by Rita Boucher
The man started to back away, but the dog was unimpressed. Perhaps sensing the core of fear at the center of Sylvia’s lunatic display, the animal lunged at her once more only to veer sharply to the side as the report of a pistol echoed through the clearing. Whining piteously, the dog returned to his master, who clutched at a suddenly spreading redness about his shoulder. The wounded man turned and ran, stumbling into the woods, the dog following close on his heels. There was the sound of hoofbeats as a horse sprang from behind Sylvia in pursuit of the animal and his master.
Sylvia’s legs seemed to melt beneath her; she sank to her knees, weak with relief. The residue of fear left her scarcely able to breathe, her heart hammering as if it would beat itself from her breast. The khanda slipped to the ground as she clutched at her aching hand.
The Sikh’s eyes had opened and he was regarding her in confusion. “A beautiful warrior defends me,” he said in Hindi. “Is Kali now an Englishwoman?”
Suddenly, she heard a twig snap behind her, but before she could turn, a hand touched her shoulder. Her fear returning full force, Sylvia attempted to twist away, throwing herself flat upon the ground to grab at the fallen khanda, unwittingly taking her new assailant down with her. Stones dug into her stomach as she fought to free herself from the weight upon her back. Her throat produced nothing but a ragged choking sound as she tried to scream.
“A warrior indeed. Easy, easy, Kali,” a somehow familiar voice said. “Calm yourself. He is gone.”
Abruptly the weight shifted, then disappeared. The restraint removed, Sylvia rolled, grabbing the dagger as she staggered to her feet. Breathing raggedly, she attempted to focus through the haze of terror.
“You can put the khanda down now, Kali,” David urged softly, cursing himself for a fool. He should have known better than to come at her from behind and startle her so. Primal fear had pushed her beyond reason; the feral instinct of self-preservation was all that he could see in those green eyes . He doubted that Sylvia even recognized him in her present state. “The cur and his dog are gone and there is no need to cut my Weston coat to shreds, however you might deplore the fit.”
Memory at last penetrated the curtain of shock. Her arm slowly dropped to her side, the blade slipping from suddenly lax fingers with a soft thud as its point embedded itself in the muddy ground.
“Much better,” David said with relief as he watched the awareness return to her face. “You are safe, Kali. Foolishly brave, with that temple dance of yours, but you are safe now.”
She stood watching him in a trembling quiet, far more disturbing than any tears or female frenzy. David moved toward her, uncertain. His senses urged him to gather her into his arms, to hold her, comfort her, but any move on his part might drive her into panic once more. So, as the moments passed, all he could do was watch and wait for the inevitable onset of hysteria
“You - called me - ‘Kali.’” Sylvia whispered, her voice coming out in something of a croak. “If you heard that much - milord, why in Heaven’s name - did you not chase the devil off sooner?”
“Unfortunately, with all your moving about it was difficult to get a clear shot,” David said, his face splitting into a relieved grin at this unexpected scold.
“Capering about like a lunatic was the only defense I could muster,” Sylvia admitted. “I can barely carve a chicken.”
The attempt at humor was surprising. A most remarkable woman. How had he ever thought her deficient in wit? Although her voice and demeanor were still strained, there would likely be no sobbing or weeping. “You gave a masterful performance, Miss Gabriel. Most frightening.”
“Was I, indeed?” she said, taking deep ragged breaths. Although the sun was on her back, she felt horribly cold. “Sh- shall I consider the stage then?”
“I am sure that you would put Mrs. Siddons upon her mettle,” he said, trying to keep his voice soothing.
“You should see to your servant,” Sylvia said, “He took a bad fall.”
When David made a tentative move in his servant’s direction, Harjit shook his head. “I am well enough,” he said, rolling to his knees.
“Would I match Mrs. Siddons’ excellent Lady Macbeth, do you think?” Sylvia asked. “The morning has grown chilly, don’t you agree?”
