Miss Gabriel's Gambit

by Rita Boucher

  “He will not pinch Sylvia, Miles,” David said, his jaw set in determination. “Not if I can help it. I shall bring her back, never you fear.”

  “This is famous! I cannot wait to-” William said coming out of the treasure room. “I heard you talking and I thought you had located Sylvia.”

  “Show me the fastest way to the stables, Gabriel,” David demanded.

  “What’s wrong?” William noticed his tearful young cousin. “Miles, what are you doing down here? If your mama catches you-”

  “Lord Highslip has abducted Sylvia,” David cut in. Miles tugged his arm pointing him to the garden gate.

  “Highslip? But I thought-“ William began.

  “No time for thinking, Will,” Miles said, directing David to the garden gate. “You can get to the mews same way he did, milord. I’ll show you. This way.”

  “Good lad!” David spoke to Will as he started after Miles. “Close the door to the treasure room. The last thing we need is to have it discovered now. Get Petrov to help you craft some tale about your sister’s whereabouts. We want to avoid a scandal if possible. He’s good at that sort of thing.” Miles halted abruptly and looked up at David.

  “You said to tell everything Lord Highslip said, ‘n I forgot one part...He said that he will ‘make sure of her.’ How do you make sure of someone, milord?” Miles asked.

  “Dear God,” David muttered, breaking into a run and praying that he would find her in time.

  Chapter 11

  Sylvia put a hand to her aching head. As the room gradually came into focus, she saw Hugo’s leering face at the foot of the huge bed that held her. She groaned, realizing that what had happened was not a nightmare but horrifyingly real.

  “I was beginning to believe that I had hit you too hard,” Highslip said, rising from his chair. “You were taking your time coming to.”

  In a way, it was almost laughable. He made it sound as if Sylvia’s delay in returning to consciousness was an unpardonable social lapse on her part. “My apologies,” she said, shifting upon the lumpy mattress to surreptitiously gain a sense of her surroundings. The pink and gold furnishings were in cloying bad taste and above the bed, a fresco of naked cherubs upon the ceiling were indulging in distinctly un-cherub-like behavior. All around her the heavy scent of old perfume lingered, permeating the carpets and draperies. No particular genius was necessary to realize that this was a Cyprian’s chamber.

  Hugo was coming toward her, a mocking smile distorting the shape of his mouth. She pulled back to the corner of the bed, the metallic tang of fear mingling with blood upon her tongue. It was but a small comfort to realize that she was still fully clothed; no telling how long that state might last.

  “So coy,” Highslip sneered. “Are you that shy with Rutherford, Sylvia?”

  The mention of David’s name acted as an antidote to fear. He would come back and find her missing. Miles would tell him where she was. Play for every minute, she told herself remembering one of her uncle’s cardinal rules. In a timed game, keep your opponent off balance. Let him play the clock. Time? She had no idea how long she had been unconscious. “Why did you hit me, Hugo?” she asked, deliberately erasing all expression from her face.

  The non-sequitur caught him off guard. “I did not expect you to remain quietly in the mews while I collected my carriage,” Highslip said, seating himself closer to her on the bed. But to his surprise, her countenance remained utterly calm.

  “Quite true,” Sylvia said, keeping her voice steady. “I find there is often difficulty with moves made upon the spur of the moment. One cannot think the consequences of impulse through fully. For instance, when I am discovered missing this evening, it will also be found that you have gone. Suspicion, will, of course, fall upon you.”

  “And how would you have avoided that?” Highslip asked, feeling somewhat flustered. He had expected screaming, weeping, pleas for mercy. Instead, the woman sounded much as if she were a prosy Oxford don, lecturing him.

  “Too much time has passed already,” Sylvia said, choosing her words with care. “Doubtless, people will already be looking for me. If I had planned this, I would have returned to the ball immediately and mingled with the guests. That way, when the disappearance is discovered, I would be able to act as surprised as the rest, thereby averting any inquiry.”

  “Ah, but you are wrong!” Highslip declared, his lip twisting in a crooked smile. “Barely a half-hour has elapsed since we left and I have only to drive a few minutes to find myself at Berkeley Square once again. There are some advantages in having a mistress’ residence so close. I fully intended to return to Caroline’s come-out, now that I have you safely hidden away. However, I cannot leave you to your own devices.”

