Miss Gabriel's Gambit (22 page)

“Will you marry me?” he asked, the words grating past clenched teeth as the crowd around him guffawed. Except for Petrov and Brummel, all were laughing, enjoying the spectacle of his humiliation.

 There was no appeal for mercy, only rage sparking in those earth-toned depths. He was a man bending his head at the chopping block, awaiting the stroke of the executioner’s axe. The words were wrenched from him; despite the calm delivery, she could only guess at the agony they caused. Her feeling of triumph dissolved rapidly into a maelstrom of mixed emotions. “Will you marry me?” The phrase that she had longed for echoed in her mind, the culmination of all her plans; yet now she wavered.

As she had contemplated it before, it had seemed the most delicious of ironies to eschew a slip on the shoulder for a wedding ring. Although she had every right to say “yes,” as she had intended, she could not. David had wanted her, but he did not love her. It would be hell to endure that inequity of feeling for the rest of her days. He would despise her for forcing him into marriage and despite what he had done, she still loved him, loved him with all her being. For that reason, she decided to give him his freedom.

David waited in an agony of anticipation, the silence stretching as they all awaited her undoubted answer. Looking away from that veiled face, he felt an utter fool, knowing that he would be obliged to spend the rest of his days with this unknown; all for a drunken wager. Sylvia had been correct; now, he had lost everything in his life that was worthwhile. He gazed at the woman’s hand, the only part of her that he could see. At least it was smooth and slender, a young hand with delicate nails, marred only by a jagged scar. A familiar scar. He blinked, moving closer to peer at the healing skin. Once jogged, his memory went rapidly to that morning in Green Park, a ragged wound caused by a vicious cur.

Sylvia? As he looked at the familiar scar, all began to make sense. William Gabriel’s protestations of ignorance regarding chess, her inadvertent slips of knowledge. Had she planned this all along? No wonder she had refused his
carte blanche
; why choose the post of mistress when one could be a wife? She had deliberately concealed her expertise in the hopes of trapping him.

Well, she had brought him to his knees and now, she would claim his name and title in the manner of all greedy females. However, she might find that Lady Donhill was not so easy a position. Once married, she would be utterly in his control. The thought brought a smile to his face. She would be taught a lesson. Surprisingly, David found himself relaxing. It was something of a relief to know that his wife-to-be was neither a crone nor a cow-faced ape-leader. Certainly, he would never lack for a chess partner.

“Milor’,” she said again.

The sound of her voice directed his attention upward once more and he tried to pierce the layer of veils. He identified the smell below the camphor. It was lilac, the sweet lilac she always wore. Dimly, David recalled Sylvia’s tale of her father’s escaping the pasha’s wrath garbed in women’s clothing.

“You do me no honor at all if you marry me out of foolish obligation,” she declared, her voice low as she pulled her hand from his. “I say you ‘nay,” milor’. For I have now just determined to marry only a man who can best
me
at chess.”

The crowd gasped. Highslip went as white as his necklinen.

David rose dizzily. She had rejected him. The prize in her grasp, she had thrown it back in his face. A feeling of profound relief gave way to a realization that he had just been heartily insulted. Why?

 “I shall take a thousand pounds as my forfeit. You may dispose of your person as you please,” Madame Echec declared, laughter in her throaty voice.

She swept David a mocking curtsy whose grace erased any lingering doubts about the female chessmaster’s femininity in all minds but one.

“She is no woman!” Highslip growled. “I demand proof that the terms of the wager have been discharged. Show us you are a female.”

David looked to Sylvia in growing amusement wondering how she would handle this problem.

But she had come prepared. “I have no intention of disclosing my identity, sirrah. However, if you shall summon a maid, I shall prove my sex.”

A scullery maid was brought from the Cocoa Tree’s kitchens and the two were closeted for a short time, while the members of White’s congratulated David on his narrow escape. He wondered just how lucky he was.

“She be a mort awright,” the kitchen maid declared, gesturing broadly with her hands to her chest. “Ain’t no man got a pair like ‘ers.”

The gathering of gentleman laughed heartily. “Well, Highslip,” Brummel urged. “Time to pay up.”