“You would make an excellent murderess, but a most untidy one,” he said, deliberately emulating her tone of gallows humor in an effort to erase the terror from her eyes. Her face was still stark white and her words were almost coming in gasps now. She was starting to shiver violently. He had seen much the same reactions in soldiers after a battle, when they came to the realization of the consequences that “might have been.” Peeling off his jacket, David draped the garment over her trembling shoulders.
Sylvia pulled the jacket close about her, grateful for the warmth. In her still-agitated state she found the scents of horse and man that rose from the fabric were curiously comforting. Even the frantic thump of her heart seemed to slow. “You milord, are something of a mess yourself,” Sylvia declared, smiling at last.
Despite a coating of dirt on her cheek, there was something about that smile that made his heart skip a beat. “That is most unfair of you, Lady Macbeth, or should I say ‘Kali?’ You are responsible for my roll in the mud. But then, there are some, including my friend Petrov yonder, who claim that untidiness is my natural state,” he said wiping ineffectually at his breeches and noticing the familiar scarlet shade of ... “Blood!” he exclaimed. “You are bleeding, Miss Gabriel.”
Immediately crossing the space that separated them, David laid gentle hands upon Sylvia in an effort to discover the location of her wound. She stood quiescent as he examined her, finally finding the source of the bleeding.
“’Twas where Spots scratched me I believe,” she murmured. “’Tis nothing.”
“Your pardon if I differ, Kali.” He gently spread the hand upon his, shaking his head, his insides clenching at the sight of the jagged bite-wound. A rapid fumble through his pockets revealed no trace of a clean handkerchief. With impatient hands, he managed to unwrap the linen stock from his neck, using an end to wipe away the cake of mud and blood. Neckcloths did have some justification for existence after all, he reflected.
“It looks far worse than it is,” David said, looking up at Sylvia in relief. To his dismay, he saw a worried look in her green eyes. “It will heal Sylvia, I promise you. The dog only nipped you, although I suspect that you may carry a scar of this day’s work.”
“It is not my hand that troubles me, milord. It is - ” Her eyes perused him from head to foot, disturbed by the fact that she had ruined his elegant clothing. He was half covered in mud from the lawn of his shirt to the tip of his Hessians. “I am so sorry about your garments, milord.”
“My clothes,” David said in surprise. He had been more than certain that it was the prospect of the scar that was the source of her serious expression. “Do not give them a thought, Lady Macbeth. Why, it will be but a small matter to clean them. ‘Out damned spots!’” he intoned, as Petrov rode up beside them.
“‘Out damned spots’ indeed! Oh!” Sylvia began to giggle helplessly
“While you are standing here quoting your Shakespeare, the evil one got away. I am losing him in the woods. Is still my thought that you should have been shooting to kill,” Petrov said as he dismounted. “Is she having the hysteria?”
David looked at Sylvia, who was chortling so hard, that the tears were beginning to fall. “It would seem so,” he said.
“No,” Sylvia declared, between giggles. “‘Spots’ was the name of wretched cur.”
But David did not smile as he cut away a clean section of the neckcloth with the khanda and carefully wrapped the wounded hand. “You are right, Ivan. I should have killed him,” he said, with quiet menace as he looked at Sylvia’s blood streaked habit.
“Could have been worse,” Petrov said. “Just as well you were not killing the rogue, though. In this country, magistrates are getting involved, such simple matters are
becoming too messy.” Suddenly, his face lit with a smile that transformed his mournful visage. “A pun! I am understanding now. ‘Out damned spot,’ from the Shakespeare play, no? Hamlet?”
“Macbeth,” David corrected absently, as he finished binding the wound.
Harjit rose to his feet, salaaming toward Sylvia awkwardly. “You have saved my life, young miss,” he said, softly in Hindi. “It is a debt which I can never repay.”
“It is not to me the obligation is owed, but to Lord Donhill. In truth, it is I who am the greater debtor, for it was more than my life he saved. I suspect my honor was at risk as well,” Sylvia replied in the same tongue, regaining her composure at last.
David looked at her in surprise, flushing at her praise. “You speak Hindi?”