  “You do not trust me, Hugo?” she asked, sarcasm creeping into her voice. It was a mistake.

  He pulled her to her knees upon the bed. “I trusted you. You were pure, untouched but you forgot that you belong to me. Entirely to me. So beautiful,” he whispered hoarsely, his lips nuzzling her throat. “You will always be mine, Sylvia. Only mine.” His fingers went round the slender white column of her neck, tightening in slow pressure. “Remember.”

  The sinister sound of his laughter whistled in her ear as his grasp tightened. The glazed, unfocused look in his eyes terrified her. He was utterly out of his head, perhaps insane enough to choke the life from her. “You would kill the golden goose before the egg is laid, Hugo?” she gasped as the room began to spin.

  “Quite right.” Highslip shook his head as if clearing it. “‘’Twould be unconscionably foolish to see you dead, before bed and wed.” He cackled at his own wit, then stopped abruptly. “But how shall I restrain you? Rope? ” He let her fall as he rose to rummage through a drawer. “Damme, the bitch took it with her when I gave her her conge!”

  Sylvia’s relief was short-lived. Highslip’s eyes lighted upon a half-empty decanter of brandy. “Ah, there’s an answer!”

  Sylvia shivered upon the bed as he picked up the crystal, his eyes gleaming. She had to get him to leave, somehow. There was no telling what his maniacal whims might dictate next. “Liquor makes me sick to my stomach, Hugo. I shall only cast it up,” she said with all the calm she could muster. He made a disgusted face and put the decanter down on the stand beside the bed, knocking down a small vial.

  “Yes,” he murmured, picking up the glass container. “This shall do quite nicely.” He opened the stopper and put the vial to his lips, taking a swallow.

  Sylvia tried to control her trembling body as he approached her.

  “Have a drink, m’dear?” he laughed, a sly look upon his face as he shoved the vial under her nose.

  Laudanum, she thought with a sinking feeling, recognizing the smell. Her uncle had taken it in his last months to ease the pain.

  “How is it that you are still standing, Hugo, after drinking such a dose?” she forced herself to ask.

  The question distracted him for a moment. “Oh, I am quite accustomed to the stuff. Takes far more than a little dribble to send me to the arms of Morpheus, but you m’dear will only require a few drops. Not too much mind, for I do not want a corpse in my bed later, merely enough to keep you from running off.”

  Yanking her hair, forcing her neck back, he held the bottle to her lips. “Drink your dose,” he demanded “Or I shall have to knock you unconscious. Take it in your mouth, a good swallow ought to do it!” He pinched her nose, forcing her to gulp.

  Tears pricked at Sylvia’s eyes as she felt the liquid go down her throat.

  “That’s it. Take your nepenthe and be glad of it, for I will allow you none later when it might dull the pain.” He laughed in anticipation. “For I fully intend to punish you my girl, for your dalliance with Rutherford.”

  Hugo threw her upon the bed and for a moment she feared that he had forgotten his intention to return to Caroline's ball. “They shall be looking for me soon,” Her voice grated.

  “So they will,” he said, adjusting his hat as he headed to the d
oor. “Wait for me, m’dear.”

  “As if I have any choice,” Sylvia muttered to herself as she heard the click of the lock, the sound of his retreating footsteps. She forced herself to rise with difficulty, her legs nearly folding beneath her as she tried to make herself to retch. But anxiety had stolen her appetite days before; she brought up nothing but bile from her near-empty stomach.

  Unsteadily, she rattled at the door in the windowless room. Her sense of disorientation growing, she sat upon the floor trying to plan her next move. The candle on the table began to dance strangely becoming a nimbus of light that illuminated the brandy within the decanter until it glowed like amber.

  Shaking her head, Sylvia tried to clear her mind, concentrating upon an imaginary game of chess. The pieces transformed themselves into people. The white knight wore David’s head; the black king was Hugo. Focus upon something, she told herself, turning a head so heavy that it seemed to be made of stone. The fluid in the crystal container upon the table sparkled upon the glass facets. Had Miles heard? she wondered idly, but that had somehow become unimportant. So pretty, the way the light was shines upon the liquid. Find a way out, must find a way out.

