Miss Gabriel's Gambit

by Rita Boucher

  “Will you see to the arrangements, Petrov?” David asked, with a growing feeling of distaste as the knowing laughter erupted around him. He had eaten nothing since breaking his fast in the morning, but even as he ordered his supper, David doubted that the queasy feeling in his stomach would be stilled by a meal.

  Was this to be his destiny? To be forever challenged by pitiful chits and Friday-faced females at their last prayers? To be importuned constantly by women greedy for his wealth or his name?

  “Why so glum, David,” Brummel asked with a tight-lipped smile. “Surely you have no need to fear. You will defeat her as handily as you did all the others, I vow.”

  David could not help but agree, yet the name Balton had a strange resonance. He had heard it before and connected to chess, he was sure, but where? He ate his meal as he searched his memory, scarcely tasting a morsel. Around him, he could hear the quiet murmur of voices and the muffled thump of chess pieces being moved about the board. When reminiscence yielded no clue, he decided that he had probed enough. Resolutely, he pushed the puzzle to the back of his mind, hoping that it would answer itself if left alone, as questions often did.

  To distract himself, David wandered about the room, seeking comfort in the familiarity of the circle of chess aficionados whose company he had cultivated since his return to England. The “Pawnpushers,” as they were called by the other club members, had claimed this corner of White’s, making it their own. Here, chess was paramount. As David passed, stopping to watch and comment, his friends looked up at him distractedly, favoring him with an occasional myopic smile as they listened to his opinions.

  “But we have not finished, Petrov!” Freddy Dare’s petulant protest elicited several demands for silence and David watched as Ivan rose from the table.

  “We finish tomorrow,” Petrov said, scribbling to note the position of the pieces. “I go to Harwell ball.”

  “A ball, Petrov?” his partner proclaimed in disbelief. “But we are in the midst of a game.”

  “If you are not liking it, I concede,” Petrov said, tipping his king to the board then sweeping a bow. “There are being more important things than chess, Freddy. An angel awaits. Good-night.”

  The young man stared after the retreating Russian as if he had uttered a blasphemy. “Have you ever heard the like, Lord Donhill?” he asked. “What has come over Mr. Petrov, for I have never known him to leave when there is a game in progress?”

  “I believe it is a malady that strikes without rhyme or reason,” David said morosely. Little doubt that Sylvia would be at Harwell’s and he rose, with half a mind to follow Petrov. Yet, what could he tell her? There was no news regarding her fortune. The words of Sir Miles’ puzzle sounded like a senseless litany in his mind.

  He could not bring himself to face her, to see her eyes ask that silent question only to witness hope die yet again. He could not watch old Entshaw eying Sylvia with that possessive air as he danced with her. Mrs. Gabriel was gloating openly over the elderly lord’s interest and David cursed himself roundly for his interference, ruing the day that he had agreed to Brummel’s ill-conceived scheme. Because of their meddling, Sylvia might be forced to become an old man’s Abishag. David listened with half an ear as young Freddy droned on about Petrov’s foolishness.

  “I hope I shall never be stricken by love,” Freddy said devoutly. “Damme if I ever quit in the midst of a game for a petticoat.”

  “I shall take Ivan’s place, if you like,” David offered, hoping that the game would distract him from his melancholy thoughts. The young man nodded eager agreement and David slipped into the vacant seat. He moved mechanically, with only a fraction of his attention on the board, yet countering his opponent with ridiculous ease. The late Sir Miles’ rhyme echoed in his head. “Yea, dance with a fool...” And play with a fool, David thought glumly as Freddy moved his bishop into an obvious trap.

  Lord Roberts headed for the door. “Leaving so soon, Roberts?” David asked. “I had hoped for a game later.”

  “Another night, perhaps,” Lord Roberts said. “I had promised my wife that I would look in on the Harwell ball. Launching a daughter this Season, y’know,” he added with a proud smile. “A fine gel. Does her mama proud.”

  “Shame how the fellow is in his wife’s pocket. A quarter-century of servitude, he’s been married that long, y’know.” Freddy grumbled as he watched the older man leave. “You’re lucky indeed, milord, that you’ll never be under petticoat government. I have half a mind to match your wager.”

