by Rita Boucher
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.
“Sylvia,” Mrs. Gabriel said, her voice barely audible below the noise from within. “I feel that I must tell you that somehow word of your ended engagement to Lord Highslip has become public.”
The girl blanched. “B . . but how?” she stammered.
“I have no notion,” her aunt informed her, “but while you are no longer suitable to be his wife, I would not have you interfere with Caroline’s chances to be a countess. Do you understand? ”
“Of course, Aunt Ruby,” she whispered, trying to quiet the turmoil within. As humiliating as it might be to think that all the Ton might know of Highslip’s rejection, she prayed that Caroline would not tempted by the title of countess. Although the girl was something of a widgeon, she had enough sense to see behind Hugo’s façade. Or did she? Heaven knows, Sylvia herself had been fooled, even though she was older and had deemed herself far wiser.
* * * *
The strains of music wafted from the nearby ballroom as Lord Highslip attempted to tweak David’s neckcloth back into proper placement. “I cannot understand it, Rutherford,” Highslip said in exasperation. “At first, I thought that the problem lies with that Hindu man of yours.”
“Harjit is a Sikh,” David corrected, his irritation growing as the man continued to fuss and fidget with his collar.
Highslip waved his hand. “No matter. Whatever he is, I can only conclude at this point that he is not at fault. For regardless of who has the dressing of you, the result is inevitably the same. Within the space of a few moments, your shirt points have wilted.”
“I am sorry, but I tend to sweat,” David said, his apology blunted by his belligerent tone as he squirmed like a little boy beneath Highslip's grasp.
“Gentlemen do not ‘sweat’ and even were they so vulgar, perspiration is no excuse,” Highslip drawled dismissively. “However, if that were all, I would not be dissatisfied. Look at your neckcloth, man.”
Obediently, David looked down his nose at the snowy folds, holding up a bit of the linen and crumpling it in the process. “It is still there. I have not taken it off.”
“Would that you had,” Highslip muttered. “When we left your rooms, it was tied into a perfect, crisp Mathematical, now it is beyond repair. Have you been using it to polish your spectacles again?”
“No, I swear,” David said raising his hand in affirmation. As he brought it down, his fingers ruffled consciously through his hair, throwing the artfully styled ‘Brutus” into careless disarray. “My spectacles are safe upon my nose.”
Highslip groaned as he watched this wanton desecration of Rutherford’s painstakingly produced coiffure. Stepping back, the earl eyed his sartorial apprentice with growing dismay. “Your linen is askew again and somehow your coat has gotten wrinkled between my coach and Almack’s. I cannot fathom how that is possible. And your stockings!” he moaned. “There is a splatter of mud on your left ankle. I would vow on my dear Mama’s grave that we have not been near a drop of mud and we have not had rain this week past.”
“Your coach, perhaps?” David questioned, his eyes lighting with devilish pleasure as he deliberately goading the dandy,
“Always immaculate,” Highslip said, thrusting out his chin pugnaciously. “I have yet to encounter a speck of soil in any of my conveyances, yet dirt seems to be attracted to you as if you were a veritable magnet. Were it not for my promise to Brummel, I vow, I would wash my hands of you.”
“Indeed, you might be well advised to do so. Is that a speck of dust I see on your left sleeve?” David asked making as if to touch the cuff in question.
Highslip backed away. “I confess, I would not be surprised if you were contagious. Well, I have done the best I can. I doubt that Brummel himself could do better.”
“Think you so, Highslip?” Brummel asked, raising his quizzing glass in disdain. Pursing his lips, he eyed Rutherford in patent disapproval. “A marked improvement, David,” he said, slowly. “But then anything would have been an improvement.”
Highslip reddened at the implied criticism.
David tugged at the linen that hugged his neck like a veritable noose. “I vow the first Adam was a fool when he put on those blasted leaves in Eden. I am sure that had he realized it would lead to the neckcloth, he would have been content in his nakedness. Not another lecture on the importance of being well-dressed, I pray you, George.”
