by Rita Boucher
“Syl,” Miles groaned, and followed her , tugging at her arm. “‘Tis awfully important. In fact, you could even become Lady Donhill.”
“Are you ill, youngling?” Sylvia smiled at his earnest face. “I vow, you are sounding quite daft.”
“Lord Donhill wagered that he would only marry the woman who could beat him at chess,” Miles proclaimed. “And you’ve already trounced him once. There’s a purse of a thousand pounds besides. Oh, Syl, you have only to tell him and he’ll be forced to honor his wager.”
“That is ridiculous, Miles. Who would make so foolish a bet?” Sylvia asked, even though she knew it entirely possible. Her own father had taken outrageous chances, hazarding fortunes on the outcome of a game that he rarely lost. “Besides, even in the unlikely event that the gossip is true, the game was not entirely mine. I was only fourteen years of age when David Rutherford's correspondence with Uncle Miles began ten years ago.”
“Aren’t you the one always telling me ‘it’s the end-game that counts?’ That was you! You beat him once,” the boy insisted. “And you could trounce him again in an instant. He’s rich as the Golden Ball and a lord besides. Take him up on his challenge, Syl.”
“Miles,” she said, taking the boy by the shoulders. “Even if Lord Donhill made so foolish a wager and I were so forward as to win his challenge, it would be unfair to press him to keep a vow made in a moment of drunkenness. He was Uncle’s friend and I consider him mine as well.”
“But you would be the best kind of wife,” Miles protested. “You’re a bang up to the mark chess player and you don’t even scream at snakes.”
“High praise, indeed,” Sylvia said with a laugh, “But he would not love me and love is the most important part of a marriage.”
“Love,” Miles sneered, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “You sound just like Caroline sometimes. ‘Love this, love that, love, love, love!’ Sighing like a mooncalf all the time.”
“Someday, Miles, you will understand.”
“I hope not,” Miles declared vehemently. “A wager’s a wager. What if some other female steals a march on you? I’d hazard it in a tick-tock!”
“I rather doubt it,” Sylvia chuckled. “There are not many chess players of either sex who could match David Rutherford,” she said. “Besides, what would your Mama say if I should play him and lose? You know how she hates chess and thinks it no fit game for ladies. If she did not think me the rankest of amateurs I doubt that she would even tolerate a board in the house. Challenging a man for a wager, I venture, would put me entirely beyond the pale.”
“But you could win it, Syl,” the boy declared once more, but he desisted at last when he saw his cousin’s obdurate expression. There was a sound from below and Miles ran to the open window, glad of the distraction.
“Look, Syl,” he called, beckoning her to the sill. “Look at those matched greys; ain’t they fine?”
Sylvia watched as David Rutherford leapt lightly into his vehicle. The sun glinted on his silver handled whip as he chanced to look up, saluting the waving boy with a flourish. Sylvia backed away, flushing in shame that Lord Donhill might have seen her gawping like some country greenling.
“Ain’t nothing behindhand about those horses,” Miles said, waving enthusiastically until the carriage was out of sight. “If it were me, I’d challenge him in a minute.”
Sylvia sighed. “No, Miles; and I hope that you will not betray me. If your Mama should find out what I have been about, then I have no doubt that she would cast me out on the street.”
“Not me! You know I’d never cry rope!” Miles said, stoutly, offended at the very suggestion. “Still-”
“Sylvia!” There was no mistaking that shrill voice and with a sympathetic look, Miles scampered to a seat, taking up a book just as the door swung open to admit his mother, puffing with the exertion. It said much for the level of her annoyance that she had essayed the climb up the nursery stair.
Sylvia closed her eyes for a moment, bracing herself for the tirade that was sure to come and for some reason, David Rutherford’s face came to mind. As she listened with feigned meekness, to her aunt’s harangue, Miles’ words echoed in her head. “I’d hazard him in a minute.”
Sylvia had always thought those Minerva Press heroines, who meekly submitted to fate with stoic resolution, were fools. It was humbling to realize that she was no less of a ninny, at heart. In all likelihood, she could best David Rutherford, but no matter what silly wager he had made, Sylvia hoped that she would never serve a friend so poorly. Still, as Aunt Ruby’s whine hummed in her ears, such fine feelings were but cold comfort.