Highslip reached into his pocket, pulling out a wad of bills, so lately collected from the losers. He counted painstakingly until the full sum that he had just won was exhausted, then reached into his purse once more to fetch the remaining sum, nearly the entire amount he had fleeced from young Gabriel’s friends. It gave him no small comfort that, despite his losses, his stranglehold upon Sylvia remained. Highslip had won enough in wagering against Lord Donhill to allow him to retain William's vowels.

“Here!” Highslip said, throwing the bills to the table with such force that some scattered to the floor.

 “How gracious of you, milor’,” she said, her sarcasm plain as she bent to gather the fallen paper. She sat down and began to count aloud. “900, 920 ... 950 ...” she said, coming to the end of the bills. “50 pounds short?” The swathed head faced Highslip and somehow all could tell that her silent regard was accusing. Highslip reddened, fumbling in his pockets once again until the shortfall had been remedied. She folded the money carefully, and turned, sweeping from the room like a dark cloud as the crowd stared after her in amazement.

At the window, David silently applauded as the indistinct dark-clad figure stepped into a waiting hackney carriage. Sylvia had planned it all so well from start to finish. Obviously she had known from the beginning that she could beat him, yet she had let him go. Bit by bit, the pieces of the puzzle came together, only the full picture was nearly as confusing as the parts.

As the carriage rolled out of sight, David sought Sylvia’s brother, pulling him to a private corner to converse. “You meant it when you said that you could not play chess?” he asked.

“Aye,” Will said. “That is why your letter set me wondering, milord. ‘Tis my sister who’s the pawn-pusher, not I, but you’ll not tell her I said so?” he asked anxiously. “Uncle never liked to have her skill noised about, thought it unwomanly and now as I’ve seen this Madame Echec, I know why. I have never seen so formidable a female.”

“How long was your uncle ill?” David asked.

“Months,” Will answered. “Out of his head in pain, more times than not. Sylvia was a brick; nursed him right up through the end.”

“Played chess with him?” David asked, softly.

“I should say not. Uncle wasn’t in no condition to wield a spoon much less a chess piece. After all she’d done, that foolish chess will was doubly a shame,” Will declared. “To be truthful, with all the agony that chess has caused those dear to me, I despise the game. At least today turned out well. You may have lost the game, but it seems to me that you have had the devil’s own luck today.”

“The devil’s own luck,” David repeated, although his emphasis upon the words differed. It was increasingly obvious that Sylvia had been the correspondence chess-player. In fact, David reflected in growing bewilderment, it now seemed that she had rejected him twice. There had been no need for today’s farce. All Sylvia had needed to do was to claim him, for she had already won his hand and his fortune through the post.

Was she so besotted by Highslip that she would eschew an offer of marriage to take up the earl’s
carte blanche
? It made little sense, but what aspect of love did. Certainly, it was the only answer that David could find. He would make her see reason, he vowed. Bidding farewell to William, David started to seek out Petrov, only to bump into a pillar.
The first move
, David decided,
was to procure a new pair of spectacles
.

* * * *

As the rain pummeled the moving carriage, Sylvia quickly shed her disguise, folding it into a parcel as they turned on to Piccadilly. She covered her hair with the large brimmed bonnet, pulling a light veil down to obscure her features just as the carriage pulled up near Devonshire House, as she had instructed. She paid the driver, secure in the knowledge that he would no more be able to describe her than any of the crowd in the Cocoa Tree. Nonetheless, she turned up Stretton Street avoiding the more direct route to Berkeley Square, taking a roundabout way home. Soaked to the skin, she shoved the bundle of dark clothing into a dark corner of the mews to be retrieved later, then went around to the front door.

Sylvia entered to find her aunt and Caroline listening to Will’s account of the chess match. The circuitous walk had permitted her brother to precede her.

“ ... and she let him
go
, you say?” Aunt Ruby was asking.

“Not merely set him free,” Will declared, “humiliated him to boot. Made him get down on bent knee to propose, only to reject him.”

“I cannot say but it serves the conceited wretch right,” Aunt Ruby said with a sniff. “Still, I think the woman was the worse fool. Imagine, rejecting a purse like Donhill’s and a
title
as well.”

