Miss Gabriel's Gambit

by Rita Boucher

  Suddenly, Sylvia found she could endure no more. “I am going upstairs,” she announced, “to change into some dry clothing.” No one paid her the slightest notice as she went past the main stairway to the small ballroom. As she crept out the french doors to the garden, Sylvia noticed that the black and white marble had been polished to a high gloss even though the room was not to be used for the ball.

  She paused for a moment, memories stirring in rainy mist. Had she been needlessly cruel to David? He doubtlessly hated Madame Echec for his humiliation. Yet, Sylvia thought, lifting her chin proudly, he had dishonored her in far more personal a manner. David Rutherford had deserved what he had gotten and more, far more. There was no cause for regret.

  Yet, as Sylvia surreptitiously slipped out through the garden door to the mews to retrieve her bundle, she was honest enough to acknowledge that Caroline was partially correct. There had been no real purpose to cause him to abase himself other than petty revenge. Nonetheless, she comforted herself, it would make no difference; David would never know Madame Echec’s identity. As Sylvia made her way up the back stairs to the nursery, she heard her aunt haranguing Caroline below, hoping to re-direct the girl’s affections toward Lord Donhill.

  Strange, Sylvia mused as she reached the nursery door, how her daydreams had been played out with such exquisite irony. In the back of her mind, she had always known that David was hers for the taking. She would challenge him and he would lose, but declare himself the winner still, for her dreams would always end with his avowal of love.

  It seemed one of Fate’s crueler jests that Sylvia had released him from the bondage of his wager only, in all likelihood, to marry another. David was now a prime catch who could look far higher than a dowerless girl who had nothing but a pretty face to recommend her. Even disregarding the absence of a marriage portion, Sylvia knew that one did not offer to wed woman who was previously considered no more than mere mistress material.

  There was a shout as Sylvia opened the nursery door. “Make way!” Miles warned as he rushed past her, Lord Donhill’s dragon kite trailing behind him.

  “Did you do your lessons?” she demanded, her annoyance rising as she saw his books open as she had left them.

  “Not yet,” Miles said, ignoring the danger in her voice.

  “Now!” Sylvia ordered, wrenching the kite from the boy’s hands. As she glared down at him, he watched in trepidation, his eyes beginning to glisten.

  “You’re holding it too tight!” Miles wailed, his lower lip trembling. “You’re going to break it.”

  Sylvia bowed her head, unable to meet his tearful gaze for a moment as shame filled her. It was unconscionable to take her anger out upon the boy. After all, it was not his fault that she still loved David Rutherford, Sylvia thought miserably, as she set the fragile kite gently upon the shelf. “Sorry I snapped at you, youngling” she said, returning to his side and tousling his hair by way of an apology. “Finish your lessons now and perhaps, if the day clears, we may sneak out later and launch your dragon into flight.”

  “Don’t wonder that you’re peevish, the way Mama has you working. Why, you’re soaking wet.” Miles said, brightening at the promised treat, as he wiped away his tears.

  Sylvia glanced down at her sodden gown. “So I am. I had best go change. There is still a great deal to do before tomorrow night. We want Caroline’s ball to be a success,” she declared, with false brightness.

  “Don’t care if it is, or it isn’t. I won’t get to see nothing of it anyway,” Miles complained, his mouth drooping. “Mama says I’m to stay put in the nursery and not set foot downstairs.”

  “Come Miles, it is all grown-up nonsense anyway,” Sylvia said. “Dancing and chitter-chatter and the like, nothing of interest to a fellow like you.”

  “’Cept the food. Cook won’t let me down in the kitchen, says I’m underfoot but I can smell it all the way up here. It’s torture I tell you, knowing I ain’t gonna get a bite of it!”

  “I shall make sure you get your share.” Sylvia laughed. “Go to my room tomorrow night and stand by the corner window, the one that looks over the garden.” Casting her eyes around the nursery, she sighted a paintbrush-filled basket in the corner. After emptying the brushes onto the shelf she detached the reel from the kite and tied the line securely to the basket. “I shall come to the garden. Then you lower the basket, and I shall fill it for you.”

