by Rita Boucher
“Humble, humbug and ‘sahib’ my stockings,” David said, putting a cautious foot on the lush carpet. The world whirled for a moment and settled into a somewhat normal perspective. “Get me my clothes, oh humble servant, but do not try to trick me up like some Bond Street lounger just yet. I have a few hours of comfort left before Highslip suits me, boots me and styles me and damme, I shall enjoy them. The brown jacket, Harjit!”
On his way to the wardrobe, the Sikh’s sure step faltered. “Not the dung-coat of many pockets,” he begged. “It is an offense to the eye, the execrable handiwork of a dog’s son who masqueraded as a tailor. Do you so hate me, milord, that you thus humiliate me before the world?”
“I do not know why you malign that garment so, for it is wonderfully comfortable and I have as many places as I might require to carry my things. And I’ll have the buckskin breeches as well,” David added, taking wicked pleasure in Harjit’s woeful expression. “And do not call me ‘milord,’ Harjit.”
“You are a most contrary individual,” the Sikh said, surprised at the man’s vehement tones. “Why do you not wish me to address you properly?”
“Because there will be no such nonsense between us, my friend,” David said with a frown. “You have given your loyalty and friendship to David Rutherford, not some trumped up lordling. I cannot tell you how many people have been falling over themselves to fawn upon me in these months since I inherited my distant cousin’s empty title and the huge pile of debts that accompanied it. Now that I am a new gilded lord, I have suddenly become worthy of their notice. No, Harjit, do not ‘milord’ me, for now that I have lent myself to this accursed wager and the sartorial predominance of that popinjay, Highslip, I may have need of someone to remind me who I truly am.”
“As you wish,” Harjit said, presenting the brown woolen coat as if it were made of some vile substance. “But it is a pity if you believe that this wretched discard from an offal heap reflects your true self,” he mumbled under his breath.
Within a half of an hour, David was tooling his high perch phaeton though Mayfair. As he skillfully threaded his team through the dense traffic, he heartily wished that the Gabriels had remained ensconced in the hinterlands of Northumberland. Surely his duty and determination to pay proper condolences to the family would have proved paramount, a splendid means of avoiding his first steps of the journey down Brummel’s road to fashion.
Unfortunately, Lord Highslip had been quite certain that the Gabriel family had recently come to town for the Season. As David dismounted from his vehicle, he could see that the Earl was correct. An elaborate polished brass knocker in the shape of a rook was fixed on the door, indicating that the residents of the Berkeley Square address were at home.
David almost laughed aloud at the footman’s indignant expression as he opened the door.
“Trade is-“ The rest of his statement was forestalled by a proffered piece of pasteboard. To give the servant his due, he recovered rapidly, deciding to credit what he read above what he saw.
“Milord?” he asked, hesitantly, “how may I assist you?”
“I come regarding Sir Miles,” David said, recalling the purpose of his visit, becoming somber all at once. Even though the two men had never met, he would miss Sir Miles dreadfully. At the back of his mind, David had always looked forward to the day that they would face each other across the board. The realization that it would never be so and the game was ended forever was almost beyond bearing.
“Sir Miles?” the footman said, brightening. “I shall bring up your card to him immediately, milord. Do you care to wait in the drawing room?”
As the look of confusion cleared from the servant’s face, David’s spirits soared. It seemed that Highslip’s pronouncement regarding Sir Miles’ death was merely a wretched error. Should have known better than to trust the judgment of a besotted man, David thought, as the footman hurriedly showed the guest into the empty library and bade him to be seated in a well-stuffed leather chair. David smiled, anticipating Highslip’s dismay when he was confronted with his blunder. ‘Twould confound the pompous idiot indeed to find that he had mistakenly declared his old neighbor dead and buried.
David chuckled, looking about him at what was obviously a man’s room, its furnishings chosen more for comfort than a feminine eye for fashion. No Egyptian chaises or lacquered chinoiserie here; just walls of shelves, overflowing with leather-tooled bindings. He rose to run his fingers over the plethora of books on chess, opening a text in what appeared to be Arabic at random, only to shelve it when he spotted the latest edition of Allgaier’s treatises on the game. But David rapidly found that he could not concentrate on the German chessmaster’s ramblings and he returned the book to its place.