“No, you heathen,” Brummel declared with a bark of laughter. “I have not come to preach to you, merely to tell you that Miss Gabriel has arrived. I may deplore your taste in tailoring matters, Donhill, but your eye for the fair sex is impeccable. There is no need for me to create her an ‘Incomparable,’ for as Highslip stated, she is one without my assistance.”
As he entered the ballroom and saw Miss Gabriel crossing the floor, David could not help but agree with Brummel’s assessment. The unusual green shade of Miss Gabriel’s gown accentuated her porcelain coloring and the candlelight glinted in her hair, burnishing it to the color of new-minted gold. Yet, despite her outstanding looks, her face lacked animation and for a moment, he was reminded forcibly of their first meeting.
Once again, her countenance was a study in marble, closed and emotionless as she turned her head mechanically and looked upon the assemblage. Then, those green eyes met his and David saw beyond the facade that she effected. Her anguish was obvious, as was the likely cause, for Mrs. Gabriel’s glowering looks were all too easy to interpret. Although she was making a poor attempt at hiding it, the woman’s jealousy of the attention that her niece was garnering was patent. Miss Gabriel was in obvious need of rescue and David abruptly determined that he would act the part of her champion.
However, he soon found that he was not the only would-be knight on the board. By the time he had crossed the floor, he found her besieged by a crowd of young swains, eager for an introduction.
“La, Lord Donhill,” Mrs. Gabriel said tapping him on the arm with her fan. “I declare myself surprised to see you at Almack’s of all places.”
David suppressed a wince. The woman wielded her fan like a club and the logic of her statement was no less of an assault. Why had he come to the very place he had vowed to avoid like the plague? The terms of the wager had not required that he endure the crowd of eager mamas, callow youths and simpering misses. Where had his wits gone? David wondered.
He had endured hours of Highslip’s high-handed management, been primped, polished and appareled under that popinjay’s paw and for what purpose? Certainly, Mrs. Gabriel seemed singularly unimpressed by the marked improvement in his appearance. Indeed by the short shrift she had given him, he deduced that Miss Caroline Gabriel had no potential for chess. Even as he made an attempt to reply to her sally, the matron turned her attention to Lord Highslip, who had made no wagers impairing his eligibility.
“Caroline, darling. Look who is come, dear Lord Highslip,” the woman proclaimed loudly as if the earl was long lost kin, rapping him soundly on the arm.
But even had she knocked him on the noggin, Mrs. Gabriel would have been unable to direct Highslip’s attention to Caroline, for it was clearly Sylvia that claimed his gaze. While David was long accustomed to reading faces, he was hard put to name the expression that passed across Sylvia Gabriel’s countenance. Was it regret? he wondered, that she had whistled a titled suitor to the wind? As for Highslip, his usually bland mask slipped for barely a fraction of a moment, but it was long enough for David to perceive the raw desire burning in Highslip's eyes.
“Beautiful, as ever, Sylvia,” Highslip declared at last, a slight hesitation in his drawled compliment.
“Am I, indeed, Hugo?” Sylvia said, her tones cold and clipped. Even
without gold? her eyes asked the foppish earl.
David wondered at the air of tension between them, the crackle of feelings imbuing the atmosphere with an electricity of emotion. Even Mrs. Gabriel could detect the silent undercurrent, for her color was becoming alarmingly beet in hue as the earl continued to stare.
“May I have this dance, Miss Gabriel,” David found himself asking, looking toward Mrs. Gabriel for permission to dance with her niece.
With a glowering nod, Mrs. Gabriel gave her assent, while Highslip gazed angrily after them.
“I account myself lucky to steal you away, Miss Gabriel,” David said, trying to fill the awkward silence.
“Is he still staring after me, milord?” Sylvia asked under her breath, a pasted smile upon her lips.
David glanced in Highslip’s direction. “No, Miss Gabriel,” he said softly. “He has recovered himself and is engaged in a conversation with your cousin.” The girl relaxed visibly, the tension in her posture easing as the orchestra began to play.
“‘I feel almost a Bartholemew Fair freak,” Sylvia said, thinking aloud. “It seems as if every eye is upon me. I vow ‘tis hard enough to bear without Hugo acting the fool.”
