by Rita Boucher
“The very thing!” David said, his thoughts coming together in a dance of drunken logic. He beckoned to a nearby footman. “Fetch the book,” Rutherford demanded and the servant quickly returned with White’s betting book, pen and inkwell. David’s shaky fingers moved through myriads of wagers regarding the progress of raindrops, the outcomes of horse races and courtships, until he found himself a blank spot. In a faltering hand, David scrawled upon the ledger, then passed the book to Highslip.
“‘I, David Rutherford, will only marry the woman who can beat me in a game of chess,’” Highslip read. “Famous! You have assured your freedom forever.”
Brummel frowned. “I cannot like it,” he said. “It seems an unfair wager.”
“How so?” Highslip asked.
“What incentive is there for any female to try?” Brummel asked. “Assuming she might not wish to marry him.”
“Is absurd. David is rich as Croesus, titled besides,” Petrov said, raising his bloodshot eyes once more. “Is contradiction, Brummel.”
“Consider the character of our mythical chess-playing female. She would undoubtedly be a woman of quality, for no female of the lower classes would have the ability to become expert at so intellectual a pursuit, especially a game so incongruous to her feminine nature. I posit that our mythical fair Goliath might even have a modicum of taste,” the Beau said with a sniff. “No woman of gentle breeding would give David a second look attired so. I have seen better dressed dustmen on a Sunday.”
“I shall add a thousand pounds to sweeten the pot,” Highslip declared. “That way if the female is addled enough not to wish to wed him, there shall be some incentive to take him on.”
“Excellent idea, Highslip. Even though your pockets are to let, I suppose that it is not too imprudent to make such a pledge. It is unlikely that you will ever be required to pay it,” the Beau said, his lip curling sarcastically. He touched his finger to his chin in thought, his eyes alight with a speculative look as he gazed at David. “But that is not enough. Every effort must be made to fashion this wager into a sportsmanlike proposition. Therefore, I give you, Highslip, the charge of dressing David appropriately for the length of the Season.”
“Surely that would take a veritable miracle worker,” Highslip protested.
“I would only entrust someone with the most exquisite taste for the task, Hugo” Brummel said, smoothly.
Highslip preened himself at the compliment. “Why thank you Brummel, I do try to keep up the standards. It is just ... well ...” He looked at Rutherford who sat elbows on the table, chin in hand, necklinen soaking in splashed liquor. The earl shrugged his shoulders eloquently. “It seems almost the undertaking of a Sisyphus.”
“A most noble effort, Highslip. For the sake of sport,” Brummel said, inclining his head graciously. Far better that someone else undertake to dress David, for it would not do at all if the Beau’s own protégé would fail in the realms of fashion. “I, of course, shall be available should any advice be required.” He added his scrawl beneath David’s recording the full details of the wager. “I vow, you shall be transformed David. Nonetheless, you may now enter the sacred portals of Almack’s in utter safety, for surely the woman does not exist who could trounce you on the board.”
David frowned, not at all sure if he wished to act the role of clay in Brummel and Highslip’s hands, but he shrugged that thought aside. With the terms of the wager set, he was safe from the harridans and harpies. “Now that my future is secure, gentlemen,” he said, rising unsteadily to his feet, “shall we raise a glass to the one who did rout me. My worthy opponent, Sir Miles Gabriel.”
“May he rot in hell,” Highslip said sullenly.
David dropped his glass in astonishment, its contents spewing across the chessboard. “What was that, Highslip?”
“Sir Miles? The old curmudgeon stuck his spoon in the wall nigh on a year ago,” Lord Highslip said.
David relaxed visibly. “It is ill to speak so of the dead,” he scolded. “Even though the Sir Miles you speak of must be some other man, for this was posted just three months ago,” he said, taking off his spectacles and holding the letter close to his eyes so he could make out the wavering scrawl. “This is Miles Gabriel of Northumberland. His estate is named the Crown Beeches.”
“Aye,” Highslip said. “And there he was buried, February before last. My estate marches with his. The old man was always toying with a chess board. Don’t know of any other baronet named Miles Gabriel in those parts.”