Restlessly, he roamed the room, trying to anticipate what he would say. Over the years, he had dreamt of this meeting, rehearsed it in his mind, but all the well-thought out phrases now seemed silly. Sir Miles’ letters had been an anchor in David’s life, their sound advice, warmth and wry wit, holding him steady amidst the turbulence. And in the chaos of those years the only sure order in a world where the rules were few was the certainty of the game.
Near the window was a simple wooden chess board and David noted with satisfaction that the configuration exactly reflected the inevitable denouement of last night’s move, the king lying on its side in abject surrender. Suddenly, he felt calm. How foolish to act as if Sir Miles were some stranger when there was perhaps, no one on this earth who knew him half so well. He stared into the fireplace, watching the tongues of flame lick the coals, as he remembered the man’s letters, every single one of them read and re-read almost to the point of perfect memory. Certainly, there was no need to be nervous.
“Milord?”
David whirled at the sound of that soft voice to confront a vision. At first, he wondered if his drunken dreams were still plaguing him, for no real woman could be so exquisitely beautiful. A plaited crown of blond hair framed a face of the kind that Botticelli had adored. Eyes the color of a calm green ocean regarded him from beneath a dark lashed fringe. Porcelain cheeks began to glow a delightful red, as ripe-cherry lips began to thin into a frown. David tried to recall himself, but could not help letting his gaze linger on the delightful contours of her lush figure. Even the concealing folds of her shapeless black merino gown could not entirely mask a woman who might serve as a model for Temptation personified.
Sylvia took a deep breath, trying to control her growing anger and decided to return the stranger’s rude gaze measure for measure. It had been a mistake to come down in answer to the peculiar summons, she could see that now. Far better to have sent the footman to seek out Boniface than to subject herself to providing a spectacle for this slack-jawed pretender! Lord Donhill, indeed! Even as a novice to the fashionable world, Sylvia could see that the garments on the man’s tall, muscular frame looked as if they had been pieced together by a tailor with more cheek than skill.
Since her Uncle’s death had unexpectedly demoted her from the respected daughter of the house to poor relation dogbody, Sylvia had learned that there were those who might consider her fair game for dalliance. She waited for the visitor’s thunderstruck expression to transform into the leering lust she had come to expect from the men who equated poverty with vulnerability, but his shabby lordship surprised her.
“I must apologize, Miss ...” he said, his lip twisting into an appealing smile.
“Gabriel, milord,” Sylvia said, schooling her countenance to blandness, she resisted the desire to tell him to put his apologies into the pocket of his hideous coat and leave. Caution and habit caused her to evaluate the situation logically.
While his dress was less than fashionable it was definitely clean and well-kept. Among the top tiers of the ton, most masculine foibles were tolerated if not celebrated. There was, therefore, the distinct chance that this was one of those instances where eccentricity rather than poverty was at play. In either event, if the man truly did have a title, Aunt Ruby would be most
furious at missing this unlikely lord’s call, much more so if she found that her niece had turned him away.
It would be a sin beyond forgiveness if Sylvia were to offend any man who might be viewed as a likely suitor for Caroline, especially a noble one. Still, if Sylvia’s cousin was his lordship’s object, why had the footman insisted that the visitor had come to call on a mere boy of nine?
“Miss Gabriel,” David said, feeling more than a little ashamed at putting Sir Miles’ kinswoman to the blush. “I hope that you will forgive me for my uncommon rudeness, but to be blunt; I was startled. I assume that you are aware of your unusual looks. It is somewhat unsettling to be confronted with a living image of a seraph this early in the morning, particularly when one has spent a somewhat iniquitous night.”
Sylvia found herself relaxing somewhat at his jocular tone and his disarming honesty. She felt an absurd longing to straighten his cravat and sweep that thatch of coal black hair from his eyes until, in a gesture of chagrin, he brushed it aside himself. A shaft of sun streaming through the windows touched him as he removed his spectacles, polishing them absently on that woeful neckcloth of his. The glimpse of those green-flecked brown eyes put Sylvia in mind of rich earth at tilling time. A peculiar sparkle seemed to light his face, making him seem almost like a little boy who has been caught at some mischief. Despite his unexpected charm, Sylvia reminded herself that it might prove to be a serious error to let down her facade.