  Freddy looked at David with an expression approaching reverence and David felt a trifle uneasy under the young man’s worshipping gaze.

  “Before you issue the challenge, Freddy, I suggest you improve your game or you will quickly find yourself wed ,” David declared, moving his bishop across the board to take Freddy’s bishop and trap the king. “Echec et mat, I believe.”

  “My word, mate it is!” Freddy declared. “I had not seen that coming at all. Is that one of Philador’s gambits? Can you explain it to me, sir?”

  “Gabriel’s,” David said as he rose, suddenly eager to put as much distance as possible between himself and his young acolyte. “I shall show you the principles, but another time perhaps.”

  David scanned the tables, but there were few other pawn-pushers present. The more mature players, like Lord Roberts, had long ago taken their leave seeking the comforts of home and hearth or the demands of other interests. David felt a twinge of envy as he recalled the older man’s obvious pride in his wife and daughter, his touching eagerness to be at their side.

  The remnants in the room were of an age with Freddy, mere striplings, most with intellects as wooden as the chess pieces they played. They came to this corner of White’s because chess had suddenly become fashionable. With any luck, on the morrow they would more than likely flutter off elsewhere, hovering about the next newest, modish pursuit. Their immature faces were vapid, childishly eager. One or two callow youths even sported spectacles in imitation of himself, David realized in dismay and amusement.

  “Ah, Brummel!” David latched on to his passing friend in relief. “Are you off now?”

  “To Harwell’s ball,” the Beau nodded.

  “I shall join you,” David declared, rolling his eyes in Freddy’s direction.

  “Of course,” George agreed, understanding at once. Stripling worship was uncommonly tiresome.

  “We shall stop at my apartments, if you do not mind,” David said, looking down at his rumpled clothes. “I cannot attend in such a state, do you not agree?”

  For once, the Beau was nonplussed.

  ...

  “He is staring again, Caro,” Sylvia whispered between clenched teeth She tried to fix a smile on her lips as she gazed out upon the sea of faces, conscious of her aunt’s eyes upon her. Mrs. Gabriel hovered nearby, watching her niece’s every expression and gesture, waiting for some gaffe that she might criticize. Sylvia attempted to change the direction of her thoughts, telling herself that she was being foolish. The Harwell ball was a crush, with people so closely packed that there was barely room to raise an elbow. Yet, even though she could not see him, Sylvia felt as if an insect was creeping upon her skin and knew that somewhere, Hugo was watching.

  “You imagine it, coz,” Caroline said, shielding her face with the flutter of her fan. “Highslip has been all that is proper these days past, hoping to turn me up sweet. Besides, if staring was a crime, I vow, half the men in the room would be bait for gaol. You look lovely, Syl.”

  Indeed, the mediocre modistes had outdone themselves. Sylvia’s gown shimmered when she moved, as panels of silver cloth revealed themselves amidst folds of pure white samite. When the pattern had been planned, Sylvia had thought that the irregular gussets necessitated by the imperfections of the fabric would make her look like a tatterdemilion, but instead, the design gave the impression of continuous motion, as if the dress had a life of its own. By contrast, the burnished metallic gleam of the bodice made the halo o
f her golden hair seem like a flame alight amidst the glow of the tapers that lit the room.

  There was no jealousy in Caroline’s compliment, for she had seen Ivan Petrov at the door. As the Russian crossed the room, she knew from the look in his eyes, that she was the only woman he saw.

  “Miss Gabriel,” he said, bowing over her hand.

  Although his voice was punctiliously formal, Caroline felt the caress in its rich overtones.

  “I do not see Lord Donhill,” Sylvia remarked teasingly. “I had thought the two of you came as a set.”

  Caroline felt a stir of pity for her striking cousin as she discerned the disappointment beneath the deliberate lightness of her voice.

  “He was being engaged in a chess game, Miss Gabriel,” Ivan said, exchanging a knowing glance with Caroline, who nodded ever so slightly. The situation it seemed, was going from bad to worse. Over these past few days it became increasingly clear that the affections of Caro’s cousin were also entangled in this mess. Ivan felt a wave of guilt, for David’s foolish wager had been his suggestion. Yet, he thought with characteristic Russian fatalism, all life is a tragedy. He regarded his beloved and devoutly hoped that destiny would ultimately deal kindly with his friend.

