by Rita Boucher
Madame Echec chanced to notice Lord Highslip who stepped back to stand near the Russian. His visage was a mask of polite regret, but she could discern the glow of triumph as Petrov handed David the shattered glasses, one lens completely broken.
“You!” David pointed an accusing finger across the board. “You deliberately caused my spectacles to be destroyed. Did you think that I would concede to such tactics?”
Her voice although muffled was filled with cold hauteur. “Indeed, I did not, milor’,” she whispered, her fury rising. “I deny your reprehensible accusation. How could I have touched your spectacles?”
To demonstrate, she leaned across the board, the sweep of her gown threatening to knock over the pieces as she reached toward where his glasses had been. David caught a whiff of camphor and some other scent which he could not quite place.
“Then there is being no choice but postponement,” Petrov said. “Until the spectacles are made anew.”
“No!” Madame Echec declared with quiet vehemence. She would not go through with this again. There was no time. “We shall continue the game. Were I a man, I would duel you sir, for falsely naming me a cheat. Instead, I shall take great pleasure in trouncing you.”
“You have my apologies, Madame,” David said, realizing that she had spoken the truth. She could not possibly have tampered with his glasses. “But I am now a one-eyed man and a blurry-eyed one at that. How do you propose to play on?”
“Are you wishing to be making ze forfeit?” she asked, amusement in her muffled tones.
Petrov hushed the rising murmurs of indignation with a declaration of his own. “The conditions of wager are implying fair match, Madame! For David not to be seeing!”
“I agree! If you are to be playing blind, I too, shall be blind, milor’,” she said, turning her back to the board. “I will play from memory, if you shall do ze same. You have played blind-folded before, no?”
David blinked, but the hazy world would not come into focus. He knew that there would be no awakening from this bizarre moment, for this was reality. Fleetingly, he thought of postponement, but knew that after his false charge of cheating and her gallant offer to play blindly herself, it would be an act of unpardonable cowardice to refuse. Resolutely, he quashed the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The air of mystery was a deliberate distraction, an effort on her part to seek an advantage by putting him on the defensive. The inability to read his opponent’s face had been a distinct disadvantage; now, he realized with satisfaction, she would be unable to study him.
“I must trust someone to turn ze glasses for me,” Madame Echec murmured as she wondered who to appoint? They were all his friends. Her gaze fell upon a familiar figure. “Will you do ze honors, Lord Byron?”
“I thought life was too short for chess, Byron?” Brummel asked, repeating the poet’s words sardonically.
“Ah, but this seems more than a mere game of chess,” Byron replied, as he limped to the front of the room. “There was a loud noise from St. James Street and I looked up from my book to find White’s utterly deserted. So, I decided to come and see for myself and lucky that I did, else I would have missed this cataclysmic event. I applaud your bravery, Madame Echec, and account it a privilege to be the keeper of time in this battle between the sexes.”
“Petrov, will you keep my glass?” David asked.
Petrov took his place by the hourglass as David turned his chair around, visualizing the board in his mind. He saw every piece clearly, standing as they had just before the world had gone to a blur.
“Your last move, Madame?” he asked once the picture was fixed in his head.
“Rook, milor’, to thwart your check.” The answer drifted from behind him.
“Set the glass moving, Mr. Petrov,” David said, sending his bishop sailing across the board in his mind. “Bishop to my Queen’s third rank.”
Madame Echec countered with a move by her knight. Her eyes were closed and her mind shut to everything but the sound of his voice.
It seemed to Petrov that the pace of the game had increased. They called out their moves in rapid succession, scarcely leaving enough time to shift the piece and turn the glasses before the next move was called. He concentrated on his task single-mindedly knowing a lost second could well cost David the game and his freedom. Even so, a part of him watched the board, marveling. David had never played so well, but the shrouded woman was his equal. Perhaps, more than his equal, Petrov worried. It was becoming clear that his friend might finally have met his match.
“Knight takes pawn- echec,” Madame Echec called, ignoring the titters of laughter that erupted. Ignorant fools! They could not see beyond three moves upon the board. She would not oblige them by failing. Too much was at stake. Take the knight; the thought was a prayer. Take the knight and be damned.
“Queen takes knight.”
When she heard smug, condescending tone in his voice, it was all that she could do to keep from jumping up and shouting with glee. Although David did not yet know it, he had just sealed his fate. “Castle, queen’s side,” she said, barely keeping the triumph from her voice.
There was a gasp from the chess aficionados at this seemingly risky move, but David saw with dawning dismay what she was about. In one swoop, she had shifted the entire balance of the board, weakening his ability to mount a focused attack. He responded, desperately trying to marshal his forces once more, but it was a futile effort. Madame Echec attacked with ruthless efficiency, bringing her reserve into play with swift skill, hammering at him until his king was completely cut off, cornered.
“I believe that is echec et mat,” she crowed. “Do you not agree?”
“David-your time!” Petrov urged. “Is nearly being up, you must move.”
“My time is up, my friend,” David said wearily, rising to turn and look at the dark figure. “It is check-mate, Madame. You have beaten me.” He toppled his king in a gesture of defeat.
Madame Echec rose and once more, faced her opponent. His eyes were dull and glassy, like a man walking in the midst of sleep.
David eyed his nightmare, knowing full well what was expected of him, yet the words stuck like a fishbone in his craw. He cleared his throat. “I suppose this means you shall marry me,” he said, rebelling with every fiber of his being as he choked out the words.
“Hardly a gracious proposal, eh, Donhill?” Highslip remarked as he gleefully raked in the results of his wagers.
David glared in Highslip's direction. “Do you expect me to get on my knees to the woman?” he asked.
There was a cheer from the crowd. “Do it up proper, Donhill,” Highslip called. “Act the gentleman.”
“Yes,” said the muffled voice, she slipped off a dark glove to reveal a smooth-skinned hand. “I believe zat you ought to do it so.”
David walked slowly toward the dark figure, then bent in stiff obeisance until his buff-trousered knee was flush with the floor. He captured the proffered hand that peeked from the voluminous black sleeves, clasping her fingers so tightly that he could hear her wince as the fragile bones ground together.
Madame Echec saw the dark curly head bent before her and felt a thrill of pleasure. All of his remarks about females and chess were being disproved. She had brought him to his knees, truly. Yet, when those deep brown eyes glared up at her, the expression in them reminded her of an animal caught in a trap before the hunter. She, of all people, knew what it was to be caught seemingly trapped without hope of escape and regretted the evil impulse that had led her to heed Hugo’s malicious suggestion. “Milor-”
“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.”