“Indeed,” Sylvia replied. “I have no sword, milord, so I fail to see how you could mistake me for an avenging angel.”
David looked up in surprise. Comeliness and insinuations of wit? He returned his glasses to the bridge of his nose. It was only years of reading the countenances of those who challenged him across the chess board that allowed him to detect a hint of quickly concealed tempest in those sea-green eyes. Other than that fleeting telltale, her exquisite face was fatuously blank, seemingly devoid of expression.
Had she sized him up and dismissed him because of his casual attire? It would not be the first time that he had been cut because of his sartorial heedlessness, but nonetheless, he felt a strange stir of disappointment. A pity that Miss Gabriel seemed to lack the humor and spirit that would have animated those chiseled features. As it was, she seemed no more than a pretty, but dull piece of living statuary.
“I have come to see Sir Miles,” David said, his voice formal once more.
“He shall be down shortly,” the stone angel said, in a toneless voice.
David cast about for some topic to fill the growing silence. Perhaps the weather? The latest on-dit? But then he did not know the latest on-dit, so it would have to be the weather. Surely that would not be too much for a woman of even limited intellect. In David’s narrow experience it was almost a certitude that women endowed with superior beauty were shortchanged in the attribute of intelligence. Once beyond the set topics of climate and gossip they inevitably foundered and sank in the seas of more intellectual conversation. He was about to comment on the delights of the sun after so much rain when relief arrived and the door was thrown open. However, instead of the elderly Sir Miles, a young boy of about nine burst into the room.
“I’m done with my lesson, Syl. Now may I meet Lord Whatsisname?”
“‘Lord Donhill,’ Miles,” she reproved, turning to their guest. “May I present Sir Miles Gabriel.”
The boy made his leg, but David did not see. He turned abruptly to the window, hoping to conceal his shock and disappointment as the web woven of ephemeral hope and fancy was torn to shreds. It was clear now that Highslip had been correct. The old baronet was dead. A few moments passed before David dared to turn his face again. Fortunately, the years of chess play had given him infinite practice in commanding his features. However, he could not quite control the betraying tones of roughness in his voice.
“I am sorry, lad,” he said extending his hand. “I was expecting your Uncle.”
“Uncle Miles died over a year ago,” the boy said sympathetically. “Surely everyone knows that.”
Although his features were now impassive, Sylvia had seen Lord Donhill’s face before he had turned away; the pain in his eyes had mirrored the ache in her own heart. Despite Uncle Miles’ multitude of eccentricities, Sylvia had loved her uncle dearly and it was clear to see that Lord Donhill too, must have held the late Sir Miles in great esteem. Her curiosity roused, Sylvia was about to question Lord Donhill but to her surprise, he bent down before the boy, squatting until the two were eye to eye.
Sylvia smiled at the sight of that awkwardly bent lanky frame, her reserve thawing entirely. It was a rare adult that realized how intimidating a grown man’s height could be to a child. Lucky indeed, that Lord Donhill did not favor fashion, for a pair of skin-fitting breeches could not have stood the stress of the powerful thighs that were limned by the tautened fabric.
“I lived very far away,” David said. “In India. Your Uncle and I were good friends, but we had never met face to face.”
“I never heard of no Lord Donhill.” Miles asked cocking his head in an inquiring pose. “How can you be friends if you never met?
By post, Sylvia thought, an uneasy cold feeling spreading through the pit of her stomach as she digested his words. She felt much as if she had swallowed one of Gunther’s famous ice confections whole, her mind racing giddily as she considered the unlikely possibility that the consequences of her deceit were coming to roost on her doorstep. However, the more she tried to convince herself that her fears were foolish, that he had often declared that he would never leave India, the more certain Sylvia became that her worst nightmares were about to come true.
“I have only recently become Lord Donhill, just as you are a relatively new-made Sir Miles. My name is David Rutherford,” he said, taking off his glasses and polishing them in a forlorn gesture before slipping them absently into one of his pockets.
