by Rita Boucher
It was the salt of her tears that recalled him, requiring all his strength of will to step back. As he watched her trembling hand reach up to touch her lips in a bewildered gesture, he wanted desperately to gather her in his arms once again, but his conscience would not allow it. “I am sorry,” he whispered. “I did not mean to let it get out of hand. It will not happen again.”
Opening her eyes once more, Sylvia felt the ache of disappointment. His demeanor was one of concern and guilt. From his words, it seemed likely that his kiss had been little more than an offer of comfort that had gone awry, not a token of love. Sylvia had been kissed before, yet even when she had been all but affianced to Highslip, she had never yielded herself so wholly. She turned away, leaning on the balustrade for support as she composed herself, chiding herself for letting him slip past her defenses. Only a green girl would have been so swept away by a simple kiss. Yet, she knew that there had been nothing simple about that kiss, at least for her.
She faced him once more, her face a smiling mask of perfect porcelain. Once again, Uncle Mile’s training stood her in good stead. Not by so much as a quiver did she betray the depths of her disappointment and hurt, although her thoughts were gyring round like a child’s whirligig top. There was little point in telling him now. As young Miles had often pointed out, David would likely feel honor-bound to marry her and she had no wish to bind him with honor if she could not win him with love. She moved away, making an effort at banter.
“I have ruined your neckcloth, David,” Sylvia said, attempting a smile. “‘Tis a shame, for it was nearly perfect.”
“Brummel would be pleased to hear you say so,” David attempted to match her light tone, but his voice was husky. “Sylvia ... I,” he began tentatively.
“Do not try to explain,” she said, softly, hoping that she could salvage something from this awful moment. “It would be foolish to fuss over the gesture of a friend.”
David’s face betrayed no emotion although her casual dismissal cut him deeply. His senses were still reeling. The sound of his own heartbeat was pulsing in his ears, yet she seemed utterly calm as she reached up to check the state of her coiffure. Had it meant so little to her?
Yet, as he regained control, David told himself that what he felt was pique. She had not dissolved, as women often had in his experience, into a quivering lump of lovelorn adoration. Nor had she made any claims or demands upon him, despite the fact that he had made a move outside the rules of the courtship game. His impulsive action had very nearly spoiled the first real friendship that he had ever shared with a female and that would have been a shame. Luckily, Sylvia seemed to have far more sense than he. She deserved far better than furtive embraces in the garden and hide-in-the-corner kisses were all he could offer. It would be foolish beyond permission to play with fire. He ought to be glad that her heart was not involved.
In silence, David offered Sylvia his arm and they returned to the ballroom. To his annoyance, Highslip was waiting by the door and from the dark look upon the earl’s face, David wondered just how much Highslip had seen. Sylvia’s grip tightened upon David’s arm. She too, was obviously concerned.
“Your aunt was seeking for you, Sylvia,” Highslip said, his voice deceptively silky. “I shall return you to her.”
“No need, Highslip. I shall bring her back,” David said.
“Best straighten out your neckcloth first,” Highslip said, the poisonous look he directed at David saying far more than his seemingly casual words. “Or better still, go and size up the competition.”
“Competition?” Sylvia asked, seizing on the opportunity to distract Hugo.
“‘Tis no secret,” Highslip declared maliciously. “The chessmaster has been challenged by Lord Balton’s daughter. She is here tonight, with her drunkard papa.”
“Lady Helena?” Sylvia asked.
“The same.” Highslip’s lip curled. “Horace Greenvale’s girl.”
“Greenvale?” David asked, in growing concern. Greenvale was almost as much of a legend in the world of chess as the great Philador. Now David knew why the title had been vaguely familiar, although he had been unable to connect it to the family name. Although he was confident in his skills, if Lady Helena was Horace Greenvale’s daughter she might be a force to be reckoned with.
“Poor Helena,” Sylvia said, shaking her head sadly.
“Do not pity her yet,” Highslip sneered. “Perhaps our David will finally meet his feminine Goliath?”