Chapter 3
A puff of clouds drifted in the sky above Green Park, momentarily obscuring the weak spring sunshine. Sylvia held the reins of her horse loosely as it ambled along.
“I vow, Syl, I do not know how you bear Mama these days,” Caroline said, her lowered voice barely audible above the slow clip of the horse’s hooves. She glanced behind to satisfy herself that the groom and her brother were beyond hearing. “As if it is your fault that the house is almost empty of callers. Mama keeps harkening back to the time before Uncle Miles’ illness. To hear her tell of it, the invitations and the callers came in a veritable flood when you were about to make your curtsy to the Ton. Lady Harwell called the other day, and when she found out that the Miss Gabriel of the house was not you, she left in a huff and put a flea in Mama’s ear, to boot.”
“Lady Harwell was a particular friend of my Mama’s,” Sylvia said apologetically. “If my Season had gone on as planned, years ago, she had expected to assist with my introduction to society. Besides, I was an heiress then and most of those callers were hoping to steal an early march on their campaigns to secure my fortune, lured by the siren call of my shekels.”
“Even so, it is so sad that Uncle Miles became ill and you were forced to return to Northumberland before your Season,” Caroline declared, sympathetically, then characteristically the girl flitted to another subject. “Lord Donhill particularly asked after you yesterday.”
Sylvia’s fingers tightened upon the tack, her knuckles whitening, but her voice remained controlled. “Lord Donhill came to call?” she asked, feigning a casual air.
“Oh yes,” Caroline said absently, looking up at the sky. “Dear me, look at those grey clouds above the trees. Lord Donhill called while you were out matching that lace for Mama. Do you think it will rain?”
“The lace that she sent me to return in the end,” Sylvia said in clipped tones. Obviously, Aunt Ruby had expected that David Rutherford would call and deliberately sent her niece on a useless errand.
“He seemed somewhat disappointed to miss you,” Caroline said, tearing her attention from the sky momentarily. “And you would not believe the change, Syl. Lord Donhill is now all the go, almost a veritable pattern card of fashion. Although, I must say that he was not nearly so fine as his friend, Mr. Petrov. You should have seen him. I vow, he is the most handsome man I have ever seen in my life, so dashing and so charming. His manners are most delightful.”
“Yes,” Sylvia said, stifling a sigh. “Lord Donhill would be so.”
“Lord Donhill?” Caroline drew her horse to a stop, looking confusedly at her cousin. “Why, it is Mr. Petrov of whom I speak. Lord Donhill is far too old; he must be well past thirty,” she declared. “For all Mama’s prosings about his wealth and title, I would not marry him, even if he had not made that strange wager.”
Sylvia laughed at the arrogance of her seventeen-year-old cousin. “A veritable Methuselah,” she declared, feeling strangely relieved although she could not say why. “So, Lord Donhill has become a Bond Street beau.”
“Not quite, his cravat was rumpled and askew,” Caroline said, urging her mount forward once again. “It is all part of that infamous wager of his. I vow, Mama was quite distressed when she heard of it.”
“So, it is true,” Sylvia said. “His wife will have to win him in a chess match.”
Caroline nodded. �
��And a purse of a thousand pounds if she should be so foolish as to forgo him. According to the latest on dit, half the females in London are engaging chess masters although Mr. Petrov says that any woman who would hope to best him is befuddled in the brainbox. In fact, Ivan declares that Uncle Miles was the only man he knew who ever beat him.”
“So, you call him ‘Ivan,’ do you, Caro?” Sylvia said, trying to turn the subject from its hazardous course.
But Sylvia’s effort only caused her cousin to color slightly, and ramble on. “You get along well enough on the board with Miles, but I am so glad that you declared yourself an indifferent chess player, else I suspect Mama would have you tutoring me,” Caro continued.
“Lord Donhill is no stripling and a far more formidable opponent than your brother,” Sylvia said quickly, his image coming sharply to mind. Somehow, his deplorable mode of dress had made him no less handsome. She wondered sadly if her aunt would ever allow them to meet again. “It is quite unlikely that any come-lately to the game, male or female, could best him.”