“They say that she must be something of a nabob herself,” Will said. “And I would concur. Her clothing was of a type that I had often seen in the East when I was a boy.”

“Nabob or no,” Caroline said. “It was still rather cruel to cause him to kneel before her.”

“Do you think so?” Sylvia said, her cheeks burning despite herself. “What about his cruelty to the other females who have challenged him to the ruin of their reputations?”

“I thought you were fond of Lord Donhill,” Caroline asked, surprised at her cousin’s vehemence.

“I have little respect for any man who could needlessly stake his entire future on the outcome of a game,” Sylvia said, eying her brother significantly.

Will reddened at the implied reference to his gambling losses.

“What a pity,” Caroline sighed. “Still, Lord Donhill is free now, free to marry whoever he might choose. The matchmaking tabbies will be in alt.” In consternation, Caroline clamped her mouth shut as she noted the growing gleam in her Mama’s eye.

“He has a title,” Mrs. Gabriel purred, “and money.”

Suddenly, Sylvia found she could endure no more. “I am going upstairs,” she announced, “to change into some dry clothing.” No one paid her the slightest notice as she went past the main stairway to the small ballroom. As she crept out the french doors to the garden, Sylvia noticed that the black and white marble had been polished to a high gloss even though the room was not to be used for the ball.

She paused for a moment, memories stirring in rainy mist. Had she been needlessly cruel to David? He doubtlessly hated Madame Echec for his humiliation. Yet, Sylvia thought, lifting her chin proudly, he had dishonored her in far more personal a manner. David Rutherford had deserved what he had gotten and more, far more. There was no cause for regret.

Yet, as Sylvia surreptitiously slipped out through the garden door to the mews to retrieve her bundle, she was honest enough to acknowledge that Caroline was partially correct. There had been no real purpose to cause him to abase himself other than petty revenge. Nonetheless, she comforted herself, it would make no difference; David would never know Madame Echec’s identity. As Sylvia made her way up the back stairs to the nursery, she heard her aunt haranguing Caroline below, hoping to re-direct the girl’s affections toward Lord Donhill.

Strange, Sylvia mused as she reached the nursery door, how her daydreams had been played out with such exquisite irony. In the back of her mind, she had always known that David was hers for the taking. She would challenge him and he would lose, but declare himself the winner still, for her dreams would always end with his avowal of love.

It seemed one of Fate’s crueler jests that Sylvia
had released him from the bondage of his wager only, in all likelihood, to marry another. David was now a prime catch who could look far higher than a dowerless girl who had nothing but a pretty face to recommend her. Even disregarding the absence of a marriage portion, Sylvia knew that one did not offer to wed woman who was previously considered no more than mere mistress material
.

 There was a shout as Sylvia opened the nursery door. “Make way!” Miles warned as he rushed past her, Lord Donhill’s dragon kite trailing behind him.

“Did you do your lessons?” she demanded, her annoyance rising as she saw his books open as she had left them.

“Not yet,” Miles said, ignoring the danger in her voice.

“Now!” Sylvia ordered, wrenching the kite from the boy’s hands. As she glared down at him, he watched in trepidation, his eyes beginning to glisten.

“You’re holding it too tight!” Miles wailed, his lower lip trembling. “You’re going to break it.”

Sylvia bowed her head, unable to meet his tearful gaze for a moment as shame filled her. It was unconscionable to take her anger out upon the boy. After all, it was not his fault that she still loved David Rutherford, Sylvia thought miserably, as she set the fragile kite gently upon the shelf. “Sorry I snapped at you, youngling” she said, returning to his side and tousling his hair by way of an apology. “Finish your lessons now and perhaps, if the day clears, we may sneak out later and launch your dragon into flight.”

 “Don’t wonder that you’re peevish, the way Mama has you working. Why, you’re soaking wet.” Miles said, brightening at the promised treat, as he wiped away his tears.

Sylvia glanced down at her sodden gown. “So I am. I had best go change. There is still a great deal to do before tomorrow night. We want Caroline’s ball to be a success,” she declared, with false brightness.

“Don’t care if it is, or it isn’t. I won’t get to see nothing of it anyway,” Miles complained, his mouth drooping. “Mama says I’m to stay put in the nursery and not set foot downstairs.”