David stiffened. Although Highslip’s behavior had been inappropriate, surely her rejected former suitor deserved more sympathy. “Men have forever been making fools of themselves over beautiful women, Miss Gabriel, so you are scarcely a freak,” David said, ruefully recalling hopeless infatuations in his past, when he had been without title or purse. “Brummel has pronounced you an Incomparable. Is not that type of attention gratifying?”
“Think you so, milord?” Sylvia asked. Although his voice was even and his smile was pleasant enough, her reading of his expression detected the unfavorable set to his jaw, the glint of reprimand in his eye. Surely he could not fault her for the uncommon notice that she was receiving? “I did not campaign for the title, sir and now that I have been granted the moniker, I suspect that it will only cause me grief.”
“There are some who would put marriage in the grievous category, but I have never met a female who looked upon it so,” David said. “We had supposed that between your uncommon looks and Brummel’s approbation, you would certainly be able to snare some man.”
“‘We?’” It took all of Sylvia’s skill to keep her visage calm, but she could not keep the snap of anger from her voice. The events of the past days were suddenly becoming clear. “So, my sudden popularity has not come ex nihilo. Who is counted among this cabal of ‘we,’ milord?”
David fingered his neckcloth uncomfortably as he tried to extricate himself from the results of his foolish disclosure. “’Twas Brummel’s idea, actually,” he began clearing his throat. They were parted momentarily by the pattern of the dance and he prayed that her anger would wane somewhat by the time they rejoined. However, that was not the case. Although a placid facade was fixed on her face, her eyes were spitting sparks as they linked arms.
“I ask you again; who else is in on this plot of yours?” Sylvia asked, in tones of poisoned honey.
“We had only meant to help you, Miss Gabriel,” David explained weakly. “Your desperate situation ... I uh, mean.”
“‘My desperate situation,’ as you call it, has only been made more untenable by your interference,” Sylvia whispered, nodding briefly toward the corner that her aunt occupied. “Look you and tell me what you see.”
“Well,” David allowed, “her expression is somewhat annoyed. Now she is speaking to Caroline.”
“Who is obviously not dancing,” Sylvia lamented. “And, knowing my aunt, I will be to blame for it.”
“I am sure that your cousin will find a suitor, Miss Gabriel,” David said, feeling a pang of guilt as he realized the likely truth of her conclusions. “As you shall.”
“I know you meant well, milord,” Sylvia said. The hangdog look in his eyes reminded her forcibly of young Miles’ aspect when one of his brainstorms had gone awry and her indignation abated. “However, do you honestly believe that I could find a worthy suitor who would overlook the absence of a dowry?”
David looked at her, astonished that she should have any doubts on that point. Yet, Miss Gabriel did not seem to be fishing for compliments; her manner was entirely serious. There was an underlying bitterness in her words that told him she had reason to believe her statement.
“A man may admire a showy piece of horseflesh, milord, but if it has little else to recommend, he will not buy it,” Sylvia stated flatly, aching inside as she recalled her past hurt and disappointment. “At present, Lord Donhill, my looks are more a curse than a blessing. My appearance bars me from seeking a respectable position, for what woman with husband or son would be blind enough to hire a governess with a face that tempts men to indiscretion? I will, therefore, forever be dependent on Aunt Ruby’s charity.”
It was a statement of fact, not vanity. David marveled that she had actually considered the possibility of employment and felt saddened that his old friend’s niece had come to such a pass. Although his compliance with Brummel’s plan had initially been half-hearted, he now pledged himself fully to Miss Gabriel’s assistance.
“Not all men are so mercenary,” David said. “But if you despair of marriage, Miss Gabriel, what do you want?”
“My freedom,” Sylvia replied at once. “To be quit of Aunt Ruby’s grudging charity.”
“Marriage would do that,” David pointed out. “You would be beyond your aunt’s authority.”
“And completely under catspaw to another, merely in a different form of servitude,” Sylvia said. “‘Tis the same thing to be white’s pawn as black’s - the moves are limited.”