  “Of course,” Sylvia said, bile rising in her throat. “A chess game.” She had no right to be annoyed although, unaccountably, she was. Lord Donhill had not promised his presence but somehow, she had expected it. Thus far, he had been at hand at nearly every entertainment that the Gabriels had attended, smoothing over the awkwardness that she felt, rescuing her from the hands of those whose intentions were insincere and attentions were too warm, distracting the boring Lord Entshaw or the ardent Mr. Colber.

  “Where is dear Lord Entshaw?” Mrs. Gabriel asked Petrov, as if he had caused the elderly peer’s absence.

  Petrov shrugged. “I have not been seeing him since this afternoon at your parlor,” he declared.

  “You did promise him the first dance when he called this afternoon, Sylvia?” The matron asked in tones more threatening than questioning.

  Sylvia nodded weakly. Her aunt had made her feelings on the matter explicitly known. Sylvia’s subtle effort to discourage Entshaw’s attentions had not gone unnoticed. She was to make every attempt to bring him up to scratch. Or else! The dire promise in Aunt Ruby’s eyes had made Sylvia shiver.

  “Are you talking of old Entshaw?”

  The sound of Hugo’s voice so close nearly caused Sylvia to jump.

  “Poor old Entshaw,” Lord Highslip drawled. “I am surprised you did not hear of it. A terrible accident, but then, the old fool was never known to have a skilled hand at the reins.”

  Mrs. Gabriel went pale at this talk of Sylvia’s suitor in past tense. “Is he ... d . . de,” she stuttered unable to utter the final word.

  “Thankfully, he was not killed,” Highslip said, patting the matron’s hand comfortingly. “Although, I doubt that he will be dancing for some time to come. Lord Entshaw’s injuries were severe.”

  “That is grievous news,” Brummel said, having caught Highslip’s last few words. “I saw Entshaw only this afternoon at White’s. An accident?”

  Highslip nodded gravely. “That high perch phaeton he drove like a madman. A phaeton much like that owned by Donhill.”

  There was something in Hugo’s tone that was disturbing and Sylvia would have brushed it off as another of her imaginings had she not caught the venomous look that Hugo directed toward the doorway. David’s gaze swept the room, lighting upon her in an instant. His hand unconsciously strayed to his neckcloth, setting it askew in an effort to smooth the linen. Sylvia could not help but smile at the boyish gesture. As he crossed the floor towards her, she could read a promise in his face, an assurance that was almost as real as a comforting hand upon the shoulder. There was nothing to fear now that he had come. Sylvia gave herself a mental shake. She was being unconscionably foolish, yet David’s very presence bolstered her courage. Even Hugo was endurable, now that David was near.

  Sylvia reminded David of a wild creature, trapped and afraid. Those wide green eyes spoke to him silently with a message that was part plea, part warning. The fingers that touched his in brief greeting were chill, but he did not allow his grasp to linger beyond propriety as he longed to, aware of Mrs. Gabriel’s icy gaze.

  “We were just talking of Lord Entshaw’s terrible accident,” Mrs. Gabriel said pointedly.

  “Yes, I heard of it in the entry. ‘Tis hard to credit. Entshaw was an excellent whip,” David said.

  “You own a phaeton,” Mrs. Gabriel said reproachfully.

  “I do,” David acknowledged, feeling much as if he were being accused of some unspeakable crime. Mrs. Gabriel glared at him in annoyance as if he were somehow responsible for the fashion for phaetons and Lord Entshaw’s wreck.

  “Inherently unstable vehicles,” Highslip pronounced. “I would not own one.”

  “Even could you afford one?” David asked, sotto voce to Sylvia, and was gratified to see a twitch of her lips, though she tried not to smile. Her pallor alarmed him. “How foolish of Lord Entshaw to involve himself in an accident,” David declared aloud, “for now he must forgo his dance with you Miss Gabriel. If I might claim the privilege.”

  Before her aunt could protest, he had whisked Sylvia off in the direction of the floor, but they skirted the dancers and went toward the open terrace doors beyond.