  “The whole basket?” Miles asked with a delighted grin.

  “The whole basket.” Sylvia promised, raising her hand in solemn avowal, as a shiver caught her unawares.

  “Get out of your wet things, Syl,” the boy urged. “If you catch an inflammation of the lungs, you ain’t gonna get me nothing tomorrow night.”

  Sylvia’s laugh at the boy’s words was punctuated by a loud sneeze. Hurrying to her room, she closed the door behind her before finally peeling off her rain-drenched clothing. After she had dried herself and changed her gown, she opened her reticule to remove the roll of bills, unfolding them carefully. A thousand pounds! She had held diamonds and rubies by the palms full, but never had she held so much money at once. Sylvia set the notes in piles by denomination as she counted them out. Less the five-hundred-fifty that Will owed Hugo, she would have four-hundred-fifty pounds of her own. As Sylvia spread the chador out to dry, an idea began to take shape.

  What had been done once could likely be done again. As Sylvia’s father had proven long ago, there were fortunes to be made upon the chess board. She was every bit her Papa’s equal at the game of kings. He had been more than proud when her skills began to surpass his own.

  With four-hundred fifty pounds as her stake, she could leave London and David Rutherford behind forever. As the mysterious Madame Echec she might travel once more, roaming wherever fancy and fortune took her. Hugo had been right in one respect; she had no wish to spend the rest of her days as her aunt’s dogbody. How delightfully ironic! The very man who had sought to shackle her should be the unwitting source of her passage to freedom. Although Hugo would never know it, the earl had provided her with the means to release herself from bondage.

  Sylvia folded the money carefully, then bent to pull aside the small braided rug before her bed. After prying up the loose floorboard, she placed the bills in her hidden cache. As she restored all to its former order, she could hear Miles singing a rhyming song, his high reedy voice penetrating the closed door. Leaving him would doubtlessly be the most difficult thing of all, she thought, her throat tightening. Caroline would marry her Ivan. Will had not truly needed her for years, but Miles would miss her. Even so, Sylvia knew that if her life as Madame Echec were to succeed, she must seize the strategic moment or else the opportunity would be lost.

  The sun was beginning to break through the clouds as Sylvia went to stand at the window to contemplate the future. It would be a difficult existence, living forever behind a veil of secrecy, but the persona of the Madame Echec might enable her to live a life of her own choosing. A life of freedom, she told herself, subject to no will but her own, limited only by her skill and wit. Yet, despite the possibilities of adventure and wealth as a mysterious mistress of chess, the days ahead seemed to hold little promise. For those days would be lonely, without family, without love. Without David.

  Chapter 10

  “You look real nice, Syl,” Miles declared. “Almost better than the ladies at Astley’s Amphitheater.”

  Sylvia grimaced at the comparison to the less than demurely dressed equestriennes at the famed riding show. “A high compliment, indeed,” she said, knowing that in truth the boy meant it as the sincerest of accolades. “Will you dance with me, kind sir?”

  Miles bowed and Sylvia took his hands, whirling him about the room. Her gown had been created for movement; the full skirt caught the air in a billow of creamy white lace, while beneath the frothy drapery a slip of jade green satin shimmered in a soft glow as she moved. Two rouleaus of white satin served the dual purposes of ornamentation and cleverly patching togethe
r two short lengths of the fabric that would otherwise have been insufficient. A corsage of the same white, set with a panel of lace, hugged her breast, while the full sleeve, slashed with lace, set off the alabaster expanse of her neck and shoulders.

  “The coaches are beginning to come,” Miles said as Sylvia loosed his hand. He ran to the nursery window to watch the guests arrive.

  Sylvia hastened to complete her toilette. With all the last-minute preparations for the ball, there had been scant time to dress. Carefully, she pinned her hair into a simple knot. The small mirror in her room told her that she had never looked better, but she could not completely erase the furrow of worry at her brow. Her small satin reticule held five-hundred and fifty pounds, payment in full of her brother’s debt to Hugo, nonetheless she knew that discharging Will’s obligation would not be easy.

  “Remember,” Miles called. “I’ll be watching the garden for you. I shall let down the basket.”