David shook his befuddled head, trying to clear his thoughts. “But that is impossible. I have his letter.”
Brummel took the paper from Rutherford’s hand. “‘December 10, 1810,’” he read. “How very extraordinary, David. It appears that you have been playing chess with a dead man. And more’s the shame of it, he has beaten you.”
* * * *
Sylvia Gabriel paused as she descended the stairs. It was well into mid-morning and the delightful effect of the sunlight streaming through the stained glass rosette above the door to the elegant Berkeley Square townhouse held her momentarily entranced. When she was a child, the shimmering reds and golds and greens had always seemed to her like the rays of some faerie’s wand coloring the delicate Chippendale pieces in the elegant foyer with wondrous magic.
A petulant call from below roused Sylvia from her reverie.
“Sylvia. Are you dawdling again?”
The young woman hurried down the remainder of the steps as her Aunt Ruby bustled into the foyer.
“Inferior quality, poorly stitched” Ruby Gabriel muttered, her lips pursed in her usual look of perpetual discontent as she tugged on her gloves. “You shall have to return them to the shop tomorrow and demand a refund, Sylvia. Did you mend the tear in my wrap?”
“Yes, Aunt Ruby,” Sylvia said, handing her the delicately embroidered shawl. As her aunt examined the repair critically, Sylvia held her breath. It had taken the better part of the morning to reweave the filmy threads. But apparently Aunt Ruby was satisfied as she wordlessly returned the shawl, presenting her back so that her niece might drape it upon her.
“Now where is Caroline?” Mrs. Gabriel asked, her florid face darkening with a frown. “The hour is already late and we must visit the modiste as well as the milliner. Sylvia, go and see what is keeping the girl,” she demanded, ignoring the presence of a maid who stood nearby.
Despite the fact that it was an errand more suited to the servant, Sylvia gratefully grasped at the excuse to be gone before her aunt found reason for yet another petty scold or worse, to demand that her niece accompany them on their expedition. As Sylvia hastened up the stairs, she prayed that her cousin was ready to depart before Aunt Ruby’s formidable temper crossed the border between annoyance and fury.
“Oh, thank heavens you’ve come,” Caroline wailed as soon as Sylvia entered the bedchamber. “I cannot locate my celestial blue bonnet and my maid is nowhere to be found. I do not understand what happened to it, for I am sure it was at the corner of the wardrobe shelf.”
“Daisy has the afternoon off, Caro. Now there is no time to dawdle, let us find the bonnet and hurry you away,” Sylvia said, an unintentional sigh escaping her.
“Poor Sylvia! Mama is in one of her moods and she has been venting it upon you again, hasn’t she?” Caroline asked. “Unlike the servants, you never have any time off.”
“It is enough to overset anyone, bringing a daughter out in her first London Season,” Sylvia said, peering into one of the myriad boxes that lined the wardrobe’s extensive shelves.
“That is no excuse for the way that she treats you,” Caroline observed, angrily. “Why it was bad enough when she did not replace Miles’ governess and set you to tutoring him, but since we have come to Town, I vow she has been treating you almost as if you are in her service, and not an upper servant at that.”
“It is good to be of some use, Caro,” Sylvia said quietly. “Far better than being a burdensome charge upon the family. Besides, I enjoy
teaching young Miles. He is quite clever for a boy of nine years and very eager to learn.”
“Only because he adores you, Syl. I cannot count how many governesses and tutors our precocious Miles sent packing before he inherited the title and we came to live at Crown Beeches. Still, I cannot see how you bear mama’s treatment. You should be coming with us to Bond Street, visiting the modistes and shops. It is shameful that our uncle’s confounded will has brought you to such a pass,” the young girl said, tossing a hat carelessly upon the floor. “And disgraceful that my mama is too purse-pinching to stand you the cost of a Season,.”
“To what purpose, Caro?” Sylvia asked, picking up the bonnet and smoothing out the pink silk ribbons, replacing it carefully in its box before taking up the search once more. “I have no portion, not a pennypiece to my name. Indeed, it is fortunate that Uncle Miles set aside a fund for my brother Will’s tuition at Oxford, else we would be in a worse bumble-broth.”