  A thousand thoughts spun out of control, some coming sharply into focus in a moment of profound clarity before whirling giddily out of sight. So this was why people lived in bottles ... would be glorious if not for Hugo ... He would kill her sooner or later, probably sooner ... utterly queer in the nob... she would never marry him ... Uncle was right ... Don’t think about it ... focus on ... David ... so idiotic to have hidden the truth. Foolish pride ... never to have said, “I love you,” and damn the consequences... Hugo would return and ...so pretty the light ...A weapon ... on the cut glass ... cut ... glass... Glass cuts!

  Sylvia reached for the decanter, its weight dragging down her hand. It was too heavy. “You must,” she told herself. “You must.” With supreme effort she smashed it against the headboard of the bed, noticing with detachment that she had cut her finger. She put the bloody gash to her mouth, sucking as she tried to gather her dissembled thoughts. Too weak to stand against him ... Only one other way out. A tear ran down her cheek as she thought of David. Sorting through the glass, Sylvia chose a particularly wicked-looking jagged shard. Pulling up the sleeves of her dress, she traced the wavering thin blue lines at her wrist with unsteady fingers.

  The flushed face in the looking glass on the dressing table opposite the bed regarded her with bewilderment. Was that her? She stared at the dark circlet forming round her neck, recalling the strange look in Hugo’s eyes while he had all but choked the life from her. To think that she had once considered marriage to that madman. Aye ...dance with a fool ... she was waltzing round with David ... whirling black and white. . . You are a rich woman now, but not a penny to Hugo... rather die ...’If it were done, when ‘tis done’ ... Lady Macbeth said that, but that was murder not suicide ... the first choice was preferable...Would they hang her? ...a cleaner death, hanging... .‘twere well it were done quickly... Where was all the blood coming from? ... Oh yes, her finger ...out damned spot. Sylvia wondered looking at the spots of scarlet on her jade dress. It was utterly ruined.

  Through the foggy haze, she heard the sound of approaching footsteps on the other side of the door. She tried to put the shard to her wrist, but her hand was far too unsteady. The key turned and the door swung open. “No!” she screamed, terror driving her in a rush of strength. “I won’t let you! “ Sylvia sprang up with a cry, rushing at the man with the point upraised.

  “Sylvia,” David caught her hand as the wicked piece of glass struck downward, barely missing his cheek. She struggled, her eyes wild as she snarled like a cornered cat. What had Highslip done to her? he wondered as he attempted to wrest the weapon from her hold. Her hair was disheveled; a streak of blood was smeared across her face. With growing rage, he noticed the marks upon her neck and the blood upon her skirts and bodice. She reeked of brandy. “Hush, my Kali, hush!” he choked.

  “Oh, you are not Hugo,” Sylvia said, confusion creeping across her face.

  “No, ‘tis David.” Although it was difficult to control his voice, he forced himself to speak, running on in a nonsensical prattle in an attempt to try to calm her. “There is no need to cut my jacket. Mr. Weston would take it amiss, after all you have already ruined one. You should pay attention to the way you handle sharp objects Sylvia, you have already hurt yourself, you know. Let me help you.”

  “David?” She spoke uncertainly, her tongue heavy, letting the shard slip to shatter upon the floor. “I thought you were Hugo, coming back to ravish me. I do not have to kill you then. You are my friend.”

  “Yes, sweetheart, I am your friend. You may wish to kill me and be entirely justified, but I suggest you wait until your wits are about you,” David said. She spoke slowly, as if with effort. “Where has Highslip gone?”

  “Went back to the ball. I suggested it. Divert suspicion, you know. Played him for time. Never noticed he was a lackwit. I am glad that it’s you.”

  “Are you?” David asked, realizing that his hands had become slippery with blood, her blood. He mulled over her words while attempting to locate the source of the bleeding sighing with relief when he found the cut on her finger. He loosed his neckcloth.

  “Another neckcloth gone for a bandage. Ruined anyway... all bloody.” She sighed mournfully. “Always ruining your clothes, David.

  “You may ruin my entire wardrobe and welcome,” David said, unwinding the length of white.