  “And I shall fill it,” Sylvia promised, blowing him a kiss as she went out the door. “Just be waiting at my window.”

  * * * *

  “Caroline’s ball is crash,” Petrov commented as he and David tried to negotiate his way through the sea of elegantly clad elbows.

  “Crush,” David corrected automatically, his eyes searching the crowd for a glimpse of Sylvia. “It is crush.”

  “Why do you repeat what I am saying?” Petrov asked. “Is you they come to see, David. You name is being on everyone’s tongue tonight.”

  “How the mighty have fallen,” David commented, his tones wry.

  “I am thinking, was after you took her knight when the falling was beginning,” Petrov said, proceeding to analyze the game.

  “It was just a phrase, ‘How the ...’ Oh never mind.” David sighed, deciding that it was not worth a lengthy explanation. Unfortunately, it seemed that the Russian was correct. As they made their way across the room, he could hear the barely suppressed titters, the sudden quiet as he approached, the looks, the hushed snatches of conversation. However, the whispers did not concern him so much as the fact that Sylvia was seemingly nowhere to be found. Suddenly, he saw her coming down the main stair. Midway, she paused, scanning the room as if she were looking for someone. Her cat’s eyes met his, touching him briefly, their anger like a razor's edge. Did she hate him now? David wondered, his heart sinking. Was that why she had chosen to bring him to his knees?

  “David, is that you?”

  Startled, David turned to find Brummel regarding him through his quizzing glass. “What is the matter now, George?” David asked, his voice sarcastic. “A spot on my sleeve? My cravat awry? Mud on my pumps?”

  Brummel smiled in his usual acerbic manner. “I vow, ‘tis extraordinary. I cannot find anything amiss with your attire. I had quite thought that once the wager was over, you would revert to your former havey-cavey ways. In fact, I bet on it. And now, I find you looking most presentable and have lost a good fifty pounds for it.”

  David glanced back at the stair to find that Sylvia had disappeared into the crowd. “I am sorry to have cost you money, George, but I have learned that we can never go back to what was, however much we may wish it.”

  From the melancholy expression upon David’s face, Brummel guessed that his friend was talking of more than his mode of dress. “I must salute your courage” the Beau said, changing the subject. “Hazarding the parson’s partisans without your chess-board to shield you. Why every match-making mama in Town is here tonight to cry ‘view halloo’ and you, my lad, are the fox. You have eluded the matrimonial hunt long enough, by unfair means, and they fully intend to bring you to ground now as you are lawful game.”

  “Hardly.” David snorted. “What woman would wish to marry so sorry a specimen as I, beaten by a mere chit, if the description of the maid at the Cocoa Tree is to be believed?” Where had Sylvia gone? Was she even now, meeting with Highslip as she had promised? He had to find her.

  “Do you actually think that any one of them gives a tinker’s damn that some intellectual amazon can push a pawn surpassing you?” Brummel asked. “Your unfortunate experience only enhances you in feminine eyes, for there is nothing more appealing to the heart of the gentle sex than a proud man who has been humbled. They would heal your wound, heaven help you.”

  Brummel looked exasperatedly at David, for it was quite clear that the man had heard not a word of the sage advice. “If you are looking for Miss Sylvia Gabriel, she has gone toward the supper rooms, I believe,” he said with a sniff. “And never say I did not warn you before you proceeded upon the path to doom.”

  “Thank you, George,” David said before hurrying. However, Sylvia was not to be found among the tables of lobster patties and cold meats, nor, David realized with a sick feeling, was Highslip anywhere to be seen.

  “Sylvia? I believe she was heading for the back garden,” Will supplied upon being asked by David.

  David recalled that the small ballroom opened out to the garden. He surreptitiously slipped inside. The moonlight from the open french doors illuminated the checked pattern of the marble floor, causing the white squares to shine with an iridescent glow. David crept outside, his years as a soldier allowing him to move with silent swiftness toward the sound of Sylvia’s voice.

  “Have you had your fill?” she asked tenderly.

  David hesitated, wondering just what he was about to interrupt. He hid himself in the shrubbery, not daring to go further.