“I suppose,” Caroline said, with a toss of her head. “Still, I am glad he is ineligible as a suitor because of his wager - I much prefer Mr. Petrov. Mama merely tolerates both him and Lord Donhill both because any caller is better than no callers at all.” A stiff breeze began to blow through the branches of the trees causing Caroline to clamp her hat firmly to her head. “It will rain; I just know it and my new hat a la militaire will be utterly ruined. Perhaps if we turn back now?” she wailed, reining in her horse once more.
Miles rode up just in time to hear his sister’s declaration. “Aw, g’wan,” he moaned. “You made of sugar, Caro? A little rain never hurt anyone.”
Sylvia controlled her frisking animal with a light touch as she added her voice to Miles’. “I doubt that it will rain anytime soon, Caro. See, the sun is coming out once more.”
“I am positive that it will rain,” Caroline said, with a pout. “And the ostrich feathers in my shako will be drenched. We shall have to go home immediately.”
Sylvia took a deep breath and nodded her head at the groom. “I suppose ...” she began.
“Go home, yourself!” Miles yelled, cutting Sylvia off. “You selfish beast. Invite yourself along for our ride with us, riding slow as treacle to show off your new habit, but that ain’t enough for you, oh no, Miss Caroline Care-for-no-one! Angry that there ain’t anybody about so’s you can preen yourself, conceited looby!”
Sylvia knew that she ought to rebuke the boy for his rudeness, but from Caro’s flush, she knew that Miles had struck upon the truth. She, herself had wondered at the girl’s sudden eagerness for exercise.
“A fine one you are to talk, Master Rudesby,” Caroline retorted. “You would rather see a small fortune ruined than forgo your ride.”
“Ain’t just my ride,” Miles said. “‘Tis Sylvia’s too and if it were up to Mama, she would never go anywhere but on your foolish frippery errands. You know if you take the groom home, there’s nothing but we all have to go back. Who told you to wear the silly hat anyway? Makes you look like Wellington’s sister, with a nose you could hang a lamp upon.”
The groom began to cough violently and Caro’s brown eyes fairly snapped in fury. Once more, Miles had scored on a sore point. Unfortunately, Caroline had inherited her mother’s prominent proboscis. From the look of the girl’s clenched fists, Sylvia feared that Caroline might actually come to blows with her brother. Apparently, so did Miles, for the boy dug his heels into his mount and was off across the field.
“I shall chase him down,” Sylvia said as she caught the groom’s inquiring look. “You stay with Miss Caroline under those trees that we just passed. You should be safe from any rain there, Caro.”
Caroline gave her cousin a tight-lipped nod. “Mama says that you ought to whip him and I am beginning to find myself thinking her almost right. He is growing quite insolent.”
Sylvia did not trust herself to reply, afraid that she might say that Miles had given his sister as much as she deserved. Sylvia cantered off in the direction that the boy had taken, fairly certain that Miles was heading for his usual favorite spot out toward Buckingham House. Still, once she was out of sight, she deliberately slowed her horse’s pace, determined to enjoy some semblance of an outing despite Caro's tantrum.
Sure enough, Sylvia found the boy waiting for her upon the wide open field.
“Syl!” he called, waving at her cheerfully. “I hoped that it would be you coming after me.”
“You were very naughty, Miles,” Sylvia said, mustering as much anger as she could. “You should not have provoked Caro so.”
“Someone ought to,” Miles said, walking his horse toward her. “I daresay she has become the veriest prig since we came to Town. She sounds more and more like Mama every day. Besides, didn’t you get to ride?” He smiled mischievously.
“At what cost?” Sylvia asked as she dismounted. “You know very well that this morning’s events will get back to Aunt Ruby one way or another.”
“I’m sorry, Syl. I didn’t think of that,” he said.
“Well,” Sylvia said, relenting at the boy’s crestfallen expression. “I ought not to say it, but I was glad of the ride.”
The two walked their horses together in companionable silence for a moment, delaying their return, when suddenly, a magnificent mare raced into the clearing. Astride her was a man in white, his costume contrasting vividly with the animal’s coat of stark black.
“Cor!” Miles whispered in awe. “A Hindoo!”