But before Sylvia could give the obvious answer to the question, Petrov saw the full extent of the damage to David’s attire and let out a despairing wail. “By my mother’s soul, David. Look at you! Your riding jacket,” Petrov cried. “Is mud upon it. You use your neckcloth for bandage. Your knees are bloody, ai! Muck and grass stains will be remaining upon your breeches forever.”
“Cut line, Ivan,” David said, casting him an annoyed glance. “You are not my nursemaid.”
“Highslip will be having my head,” Petrov declared tragically, his accent gaining added flavor with emotion. “Your new riding costume is shambles, all within an hour. You are having to change before we meet Brummel for breakfast, David. Then off to Weston’s for you, mine friend.”
“That is shambles, Ivan,” David said, smiling. “And I shall be damned it I set foot in that pin-pusher’s parlor again. If you do not cease this arrant nonsense, I swear that I shall find the first mud puddle that I may, dip my boots in it and splatter you as well.”
Petrov recoiled in horror, as if the dirty pool were imminent. Sylvia let out a peal of laughter, causing the men to look upon her in shocked surprise. It was an infectious sound, neither light nor musical, but a whole-hearted invitation to mirth. Soon, both David and Petrov were clasping their sides and even Harjit’s lips were stretched in a broad smile.
“Holoo, Syl,” Miles called, galloping across the field, followed in the distance by Caroline and the groom. “Are you alright? Caro would go slow; didn’t want to lose that confounded hat,” he said disparagingly as he slid from his horse.
“Is a most charming hat, a crime to lose so beautiful an adornment,” Petrov declared, smoothly, as he helped Caroline dismount. “Entirely suitable to your loveliness.”
Caroline’s annoyed expression disappeared. She gazed into the Russian’s worshipping face as she spoke. “You see, dear brother,” Caroline declared, the very picture of sisterly sweetness. “I told you there was no need to gallop neck or nothing. Sylvia did not really need us at all.”
* * * *
Despite his declaration that he would risk damnation rather than another encounter with Weston, David Rutherford was once more consigned to purgatory at the tailor’s hands. After their belated breakfast, Petrov added his pleas to both Highslip and Brummel’s adamant demands. Thus, Lord Donhill found himself swiftly transported yet again to Bond Street and stripped to his small clothes. The damp chill bit at his bare legs as he stood, fearing to move in the pin-infested half-finished garments. Rain drops fiercely pelted the windows of the Bond Street shop, but David was far away, thinking of Sylvia. When they had delivered her home, the girl’s aunt had given her the devil of a time, rebuking her niece as if the vile attack had been her own fault. It was all that he could do to hold his temper, knowing there was nothing that he might say that would help her. David was roused from his reverie by the sound of raised voices.
“I say, the yellow!” Highslip declared, picking up a bolt of silk, his eyes alight.
“With his skin? Are you mad?” Brummel declared in emotional tones. “’Twould cause David to look hopelessly sallow.”
“But surely a touch of color ...”
“Darker shades are far more becoming,” Brummel declared, his gaze stony.
“Please,” David groaned. “We have been at this for the better part of an hour now. I feel like a veritable pincushion. My limbs ache and my neck is stiff from standing like a piece of pasteboard. Can we go home?”
“Now, now, milord,” Weston said, as he entered the fitting room, carrying a bolt of deep blue fabric. “We shall be finished shortly.” The master tailor proceeded to unwrap a length for Brummel’s inspection much in the manner of a magician producing a miracle from thin air. The Beau rewarded Weston with a pleased nod.
“Excellent,” Brummel said, fingering the cloth critically. “This blue is just the ticket.”
David blinked in disbelief. “But it is nearly the exact shade of the one we examined half of an hour ago.”
“‘Nearly’ is insufficient,” Lord Highslip declared, shaking his head disapprovingly. “A gentleman’s sartorial splendor must be perfection in itself. Why, I spend well above an hour each morning refining the appearance of my neckcloth.”
“I can well believe it.” David snorted derisively. “Ouch!” he yelped, as Weston stuck him with a pin.
