. The woman stood for a moment, her posture one of indecision.

“Very well,” her muffled voice replied, slowly. “I shall hazard it.”

Petrov stepped back, glad that he had secured his friend at least this small advantage. Madame Echec would have some cause to be nervous now, and that anxiety would likely make her vulnerable. Although none but a close comrade could have discerned it, David seemed less than his usual imperturbable self.

The Russian began to fear for his friend. It did not auger well that Madame Echec was confident enough to risk the revelation of that which she had taken great pains to conceal. Indeed, many others seemed to be thinking upon those same lines, for the whispered odds against Madame Echec were decreasing.

At David’s gesture, she seated herself before the white pieces, her gloved hands touching the mahogany base of the hourglass as she tilted first one, then the other, to and fro.

“It is well,” she whispered. “Shall we begin?”

It was like being within the realms of his nightmares, David decided as he automatically responded to her opening move with king’s pawn and flipped her sand to running. The faceless figure reached out with confidence, advancing her pieces in a mere matter of seconds, setting the sifting sand with a swiftness obviously borne of long practice. Forgetting to set her hourglass running after his move, David chided himself for stupidity, knowing that his hesitation could very well cost him the game. The world narrowed to the space of sixty-four squares of black and white.

Sylvia had barely slept considering her strategy. Knowing her opponent’s penchant for careful defense, she moved with rapid precision countering him as his own intent unfolded. As she stopped her time and set his running out, she studied his face. Although the veiling obscured her vision somewhat, she could see the small signs of growing nervousness, the tightness of his jaw, the lines around his eyes.

“Your move, Madame,” David said, tipping her glass with a pleased smile.

She could hear the whisper of hushed approval. He had her trapped in a fork, his knight poised to take either rook or bishop. Madame Echec was glad of the curtain concealing her face as she moved the rook aside to sacrifice the bishop. Would he discern what she was planning? She swiftly set his glass flowing again.

David paused for a few seconds, examining the board, but the inexorably shifting sand was almost a discernable force. A quick check of the forces arrayed upon the board showed that they were nearly even in power. He led by a single pawn, but Madame Echec seemed to have more grains of sand in the glass. It might represent only a few minutes, yet those few granules of time might make a crucial difference if she chose to draw the game out. He took the bishop.

Beneath the veil, Madame Echec grinned with delight. He could still recoup, withdraw himself from the brink of disaster, but it seemed that he was taking the bait. Deliberately, she drew his attention to the other side of the board, feinting an attack with her knight. She leaned back to watch, feeling the sweat run down her neck. Between the veiling, the heavy chador and the press of bodies, the heat was almost beyond endurance, but she would endure. She had to.

David saw the opening immediately and took advantage of the seeming carelessness. “
Echec
,” he said, bringing his queen across the board. He tilted her hourglass with a triumphant flair, then leaned back to polish his glasses casually.

“Blast,” Highslip cursed under his breath. “He is winning, damn him.”

David set his spectacles on the table momentarily as he massaged his eyes. There was a clattering sound from the street outside and the shouted imprecations of draymen. Obviously, an accident had occurred.

Even Madame Echec’s head was turned and Highslip saw his chance. While everyone's attention was temporarily directed elsewhere, he reached out to sweep Rutherford’s glasses to the floor.

Madame Echec returned her regard to the board, moving her rook forward to protect her king, before setting David’s time running once more. “Your move, milord,” she growled, re-directing him to the game.

David’s fingers reached for his glasses, but encountered only empty space.

“Halt the clock!” he demanded. “My spectacles are gone.” The sands ceased running “No one move!” David warned “No one-” There was a heart-sickening crunch and Petrov bent down to pick up the lenses.

Madame Echec chanced to notice Lord Highslip who stepped back to stand near the Russian. His visage was a mask of polite regret, but she could discern the glow of triumph as Petrov handed David the shattered glasses, one lens completely broken.

“You!” David pointed an accusing finger across the board. “You deliberately caused my spectacles to be destroyed. Did you think that I would concede to such tactics?”

Her voice although muffled was filled with cold hauteur. “Indeed, I did not, milor’,” she whispered, her fury rising. “I deny your reprehensible accusation. How could I have touched your spectacles?”

To demonstrate, she leaned across the board, the sweep of her gown threatening to knock over the pieces as she reached toward where his glasses had been. David caught a whiff of camphor and some other scent which he could not quite place.

“Then there is being no choice but postponement,” Petrov said. “Until the spectacles are made anew.”

“No!” Madame Echec declared with quiet vehemence. She would not go through with this again. There was no time. “We shall continue the game. Were I a man, I would duel you sir, for falsely naming me a cheat. Instead, I shall take great pleasure in trouncing you.”

“You have my apologies, Madame,” David said, realizing that she had spoken the truth. She could not possibly have tampered with his glasses. “But I am now a one-eyed man and a blurry-eyed one at that. How do you propose to play on?”

“Are you wishing to be making ze forfeit?” she asked, amusement in her muffled tones.

Petrov hushed the rising murmurs of indignation with a declaration of his own. “The conditions of wager are implying fair match, Madame! For David not to be seeing!”