“No, Miles. ‘Tis a Sikh. You can tell by-” But before Sylvia could finish her sentence, a large, spotted dog burst from the brush in a blur of speed, nipping at the heels of the mare. The horse reared in fright, kicking at the mongrel with flaying hooves while his rider struggled to retain his seat.
To Sylvia’s dismay, the Sikh flew from the saddle, landing in a crumpled heap at the edge of the wood, while his mount galloped away in terror, pursued by the cur.
“Miles, go get the groom and Caro, quickly,” Sylvia ordered, helping the boy up into his saddle.
“I shall go after the horse,” Miles declared as he caught up the reins.
“You shall not!” Sylvia commanded in a voice that brooked no contradiction. “Not when a human being needs help. Now, off with you.” She swatted his horse’s rump and leaving her own mount to graze, raced toward the fallen man.
She knelt down beside the Sikh, noting in relief that he was still breathing, but other than chafing his hand, Sylvia was totally at a loss. She had never tended anything more serious than a scrape. He moaned and stirred slightly and Sylvia was reassured.
“Do not worry,” she said in Hindi. “Soon someone will come. Soon.”
The liquid brown eyes flew open. “The horse?” he whispered. “I must seek my master’s mare,” he declared, attempting to raise himself, but he closed his eyes once more as dizziness overcame him.
Sylvia rose to her feet, praying that Miles would soon arrive with the groom, but instead the dog burst from the bushes once more, racing toward her. Frantically, Sylvia looked about her for some weapon. In desperation, she snatched up a fallen branch and placed herself between the animal and the man lying senseless upon the muddy ground. The dog stopped short, ears flattening against his head as he growled at her menacingly.
“Get away!” she screamed, waving the stick. “Go home!”
But the hound only bared its teeth in reply and lunged forward.
“Spots!”
Sylvia heaved a sigh of relief as the dog turned and raced toward a short, heavyset man who was striding out of the woods. As he came closer, his shabby coat and tattered boots became apparent, but his uncouth appearance was far less fearsome than the speculative look on his face as he drew near.
“Well, well. What have you brought to ground here m’boy?” the man said eying Sylvia with a lascivious leer.
Sylvia shivered as his words confirmed what his expression had told her. She was little m
ore than prey. A glance at the prostrate Sikh made clear that there was no hope of help from that quarter. As Spots’ master devoured her with his gaze, Sylvia prayed that Miles would put in a quick appearance. Until then, Sylvia swallowed hard as she brought up her make-shift club once more, there was only herself to rely on. In a timed match, sometimes delay was the only means of winning.
“No need for that, m’beauty,” the man said with a gap-toothed smile. “Just a liddle kiss to thank me for calling the ‘ound off.”
“’Twas your cur that caused all the difficulty,” Sylvia declared, her voice shaking. “If you do not leave immediately with your dog, I shall have you hauled before the magistrate.”
“I’m quakin’ in me boots,” he chortled, sneering at what was clearly an idle threat. “Would ye like t’see Spots do some o’ ‘is tricks? Y’ev already seen ‘is best. Got ‘im trained to bring down any rider likely to ‘ave a goodly purse on ‘im. Put down yer stick, missy.”
Miles, where are you? Sylvia wondered desperately, her heart racing as her attacker advanced, the unpleasant sound of his laughter sending a shiver of foreboding up Sylvia’s spine. Raising her knout high, she prepared to swing.
“Spots!”
At the sound of his master’s voice, the dog lunged forward, jaws snapping. Sylvia felt a stab of white hot pain as sharp fangs raked her fingers, causing her to release the branch and clutch her throbbing hand.
The man laughed as Sylvia backed away, stumbled and fell to the ground. Through the haze of pain and fear, she saw a gleam in the Sikh’s sash. Her right hand was useless, but she reached with her left to pull at the jeweled handle of the ceremonial khanda that all Sikh men wore. The wicked blade gleamed in the sunlight as she pushed herself to her feet, awkwardly swiping the air before her.
“Now you son of a cur, now I shall spit you and your accursed animal on one blade,” Sylvia waved the weapon wildly, hoping that her attacker would not realize that she had not the foggiest notion of how to use the dagger. She hurled Hindi curses at him, howling and dancing about like a mad-woman. “I shall send you to your vile ancestors,” she threatened. “I am Kali, the she-demon!”