“My apologies, milord,” the tailor said, twitching the sleeve of the garment into place, “but you do persist in moving. These broad shoulders require careful fitting for the proper result.”
“I can barely move a muscle in your damned jackets,” David said, looking murderously at his tormentor, half-suspecting that the man had pricked him on purpose. “All I did was shrug my shoulders and the thing came apart. Do not make this one so tight and I do not see why you cannot give me a few pockets here and there!”
Weston looked at Brummel and shook his head. “I cannot, Mr. Brummel. I simply cannot do it,” he said, his eyes rolling heavenward.
“I shall speak to him,” Brummel said, watching as the tailor left the room muttering in dismay. The Beau turned toward David, who was shrugging off the half-finished garment with hasty relief.
“You agreed to the wager,” Brummel said, in much the same tones one would use to chide a recalcitrant child.
“I pledged to dress properly,” David declared, pushing his spectacles further up upon his nose. “I did not expect to submit to torture.”
“If you would not persist in ruining your garments,” Lord Highslip said in a sneering voice, “you would not require so many trips to the tailor. Ripping coats to shreds with a shrug, mud on your riding costume, blood on your linen,”
“The mess was unavoidable,” David said, looking at the earl belligerently.
“A gentleman does not soil his hands in that manner.” Highslip sniffed.
“I suppose I should have left the lady to her own devices!” David replied.
“Highslip!” Brummel stepped between the two men. “Would you stop behaving as if David did the damage deliberately? Before he left us, Petrov himself testified that the ruin was necessary.”
David gave Highslip a satisfied smirk.
“However,” Brummel continued. “You must replace the injured garments, David, with clothing of equal quality and stop abusing Weston. The man is an artist of the highest order and you must treat him with care.”
It was Highslip's turn to curl his lip.
“Now, while we wait for Weston to return, tell us a bit more about the incident this morning,” Brummel said with a sigh, sensing the need for an immediate diversion. It was all too much like acting as tutor for two uncommonly belligerent boys,
David hesitated.
“Come, come,” Brummel urged, “it is most gallant of you to protect her. Even so, the story will be bandied up Bond Street and down Drury Lane before the sun sets, I would wager”
“No more wagers for me,” David groaned. “One is more than sufficient.”
“You might as well serve us up the name,” Highslip demanded. “After all, it’s no less than the chit’s own fault for acting the amazon.”
Brummel silenced Highslip with a warning glare. “As Petrov so rightly told you, this
is too remarkable a tale not to make the rounds,” Brummel reasoned. “The servants will inevitably talk, David. Moreover, if the girl’s relation is the gorgon your friend describes, then you may be sure the story will be told with enough relish to flavor it as scandal broth. However, if I disseminate the on dit in a flattering light-“
“You are very sure of your credit, George,” David said.
“My friend, you have yet to learn that gossip is the very coin of society and the power of my purse is far from modest,” George said, turning to the mirror to make a slight adjustment to his own neckcloth. “Now give me the name of your Amazon and I will go forth to dispense this news as if it were the veriest gold.”
“I would not style her an amazon, George,” David said. “She was however, most courageous and undoubtedly the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
“And what is the name of this vision?” Highslip asked derisively. “Were you wearing your glasses?”
David glared at Highslip. “Her name is Miss Sylvia Gabriel, the late Sir Miles’ niece.”
“It is unlike you to speak in such superlatives, David,” Brummel said, intervening once more. “I shall look forward to making her acquaintance during the Season.”
“It is unlikely that you shall have the opportunity,” David said with a frown. “The girl has no dower to speak of and her aunt means to keep her under wraps.”
“A shame, if she has half the beauty you say,” Brummel said.
“Indeed, he does not do her justice,” Lord Highslip said softly, a strange look stealing across his face. “Sylvia is perfection, an Incomparable in every way.”
“You know the girl, Highslip?” David asked.
“I do,” Highslip said. “My estates march with her uncle’s land in Northumberland. I was well acquainted with Sylvia. In truth, we had something of an understanding.”
“Did you?” David queried the very idea somehow disturbing.