“But you are so beautiful. Surely you could find a husband,” Caroline protested. “I vow, even in the plainest of gowns, you turn heads everywhere we go. You could be like one of the Gunning sisters. Why, they both wed dukes and ‘tis said that the Duke of Hamilton was in such haste to wed Caroline Gunning that he used a brass hoop from the bed curtains as a wedding ring. Both the sisters were empty of purse.”
“That was well over fifty years ago, Caro,” Sylvia said, smiling at the girl’s enthusiasm. “I would imagine the way of the world has changed. Men no longer marry a pretty face without it being attached to a healthy dowry.” As well I know, she added silently. “But now, where could that dratted bonnet have gone? Which shelf did you say?”
“The middle,” Caroline replied.
“Then I shall have it for you in a trice,” Sylvia said, plunging into the wardrobe once more and emerging to wave the absent hat triumphantly. “My abigail was always missing things upon that middle shelf, for there is a hollow in the cabinet that allows things to slip to the back.”
“This was your room?” Caroline asked, her face flushing in mortification. “Oh, Syl. I am so sorry.”
Sylvia shook her head, annoyed that she had been so remiss in that slip of tongue. “I do not grudge it to you, widgeon, and do not worry yourself, for you will find it devilish chilly here if the family chooses to winter in town. Still, by then you should be married.”
“With a husband to keep me warm?” Caroline giggled.
“Caro, do not let your mother hear you speaking so vulgarly,” Sylvia warned. She tied the ribbons beneath the girl’s chin. “Now fly, else your mama might take it upon herself to come seeking you and I can just imagine what she will think of the mess that this room is in.”
“Daisy will take care of it when she returns,” Caroline said with assurance, giving her cousin a light kiss on the cheek. “Bond Street, beware, for I am on my way.”
Sylvia laughed as Caroline flounced out the door, but the smile faded as the sound of her aunt’s shrill tones wafted up the hall and she caught the mention of her own name. As she quietly closed the door, Sylvia had little doubt she was being blamed somehow for Caroline's sluggishness.
From the window, Sylvia watched as the footman handed Caroline and her mother into the antiquated carriage. Once the lumbering vehicle turned the corner, Sylvia let the curtain drop and sat heavily upon the bed looking at the wall-paper of sea-green silk. Was it only six years ago that she and Uncle Miles had chosen the pattern?
It had been so exciting. They had come early to Town, before Aunt Ruby was due to join them as chaperone for Sylvia’s Season. For all her travels abroad with her parents, Sylvia had never truly seen London and Uncle had taken her to visit all of its attractions, the Tower, Astley’s Royal Amphitheater, the opera. But then, he had become ill and they had returned to Crown Beeches.
For a moment, Sylvia allowed herself to wonder what would have happened if she had been allowed that spring in London. So many girlish dreams had been put aside since then, visions of a marvelous fair-haired man who would see beyond her face and figure into her very soul, value her for what was within. Perhaps it was fortunate never to have been given that opportunity, she thought, for foolish dreamers make the most stupid mistakes. It was frightening to think how close she had come to giving herself to a dream, a man who, when viewed in the clear light of truth, was not even the faintest shadow of her imagination. She sniffed, brushing the tears of self-pity from her cheek.
“Syl?” A voice called. The door flew open after a perfunctory rap and a young boy came running into the room. “Boniface said that you were in here. Why are your eyes red, Syl?”
Sylvia sought refuge in a rebuke. “No gentleman comes racing into a room like that, Miles. You shall exit and enter the room properly. Immediately.”
Miles thrust out his lower lip defiantly.
“Immediately, young man,” she commanded. “For if I have to wait too long for your compliance, I doubt we shall have any time to play this morning.”
The boy’s belligerence faded and he ran out the door, closing it loudly behind him. Sylvia glanced at the mirror and dabbed a bit of Caro's powder over the tell-tale redness as Miles knocked loudly.
“Who is it?” Sylvia asked.
“‘Tis I, Sir Miles Gabriel,” the boy declared, deepening his voice. “May I have your highly esteemed permission to enter the chamber, Miss Gabriel.”