  “So glad . Don’t have to kill myself now. Was thinking about how to go about it before Hugo came back. Would’ve raped me. Hard to get it right with shaky hands. Complex business - killing yourself, deucedly difficult. Finding the right place. Veins kept moving, silly things. Messy. Ruins your clothes. Bled all over,” Sylvia babbled, staring at him owl-eyed. “Ruined mine too. Better ruined clothes than ruined me.”

  There was a grim determination below the rambling chatter. Taking one look at her solemn face, David locked his arms around her, drawing her close. His blood chilled at the horror in her matter-of-fact description of contemplated suicide. Only a few minutes more and he had little doubt that she might have found those elusive veins to bleed her life away.

  “Feel so safe.” She nestled beneath his chin, closing her eyes in bliss, then opening them as she felt his body tremble “Are you chilly, David? You’re shivering. Wonderfully warm, wonderful, I am!” She reached up brushing, his hair back from his forehead. “You? You are sweating!”

  “I was told that gentlemen do not sweat,” David said softly, stroking a smear of blood from her cheek.

  “Well you are! Might be sickening for something. Should take care.” She stroked his hair slowly. “Always wanted to do this. Perpetually in your eye, your hair. Like a little boy.”

  Indeed, he was growing warm; as her fingers ran through his hair, he felt his slim control disappearing. Like a friendly cat, she rubbed herself against him, murmuring words of concern. It was ironic beyond measure that she was attempting to comfort him. He wanted to keep her in the circle of his arms. He didn’t want to let her go. Ever. The utter trust in those eyes penetrated the heat, reminding him that he had to get her home. He released her and set her at arm’s length.

  “Don’t like holding me?” She asked sadly, her lower lip trembling.

  “To the contrary, Sylvia. I like holding you entirely too much,” David said, his voice deep with emotion and desire. “You are flying high, my love and I would not take advantage.”

  “‘Tis not drink, but laudanum, if you would know!” She declared, moving closer once more, putting her hands around his neck, kneading the tense muscles. “Wound tight as a watch, you are, David. Ought to relax. Here ...” She removed his spectacles. “Your eyes. Like a woodland in March, all brown but a hint of spring.

  Opiate ... her inebriated yet lucid behavior began to make sense. The pupils of her eyes were wide dark pools banded by green. “If I relax myself now, Sylvia, the
re will be the devil to pay.” David smiled ruefully, putting his glasses back on. “I want to kiss you senseless.”

  “Sounds wonderful. I’m very close to senseless. Should be simple.” She felt the chuckle rising through his chest, the movement of his ribs tickling against her as she moved closer still. She caught hold of a stray thought. “Did you call me ‘my love?’” she asked, eying him glassily.

  “I believe I did,” David said, his lips drawn irresistibly to brush her forehead.

  “Does that mean you love me?” There were two Davids, most disconcerting to have them both nod like that.

  “I love you,” David and David said.

  “I am so glad!” Sylvia declared. “Two Davids! Both in love with me! Which of you shall I kiss first?” To solve the problem, she closed her eyes pulling his mouth down to meet hers.

  Her kiss was tender, timid with innocence as his fingers tangled themselves the silken coils of her hair. Honor warred momentarily with desire as David fought for control, but the temptation was too great. Desire won as soon as David tasted the velvety sweetness of her mouth. She moaned softly, pulling him tighter, closer, and his hand brushed aside the last of the remaining pins in her hair to let it cascade down her back in a flow of molten gold. When she opened her eyes at last, he saw a fire amidst that glowing green.

  “David.” He heard her whisper hoarsely. “Must go... he’ll kill you. Entshaw. Colber. Monster. Must-” Her eyes lost focus, the lids slowly closing as she went limp in his arms.

  David hoisted her up, her head cradled against his shoulder while he carried her down the stairs. As he placed her into the carriage, she stirred, whimpering as he covered her with a blanket. Within a few minutes they were behind the Gabriel house at Berkeley Square.

  Miles was waiting at the garden door. “Sylvia?” he asked, anxiously.

  “Is sleeping in the back of my carriage,” David said, swallowing his rage and smiling to reassure the boy. “Get William or Mr. Petrov.”