“If you recall the story, Hugo, it was Goliath who came away the loser in that encounter,” Sylvia said, annoyance creeping into her voice. “Yet, I pity her, as I feel for all the sacrifices in this little wager game of yours, milords.”
“No one forces these women to challenge me, Sylvia,” David said, seeking to defend himself.
“Helena’s father gambled away the family fortune on the chess board, milord. You represent a hope that she cannot resist - a future, a husband, a home,” Sylvia persisted, understanding Helena totally because the same longing echoed within herself. “And doubtless the same was true for many of the others who have challenged you.”
“You are being unfair,” David countered, feeling uneasy as he recalled the countenances of the females who had faced him across the chessboard. Although their motives might have differed, it was much as Sylvia said. The women had all shared a common air of desperation. It was foolish, he told himself, absurd to feel compassion for those pathetic females and yet, he felt a sudden pity for Lady Helena.
Sylvia had made her into more than an opponent. Suddenly, Lord Balton's daughter had become a human being and that was dangerous. “I am taking the risk here,” he said, reminding himself as much as Sylvia. “What if I lose and I am suddenly obliged to marry an utter stranger who wants only my title and fortune? It is not beyond the bounds of possibility.”
“You chose to take this risk, even though you truly believed in your hubris that you hazarded nothing. It would be an object lesson, David,” Sylvia said, softening, the thought of losing him to Helena Greenvale beyond bearing. “Someday, you might find yourself facing your Nemesis, but I doubt she will be named Helena. The Greenvales have always relied too heavily on strong offense, neglecting their pawns. At least,” she added quickly. “Uncle Miles always claimed so.”
“I shall remember,” David said, gravely. “I shall mind my pawns, Sylvia, I promise.”
“Do mind your pawns,” Highslip broke in with a sneer. “You had best be on your mettle, Donhill, else you shall find your perpetual bachelorhood ended by that whey-faced bluestocking. A terrible fate indeed. And if not her, there shall be another and yet another.”
Highslip's mocking snigger seem to follow David as he returned Sylvia to her aunt’s side.
“Mr. Colber has been waiting, Sylvia,” Mrs. Gabriel scolded. “You had promised him the next dance.” The matron all but pushed her niece into the pudgy young man’s arms and out toward the floor. She flicked open her fan as she turned to face David. “As for you, Lord Donhill,” she said, her low tones conversational, but her tiny pupils like chips of grey ice. “It is ill-done of you to trifle with Sylvia under the pretense of finding her treasure. As Lord Highslip has pointed out, you can only further ruin her chances.”
Highslip! David caught the earl’s eye and Highslip raised his glass in mock salute, smiling derisively.
“After all,” Mrs. Gabriel continued. “What can you honorably offer, milord?”
“Nothing,” David said, achingly aware that although Mrs. Gabriel’s motives were less than pure, she spoke no less than the truth. “I have nothing to offer.” He watched helplessly as Colber swept Sylvia away into the crowd of dancers.
* * * *
Sylvia sat down wearily in the dark library of the house on Berkeley Square, sighing as she eased her feet out of their satin slippers. She rubbed her big toe, wincing at the ache. If clumsiness was a measure of infatuation, Mr. Colber was obviously head over heels and Sylvia had felt those heels for much of
the two dances that he had claimed. As for head, Sylvia thought ruefully, Mr. Colber did not have much to recommend him above the shirt-points and if his purse was not included, there was precious little below the neck as well. Yet, Aunt Ruby had obviously decided that Colber was to replace Entshaw as the suitor designate and if Sylvia wanted any peace, she would have to play the game by Aunt Ruby’s ever-changing rules.
Uncle Miles’ mahogany chess set cast dark shadows in the moonlight from the window and Sylvia lifted a wooden pawn, feeling the familiar shape of the polished wood as she tried to recall all she could about the Greenvale style of play. Lord Balton's daughter would be no match for David, or would she? Was Helena playing the same game as Sylvia, concealing her intellect behind a socially acceptable facade? If David were defeated by a stranger, a woman who did not love him, it would be the ultimate irony.