  “I should not,” Sylvia murmured, knowing that her aunt would not approve.

  “You could use the air,” David urged quietly. “It is far too close in here and you look pale as a ghost.”

  “Why thank you for the compliment, milord,” Sylvia said, stepping gratefully out onto the terrace. She breathed deeply, trying to calm the frantic beat of her heart. “Poor Lord Entshaw,” she murmured, moving away from the door and into the shadows. “‘Tis reprehensible of me, I know, but all I can feel is blessed relief.”

  David said nothing, sensing her need for silence. She looked toward the night sky, her profile silhouetted against the darkness with the classic beauty of a Greek statue.

  “What am I becoming, David?” she whispered. “How can I feel this way when a man has nearly met his death?”

  She drooped like a wilting flower, her head bent in shame as she spoke in self-loathing. It surprised David that she should feel so, considering that Entshaw’s suit had been nothing but a plague to her, but her fine sensibility touched him. Sylvia presented an adamantine aspect to the world, seeking protection behind a facade of cold indifference, much as he did himself. Yet, behind that marble exterior was a compassionate woman that she allowed but a privileged few to know. That core of vulnerability intrigued him creating an emotional need to protect, to shelter her from further harm.

  “Was your aunt pressing you that badly?” David asked. Her face was fully composed, only her lack of color and a slight quiver of her lower lip betrayed the extent of her agitation.

  Sylvia leaned against the balustrade at the end of the terrace. “I used to think that I was strong enough to withstand anything, but Aunt Ruby is like water upon a stone, wearing me away bit by bit. I was beginning to fear that eventually I would agree to anything to be rid of that constant whine.”

  By the glow of moonlight, he was relieved to see that the color was returning to her cheeks. As she turned to him, he caught his breath. This was no statue, but a woman of flesh and blood. David tried to halt the direction of his thoughts as the desire to defend her turned into another type of passion He knew that he had no right; no right to touch that soft skin, no right to yearn to hold her or for that matter, any other woman of gentle birth.

  In assuring his freedom from entanglement, he had bound himself in the ropes of a despicable dilemma. There had never been any allowance in his life’s strategy for a woman. Even if he had ever contemplated the idea of wedlock, the wager had, in all likelihood, placed that possibility beyond his reach. Marriage was the only honorable defense for a female in Sylvia’s exposed position,
yet he could not offer her that option, even if he wished, without reneging on his wager.

  A tear, limned in silver light, slid silently down her cheek and without thought, his hand reached out to brush it away.

  “I am sorry,” he whispered, the phrase seeming woefully inadequate. The feel of that warm alabaster melted his effort at control. He struggled, grasping desperately for his hold upon honor, but principle was a poor dam against an overwhelming tide of desire.

  Sylvia felt the touch of his fingers, light as a puff of wind on her cheek. She trembled within as she looked into his eyes, trying to read those pools of darkness. There was far more in those words than a mere apology. Was he sorry for her? Sorry for himself? She could not bring herself to ask, but closed her eyes, savored the sensation as he traced the line of her cheek, prayed that he would forget himself for just a moment.

  Does he feel more than friendship? she wondered. Does he feel this strange awareness, as if something wonderful and frightening is about to happen? Although she could not see him, she was conscious of his closeness. The sounds of the ballroom became distant echoes, mere background to the tempo of his breath as she felt it on her cheek.

  “I am sorry,” he murmured, as his lips touched hers. In a magical instant, the gentle kiss deepened as he gathered her to him, holding her against him as he buried his fingers in the silk of her hair.

  She heard his heart beating, felt the steady pulse on his neck as her hands twined round him. His scent mingled with the smell of lilacs from the garden and the clean linen that pressed against her cheek as he leaned down to kiss her once more. It was foolish to allow this, unconscionably foolish, but the move once made, could not be taken back. She had crossed over some invisible boundary into a realm of wonder.

  Love, she put a name to her feelings at last, weeping with the joy of discovery. Her thoughts whirled giddily. If she told him that she had already trounced him on the chessboard, surely the terms of his wager would be satisfied. If he loved her, it would be so easy. If he loved her ...