“And you would be queen.” Amused by the reference to the game, David continued the chess analogy. “With complete freedom of the board.” But before Miss Gabriel could reply they were separated by the figure of the dance again. She moved gracefully, executing the steps with airy precision before she returned to his side.
“To be a queen requires a treasury, milord,” Sylvia said with a regretful smile. “Unfortunately, mine seems to have been permanently misplaced.”
“Then I must find it, Miss Gabriel,” David declared.
“I have tried for this past year,” Sylvia reminded him. “We all have.”
“Ah,” David said smugly. “But my knowledge of chess is far superior. I am sure that those clues your uncle left will be far more intelligible to a master of the game than one with limited skills.”
“I doubt it; the clues are too confusing, even for a master.” Her candid declaration elicited a startled expression from Lord Donhill and Sylvia, realized her error.
But Donhill recouped for her. “Ah yes, your brother. I am sure he searched high and low. But perhaps a fresh perspective might serve.”
Sylvia let his supposition stand. “Perhaps. I hope that you will forgive my frankness, but I feel that I almost know you, Lord Donhill. Uncle often read your letters to me and it is almost as if you are something of an old friend.”
“Surely not an old friend,” David bantered, as he circled round her and bowed in answer to her elegant curtsy.
“Ancient,” Sylvia replied, a teasing light in her eyes, as they came together once more. “I had envisioned you as a grizzled old geezer, balding with a Moorish cap upon your head, the tassel waving to and fro as you pondered your moves.”
“And you, my girl, were described as a mere member of the infantry. A terror in plaits who prattled incessantly,” David declared, recalling Sir Miles’ brief mentions of his niece.
“And in your mind, I remained eternally in the nursery, just as you were my Uncle’s elderly, far-away crony,” she mused. “Strange, the elaborate pictures that our imaginations create from mere assumption, usually far better than the reality.”
“To the contrary, Miss Gabriel. I find myself preferring reality,” he said, surprising himself with his own sincerity. “An intelligent, beautiful woman is infinitely better than a chattering schoolroom minx.”<
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“Why, that is by far the best of compliments, milord,” Sylvia said, a smile banishing her serious expression. “No man has ever credited me with a brainbox before. Most males do not look beyond my face.”
“Then most men are fools, Miss Gabriel,” he said, looking into the depths of her eyes. The candlelight imbued them with an topaz light, making them glow with a lambent flame.
The tempo of the music increased and they changed partners. There was no further opportunity for conversation until David reluctantly brought Miss Gabriel back to her aunt’s side. It was easy to see that the girl’s evaluation of the situation was on the mark, for the look that her aunt gave her would have done credit to Medusa.
“I hope that you did not find Sylvia’s ways too forward, Lord Donhill,” Mrs. Gabriel said, favoring him with a pasteboard smile. “I fear my niece has not yet learned that her countrified conduct is inappropriate for town.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Gabriel, I found her irreproachable. Your tutelage does you credit,” David commented, larding on flattery liberally. “In fact, I would be grateful if your daughter would favor me with a dance.”
Mrs. Gabriel nodded graciously. Although his monstrous wager made Lord Donhill ineligible, he was well enough to dance with and, as Brummel was the man’s bosom friend; it would not do to give Donhill offense.
David was delighted to find that, except for her unfortunate nose, Caroline did not resemble her Mama in the least. Freed of Mrs. Gabriel’s crushing presence, the young woman chattered freely, flitting from topic to topic with the abandon of a conversational butterfly as the steps of the dance joined and parted them. It required little of David’s concentration to nod appropriately as he mulled over Sylvia Gabriel’s situation. He owed it to the memory of his late chess partner to solve the mystery and clear his name. Unfortunately, there were many who gave credit to the rumors that the late Sir Miles had frittered away his nephew and niece’s inheritance.
David found himself wondering about William Gabriel, Sylvia’s brother. Perhaps a visit to Oxford might be in order to determine what moves he had made to seek the treasure? After all, two brilliant chess-players pondering the same problem were far better than one. However, David was brought up short in his contemplations by a question from Miss Caroline Gabriel.