“Enter, kind sir,” Sylvia said, dropping a mocking curtsy as she opened the door. “Sir Miles.”
Miles bowed stiffly and Sylvia was hard set to match his air of false dignity. Her lower lip began to tremble, but Mile’s face remained perfectly placid. When he took her hand, serving it a smacking wet kiss, Sylvia burst into laughter.
“I win!” Miles declared with a chortle. “I out-faced you.”
“Indeed you did, you wretched boy,” Sylvia conceded. “However did you manage to keep your countenance during that performance?”
“By doing just as you said. I thought of something extremely serious- Mama in one of her fits of temper,” the boy said, watching dismayed as his cousin’s face fell. “I’m sorry, Syl. Was that why you were crying?”
Sylvia shook her head. “You are too curious by half, Miles. I have a mind to declare you a cheater, for my hand is wet as a mop. That kiss could not fail to discompose me. Now, come, let us repair to the schoolroom and get to our lessons.”
Miles groaned. “I didn’t cheat. There ain’t need to punish me so.”
“No youngling, I should not have accused you wrongly, for I vow you are becoming almost as good at keeping a straight face as your namesake. Dear Uncle Miles always said that the ability to keep your opponent from reading your visage was the most important gambit of all.”
“And I am good?”
“Very good,” she said fondly. “Now, we do Geography today and as our subject is India, I shall tell you the story of what occurred between my Papa and the Rajah of Ranjipoor. He wagered a chess set you see, made of gold and silver.”
“Truly?” Miles asked.
“Truly,” Sylvia answered, raising her hand in avowal. “The pieces were carved of lapis and ivory and I shall finish the tale if you are upstairs before me.” With those words, she hitched up her skirts and raced up the wide staircase, the boy, with a whoop of dismay at her head start, followed swiftly.
Chapter 2
The Sikh moved with silent steps, his spotless white turban and jacket, a vivid contrast to the dark velvet of the curtains. With a mercuric motion, he pulled the draperies of the bedchamber open, letting a flood of sunshine into the darkened chamber.
The figure on the bed stirred, pulling the covers over his eyes with a woeful moan. “Damn you, Harjit. Have you no respect for the dying?”
“It is not imminent death that plagues you,” Harjit Singh replied with the familiarity of an old servant. “But the effects of a surfeit of liquor upon a man who rarely indulges. If I disturb you, it is only upon your orders to wake you without fail before twelve of
the clock.”
“There is no need to shout, Harjit,” David’s muffled voice begged from under the covers. “Belay those orders, close those curtains and allow me to die in peace.”
There was a choking sound, something of a cross between a cough and an arrested groan. The Sikh ran to the bedside with the wash basin just as David cast up his accounts.
“There now,” Harjit said as he placed the bowl aside to wipe the sweat from his master’s brow. “With your stomach purged, you shall be feeling much improved, I think. Here, drink this.”
The cup of brew that had somehow materialized in the Sikh’s hand smelled noxious and looked twice as vile as its odor, but David downed it at once, willing to try anything that would dull the dreadful hammering in his skull. He lay back on the pillow, utterly drained, feeling a flush of heat as Harjit’s concoction spread through his body.
“I have had such strange dreams, Harjit,” David murmured weakly as the pounding receded. “There was a curious wager ...”
“Regarding chess and your marriage,” Harjit supplied as he tossed the contents of the bowl out the window into the garden below. The Sikh’s lips curled slightly upwards. The gardener had been quite vocal in his remarks about “‘eathen furriners.”
David sat bolt upright, wincing at the pain in his head. “Then it was real.”
“Indeed, I had the whole from Petrov sahib’s groom, who delivered you early this morning. Lord Highslip has already sent a note round that you are to meet him at Weston’s establishment at precisely two this afternoon. I am to meet with his valet for instruction in the art of properly dressing a gentleman.”
David threw the servant a baleful look. “You are most pleased by this, I take it, Harjit Singh. Ever since you entered my employ you have been bullying me to enter the ranks of man-milliners.”
Harjit bowed. “I only do your will, Rutherford sahib. If you had no desire to dress in a manner suiting your rank, who am I, your humble servant, to thwart your wishes?”