  “You forgot the cakes.” Miles’ voice came piping from above.

  “Greedy goose!” Sylvia laughed. “I shall fetch you some cakes. Be waiting with the basket in another half hour. I am sure that what I have given you thus far shall tide you over.”

  “The ones with the cream,” Miles called.

  “Cream it is,” she agreed.

  David felt weak with relief. She was merely sneaking food to her young cousin. But before David could reveal himself, he saw a silhouette in the ballroom door.

  “Sylvia?” Highslip stepped into the moonlight.

  Sylvia moved into view, the glow upon the white lace causing her to look as ethereal as a beam of quicksilver.

  “I am here, Hugo,” she said.

  David was surprised by the tone of her voice, cold and distant as the moon itself.

  “So my love,” Highslip said, advancing towards her. “When will you come away with me? Everything is arranged. You have only to pack your bags.”

  “Do you have Will’s vowels?” she asked.

  Highslip pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and waved it before her.

  “I am prepared to discharge his debt,” she whispered.

  Highslip’s laughed triumphantly, handing her the paper before pulling her into his arms. David began to realize that there had been far more to the earl’s dishonorable proposal than he had understood. He was about to rise from his hiding place, to pull Highslip’s hands from her and break every bone in the fop’s body thereafter, but a shriek from the earl precluded him. Highslip doubled over in obvious pain. “You punched me,” he groaned.

  “I am afraid I shall have to upset your arrangements, Hugo.” There was triumph in Sylvia’s voice as she pulled away from him.

  “You shall pay dearly for that,” Highslip said, his eyes narrowing. “Do you think to cheat me of what is rightfully mine? Your person, Sylvia or five-hundred fifty pounds.

  “Here!” She tossed her reticule at his feet. “Five-hundred-fifty pounds, milord,” Sylvia exulted. “The full sum of my brother’s debt to you.” She watched as he pulled the roll of bills from the mouth of the satin sack and counted it incredulously.

  “Where did you get the money?” Highslip asked from between clenched teeth.

  “That is none of your concern, Hugo,” Sylvia said, airily. “Clearly, I have resources of which you are not aware. I will not be your mistress, Hugo, yours or any man’s.”

  “Do you still hope for marriage, Sylvia?” Highslip sneered. “Let me assure you that any suitor of yours sh
all meet a fate similar to Colber’s and Entshaw’s. London is a dangerous city and one can never tell what might happen.”

  “No,” Sylvia said softly, “I have no hopes of marriage.”

  “Not even to Donhill?” Highslip asked, his voice soft and deadly. “For you seemed to be rather fond of him on the Harwell terrace. He is free now that he has lost that damnable chess game. A thousand pounds it cost me. A thousand pounds.”

  Sylvia controlled a frisson of fear at the stark mask of hatred upon Hugo’s face. She forced herself to look at him directly. “Donhill is nothing to me, Hugo. Besides, as you yourself said over a year ago, who would be so foolish as to marry a female without a penny-piece to her name, however lovely she might be?”

  “That is true,” Highslip said, broodingly. “I love you, Sylvia, but I cannot marry you, you understand.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I understand.”

  “I shall not let anyone take you from me,” he declared, his eyes wild. “You are mine, Sylvia, mine or no one’s!” He turned and walked from the garden. His footsteps echoed from the empty ballroom

  When she was sure that he was truly gone, Sylvia leaned against a tree, taking long, ragged breaths like a spent runner. She closed her eyes, feeling flaccid as she let the relief wash through her. For a moment, she had been afraid that Hugo would do her physical harm. Now, her course was plain. There was no choice, she would have to leave before Hugo vented his mad jealousy upon some imagined suitor or upon David. Madame Echec was her destiny.

  “He is quite mad.”

  Startled, Sylvia opened her eyes to find David standing before her, concern in his eyes.

  “There is a leaf upon your shoulder, milord, and a twig in your hair,” Sylvia said, her voice weak. “Doubtless, souvenirs from your listening post. If eavesdropping is your new avocation, let me warn you that it shall play havoc with your clothing. Or did you merely wish to apprise yourself of the current asking price for my favors? Do you now wish to raise your bid?”