Sylvia stared out into the night, remembering the feel of his arms around her and she sighed. There was no longer any doubt in her mind; she loved him, and it was equally clear that he did not share her feelings. How embarrassed he must have been! Sylvia felt her face growing hot at the memory; to find himself being seized by a lovesick female when all he had aimed to do was console. He had left immediately after delivering her to Aunt Ruby. Whatever did he think of her now? How could he know that her feelings for him had been growing long before she had ever met him?
Through his letters, she had come to respect and admire David Rutherford and now, that very regard was an insurmountable obstacle. She knew that she could win him, yet she could not bring herself to challenge him, to force him into marriage. Tonight had only confirmed her resolution, for David’s feelings towards his mercenary challengers were obvious. She had no wish to earn his contempt, or if she were to lose, his pity. Besides, she told herself, she had no wish to suffer as her mother had, to be forever second to knights and bishops, kings and rooks. But the very thought of losing him made her wonder if she was being the worst of fools. She threw the pawn to the floor, watching it skitter off into the shadows.
“Miss Sylvia?” Boniface’s silhouette loomed in the door
Sylvia was glad of the dark, hoping that servant could not see the tears on her cheeks. “Yes, ‘tis I, Boniface. I am afraid my feet were too tired to carry me up the stairs.”
“I thought it was you, Miss, for your aunt and cousins rarely use the library. A letter arrived for you after you had left for Lady Harwell’s ball. Do you wish me to light a taper?”
“No, Boniface,” Sylvia said, ruefully. “I have no wish to set my aunt to stewing. You know her policy about unnecessary use of candles. I shall read it upstairs.”
Taking the envelope, Sylvia dragged herself up to the nursery. Young Miles was snoring away, and she pulled the cover to his chin and kissed him gently. As she bent, she noticed the kite and reel standing at ready by the bedside the boy’s bed and groaned softly. Tomorrow was Friday; she had promised him that they would go kite-flying. Miles had been talking of nothing else for a week, reminding her of her word in a child’s less-than-subtle way. Sylvia knew that, in all likelihood, the boy would be bustling about at dawn’s first light, “accidentally” waking her.
At best, she would get a scant few hours of sleep, she thought as she went to her room, sorely tempted to fall into bed begowned. Instead, Sylvia forced herself to undo the endless row of buttons, regretfully thinking, as she finally placed the gown in the wardrobe, of the days when her abigail had done such trivial tasks. As she sat down upon the bed, a faint crackle reminded her of the envelope that Boniface had given her. It bore the seal of her late uncle’s man of law.
She opened it, only to find that the requested copy of the will had been forwarded to David Rutherford. She crumpled the note, wavering between disappointment and dread. Once again, the reins of her fate had been transferred to another’s hands. Yet, she knew that despite the evening’s events, David would keep his word and continue the search for the Rajah’s treasure. She would see him again. What would she say to him? Sylvia fell asleep clutching the letter in her hands and David in her dreams.
Chapter 7
The cold vapor was as damp as the fog that rises from the Thames. It wrapped itself around him like a macabre lover, touching David with icy fingers. The mist-filled room was much like the one at White’s, but utterly empty except for the gilt table and chairs holding the huge chessboard, the white squares inlaid with silver coins, the black with golden guineas. David knew that he was dreaming, yet that knowledge was no comfort against the nameless terror that waited in the shadows. He struggled against sleep but he was helpless against the spell of his dreams, powerless against the phantasms of the night.
He seated himself as the mists stirred with the murmur of high-pitched voices; vague shapes filled the darkness until, as before, a woman took form. She took the chair opposite, her face hidden by the shroud of vapors. However much he tried he could not discern her face. In the darkness behind her the amorphous shadows whispered, their laughter like the sound of wind through trees in winter. He knew that they were laughing at him.
“Your move,” the woman said, her voice rasping and harsh.
“Your move. Your move!” The wraiths whispered like the chorus in a Greek play.