David Rutherford. The pronouncement of the name cut the last thread of Sylvia’s clinging hope and she felt herself spinning down into the abyss of her own making. Somehow she had always pictured her Uncle’s correspondent as an older gentleman, close to Uncle Miles in age. Still, would that have made her actions any less improper? Sylvia doubted that Aunt Ruby would see it in that light, much less forgive her scapegrace niece were she to hear the whole. Deliberately, Sylvia cleared the confusion from her mind, concentrating on the problem arrayed before her. Knowing David Rutherford, the truth would undoubtedly be the best solution.
“Famous! I’ve heard all about you,” the boy exclaimed. “I vow, you play chess nearly as well as cousin-”
“Miles,” Sylvia interrupted quickly. “Can you ask Boniface to see to some refreshments for our guest?”
“Why not just ring?” Miles asked, but he was forestalled by Sylvia’s quelling look. “I’ll go get him,” he mumbled. “Can’t just say you don’t want me to listen, can you?”
Once more, David found himself alone with the stone angel.
“I am sorry, milord. Had I known your identity, I would have spared you this,” she said. “However, the footman is a new one and he quite insisted that you wished to speak to my young cousin.”
There was a curious tone to her voice, one that he almost would have styled warmth. Curious, he patted his pockets in search of his spectacles.
“Sir Miles spoke quite fondly of you, milord,” Sylvia said choosing her words carefully. “Your letters and the game were a joy to him, particularly in the last months of his illness. Even when he could no longer could think clearly enough to play, he bade the game continue.”
The brass knocker rapped impatiently and a babble of voices echoed in the entryway. Surely Aunt Ruby and Caroline had not returned so soon! Sylvia felt a growing tide of panic at the unmistakable high pitched nasal whine of her aunt’s orders to the staff. Sylvia regarded David Rutherford's face rapidly considered her options. If she were to tell him the whole now, without any preamble, there would certainly be questions, questions that would take far
too long to answer. Discovery would be inevitable, since Aunt Ruby would be upon them in a matter of moments. There was only one possible move.
“I know it was most improper, milord,” Sylvia said in a rush. “My younger brother William could not bear to leave the game unfinished and it was he who continued the play in the months that followed our uncle’s passing. In a way, it was his tribute to a man who was most dear to the both of us.”
“I would certainly have acceded to continue the game, if that was his concern,” David said, feeling a rush of annoyance.
Sylvia hung her head guiltily. In truth, she had feared that he would put an end to the play upon hearing the news. “Your last letters had mentioned some business difficulties,” she said weakly, praying that William would forgive her for the lie that she was putting in his dish. “I believe my brother meant to spare you the additional burden until you were on your feet once more. However, I soon realized that it was wrong to keep the news from you. I, myself, sent a letter informing you of Uncle Miles’ death.”
“Unfortunately, I never received your letter. I suppose that, like my other correspondence, it will catch up with me in time. After all, I only received your brother’s final move last evening. And if the final moves were his, I must congratulate him upon his tour de force. I declare, I did not see my doom upon me till almost the very end.” David said. “Is he at home?”
“No, milord,” Sylvia said. “He is down at Oxford.”
“He plays splendidly,” David reiterated. “Nonetheless, Miss Gabriel, I do not enjoy being made to look a fool. The truth would certainly have spared me a great deal of trouble, although I cannot say it is any less humbling to lose to a callow youth than to a man who has passed from this earth altogether. I knew that Sir Miles had been ill, of course, but I am sorry to say that I paid it too scant attention.”
His wistful tones caused Sylvia agonies of guilt. “Milord, do not blame yourself. My uncle’s health was never of the best, but this was something of a shock to us all.” The sound of footsteps treading heavily up the stairs reminded her of her danger. Aunt Ruby would be angry, so very angry if she heard the whole of her niece’s deceit. “I know that it was wrong to deceive you, milord, but I beg you, do not hold it against my brother and do not tell my Aunt Ruby, I pray you. She and Will do not get on well and I fear if she hears of this she will cause him no end of trouble. Please, milord.”