“I agree! If you are to be playing blind, I too, shall be blind, milor’,” she said, turning her back to the board. “I will play from memory, if you shall do ze same. You have played blind-folded before, no?”

David blinked, but the hazy world would not come into focus. He knew that there would be no awakening from this bizarre moment, for this was reality. Fleetingly, he thought of postponement, but knew that after his false charge of cheating and her gallant offer to play blindly herself, it would be an act of unpardonable cowardice to refuse. Resolutely, he quashed the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The air of mystery was a deliberate distraction, an effort on her part to seek an advantage by putting him on the defensive. The inability to read his opponent’s face had been a distinct disadvantage; now, he realized with satisfaction, she would be unable to study him.

“I must trust someone to turn ze glasses for me,” Madame Echec murmured as she wondered who to appoint? They were all his friends. Her gaze fell upon a familiar figure. “Will you do ze honors, Lord Byron?”

“I thought life was too short for chess, Byron?” Brummel asked, repeating the poet’s words sardonically.

“Ah, but this seems more than a mere game of chess,” Byron replied, as he limped to the front of the room. “There was a loud noise from St. James Street and I looked up from my book to find White’s utterly deserted. So, I decided to come and see for myself and lucky that I did, else I would have missed this cataclysmic event. I applaud your bravery, Madame Echec, and account it a privilege to be the keeper of time in this battle between the sexes.”

“Petrov, will you keep my glass?” David asked.

Petrov took his place by the hourglass as David turned his chair around, visualizing the board in his mind. He saw every piece clearly, standing as they had just before the world had gone to a blur.

“Your last move, Madame?” he asked once the picture was fixed in his head.

“Rook, milor’, to thwart your check.” The answer drifted from behind him.

“Set the glass moving, Mr. Petrov,” David said, sending his bishop sailing across the board in his mind. “Bishop to my Queen’s third rank.”

Madame Echec countered with a move by her knight. Her eyes were closed and her mind shut to everything but the sound of his voice.

It seemed to Petrov that the pace of the game had increased. They called out their moves in rapid succession, scarcely leaving enough time to shift the piece and turn the glasses before the next move was called. He concentrated on his task single-mindedly knowing a lost second could well cost David the game and his freedom. Even so, a part of him watched the board, marveling. David had never played so well, but the shrouded woman was his equal. Perhaps, more than his equal, Petrov worried. It was becoming clear that his friend might finally have met his match.

“Knight takes pawn-
echec
,” Madame Echec called, ignoring the titters of laughter that erupted.
Ignorant fools! They could not see beyond three moves upon the board.
She would not oblige them by failing. Too much was at stake.
Take the knight;
the thought was a prayer.
Take the knight and be damned.

“Queen takes knight.”

When she heard smug, condescending tone in his voice, it was all that she could do to keep from jumping up and shouting with glee. Although David did not yet know it, he had just sealed his fate. “Castle, queen’s side,” she said, barely keeping the triumph from her voice.

There was a gasp from the chess aficionados at this seemingly risky move, but David saw with dawning dismay what she was about. In one swoop, she had shifted the entire balance of the board, weakening his ability to mount a focused attack. He responded, desperately trying to marshal his forces once more, but it was a futile effort. Madame Echec attacked with ruthless efficiency, bringing her reserve into play with swift skill, hammering at him until his king was completely cut off, cornered.

“I believe that is
echec et mat
,” she crowed. “Do you not agree?”

“David-your time!” Petrov urged. “Is nearly being up, you must move.”

“My time is up, my friend,” David said wearily, rising to turn and look at the dark figure. “It is check-mate, Madame. You have beaten me.” He toppled his king in a gesture of defeat.

Madame Echec rose and once more, faced her opponent. His eyes were dull and glassy, like a man walking in the midst of sleep.

David eyed his nightmare, knowing full well what was expected of him, yet the words stuck like a fishbone in his craw. He cleared his throat. “I suppose this means you shall marry me,” he said, rebelling with every fiber of his being as he choked out the words.

“Hardly a gracious proposal, eh, Donhill?” Highslip remarked as he gleefully raked in the results of his wagers.

David glared in Highslip's direction. “Do you expect me to get on my knees to the woman?” he asked.

There was a cheer from the crowd. “Do it up proper, Donhill,” Highslip called. “Act the gentleman.”

“Yes,” said the muffled voice, she slipped off a dark glove to reveal a smooth-skinned hand. “I believe zat you ought to do it so.”

David walked slowly toward the dark figure, then bent in stiff obeisance until his buff-trousered knee was flush with the floor. He captured the proffered hand that peeked from the voluminous black sleeves, clasping her fingers so tightly that he could hear her wince as the fragile bones ground together.

Madame Echec saw the dark curly head bent before her and felt a thrill of pleasure. All of his remarks about females and chess were being disproved. She had brought him to his knees, truly. Yet, when those deep brown eyes glared up at her, the expression in them reminded her of an animal caught in a trap before the hunter. She, of all people, knew what it was to be caught seemingly trapped without hope of escape and regretted the evil impulse that had led her to heed Hugo’s malicious suggestion. “Milor-”