David examined the board carefully and took the obvious opening. “Check and mate,” he declared triumphantly, attempting to move his queen, but the queen was stuck fast to the board.
“You cannot move the queen,” the woman said, malice in her voice.
“That is unfair,” David said.
“Unfair! Unfair!” The ghostly women echoed, but they chided him, not her.
“You lose, milord,” the challenger sneered, her face taking shape at last. It was Mrs. Gabriel, her florid face reddening as she poked him with an iron finger. “You shall marry me.”
“Marry me. Marry me. Marry me,” repeated the voices.
“I shall not,” David said, attempting to rise and leave as he had in previous dreams, but to his horror he found that he was chained to the board. “You have cheated.”
“I concede,” Mrs. Gabriel laughed. “But if you will not have me, then you shall play us all, milord.”
“Play us all. Play us all. Play us all ...” The faceless figures crowded towards him, reaching, laughing mockingly. “Play us all. Play us all.”
The words reverberated in David’s ears as he sat bolt upright in a tangle of sheets. The substance of the dream faded into a jumble of images of chessboards and ghosts, but the aura of fear remained as palpable as the clammy sheen of sweat upon his chest. He breathed slowly, deeply; fumbling for his glasses hoping that they would return the world to its proper perspective. With the spectacles in place, David focused on the reality of the morning sunlight that streamed through the windows until his heart stopped galloping.
“Ah, I thought that I heard you stirring,” Harjit said, as he peered into the room, frowning at the sight of David’s weary, pale countenance. “You slept poorly again.”
“I have had more restful nights,” David admitted, stretching his aching limbs as he rose to perform his morning ablutions. “This time, Mrs. Gabriel appeared, if you would believe it.” He shuddered at the memory.
“That one is enough to terrify the most stalwart of men. It is no wonder that you cried out in your sleep,” Harjit observed, shaking his head. “These dreams have plagued you every night this week past. Perhaps you should consult a soothsayer?”
David gave a short bark of laughter. “I need no soothsayer to tell me the source of my dreams, Harjit. What I need is coffee- dark, strong coffee.” As the Sikh left to do David’s bidding, the sense of foreboding returned, a piece of the night’s horror creeping about in the daylight. The dream had been stronger than any of his previous nightmares.
It was the Greenvale girl, of course, David decided as he poured water into the china basin upon a stand near the bed. For the first time, he was being faced by a female who might present something of a challenge. But he had been face
d by far greater hurdles before and they had never before disturbed his sleep. There was more to these nightmares, far more. Some unknown danger lurked in those shadows, far stronger than any threat upon a chessboard, but the warnings were of no consequence until he could put a name to the threat.
Harjit returned bearing a tray and David wrapped himself in a robe before seating himself before the small table in the adjoining sitting room.
“Ah, coffee, the brew of life’s blood,” David said, sniffing appreciatively. “I can almost feel my eyes opening.”
Harjit poured the steaming liquid into the delicate porcelain cup and handed it to his master. “There was a messenger this morning” He picked up a silver salver with an envelope upon it. “You were waiting for papers.”
David recognized the seal. “So, it would seem that even an ancient hand moves faster when greased by a few coins,” he observed as he broke the wax.
“Even the gods themselves have been known to be propitiated by a judicious bribe,” Harjit agreed. “I shall fetch your breakfast.
“The trick is knowing which god is playing with your fate,” David mumbled to himself. “And who is the proper one to bribe.” He skimmed through the document, jumping over the legal hedges with an ease born of long business experience until he reached the substance of the late Sir Mile’s will.
There were a myriad of small bequests to friends and retainers, even one to himself, “my teak-wood chessboard to my dear friend, David Rutherford of Bombay.” Doubtless it had been sent to India and was even now, waiting in his home there.
As David read through the old man’s last testament, he mourned the missed opportunity. David had fully intended to travel to Crown Beeches and meet Sir Miles once his business in London was completed. He had even carried the bundles of letters with him from India as material for reminiscence.