Miss Gabriel's Gambit

by Rita Boucher

  Miles obediently ran and soon came back with both his cousin and the Russian. David lifted Sylvia from the seat, reluctantly handing her into her brother’s arms.

  “Where is he?” David asked Petrov.

  There was no need to specify which he was meant. “The supper rooms,” Petrov said, uttering a Russian obscenity. “Filling his mouth. We have told all asking Sylvia had megrim.”

  “I will kill him,” Will declared, tears forming in his eyes as he saw the smears of blood on his sister’s gown. “I swear, I shall kill that ruddy bastard.”

  “No,” David said, starting forward, “I have reserved that pleasure for myself. I feel I have earned that right.”

  Will took one look at David’s hard expression, his bloody clothing and nodded slowly.

  “Not here. It would be bad move, causing much scandal,” Petrov said, putting a restraining hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We are being convincing the Ton that your Sylvia is resting, overdrawn.”

  “Overset,” David corrected automatically, his eyes narrowing as he formulated his plan. “You are quite right, Ivan. Much as I would enjoy wiping the floor with the earl, I shall have to wait. Highslip will no doubt leave as soon as he thinks it safe. You and William let him go when he pleases, for I am certain he will return to Marylebone Lane. Then, I vow, every minute of fear, every drop of blood shall be paid for with a cent-percenter’s interest. ”

  Sylvia moaned softly. “David?” she whispered.

  “You are safe, my love,” he said, reaching out to stroke her cheek gently. “I will be waiting for Highslip at Marylebone Lane. Tell Petrov to meet me at my rooms once Sylvia wakens.”

  It was to be hoped that Sylvia would recall nothing, David told himself as he took up the reins. Highslip, the tawdry room, her brush with death, would all be forgotten. Sylvia had been too full of laudanum to be truly conscious of anything. And the kiss? Likely, she would never retain the memory of a kiss on the edge of insensibility. If she had indeed forgotten it would remain his own private treasure, something that she would never remember and he would never forget.

  * * * *

  It was just past dawn. David slammed his way into his apartments, roaring like a tiger on the prowl. “Petrov!”

  His friend tried not to cringe as he set his teacup on the breakfast table.

  “I waited for you, Petrov,” David spoke from between clenched teeth. “It was nearly sunrise before I gave it up and I realized that something must have gone horribly awry. And then I met Brummel, who told me the news! The devil take you, Ivan Dragomir!” David crossed the room; his fist slammed down on the table, rattling the china, causing the tea to slosh into its saucer. “You had no right!”

  “I am having every right!” The Russian said defiantly, rising to his feet. “I am sorry to be depriving of your vengeance, but it was only choice.”

  David’s answer was an angry glare.

  Ivan looked at his friend, the dark shadows beneath David’s eyes told the tale of the sleepless, anxious night. Indeed, Petrov had not slept himself. “You know I am being correct,” he said wearily. “Arrest of Highslip is meaning scandal for mine Caroline and her family, for your Sylvia, too. Are you wanting that? Is worth it to tear Highslip apart with bare hands, no jury or judge. I offer him sure imprisonment or death by his own hand. He chooses pistols and now all Ton is thinking he kills himself because of debts. No scandal.”

  David scowled angrily at Petrov, the sense of what the Russian was saying, slowly penetrating his rage. “And Sylvia?” David asked, at last.

  “No connection to Highslip. Entire town is talking of the Gabriel fortune.” The Russian gave a sigh of relief. “They are believing our story, how all is discovered when room is cleaned for ball! Mine Caroline’s Mama is at sevens and eights. Is saying how happy she is for her niece and nephew, but really, she is tearing out her hair for how she has been treating them like poppers.”

  In his anxiety, David did not even bother to correct the Russian’s English. “But Sylvia, man! How is she? You have not told me a blasted thing about Sylvia!”

  “I came here as soon as I am finding this out. Girl has devil of the head, this morning,” Petrov responded. “Caroline said that she has been, how you say? Shooting the dog.”

  “Shooting the cat, Ivan,” David said, glumly, still feeling cheated and betrayed. Nonetheless, he had to admit the Russian was right. The scandal would have been enormous had David given the earl his just due.

  “Perhaps you should be bringing Sylvia some of your man’s amazing headache potion, David,” Ivan suggested hopefully. “It might be helping.”

  “Excellent idea, It might be just the thing,” David said, seizing upon the excuse to visit Berkeley Square.

  At David’s request, Harjit mixed up a bottle of his vile brew and as soon the two were tooling their way to Berkeley Square.

  “You were correct, of course, Ivan to do as you did,” David admitted reluctantly as they drove up Hyde Park Corner.

  “I know. It was right move.” The Russian accepted the apology with a shrug of his shoulders.

  As he turned up Berkeley Street, David recalled Sylvia’s words last night in Marylebone Lane. Of course much of it would have to be discounted. She had been chirping merry, entirely top heavy as the result of the laudanum. “You are my friend,” she had declared solemnly. It had been clear, though, that there had been far more than friendship in the way her arms had twined about him and more than friendship in those fuddled eyes.

  How much would she remember, David wondered? Would cold sobriety prove that her feelings had merely been nothing more than gratitude and relief? He found himself hoping that the scene at Marylebone Lane was entirely forgotten, as much for his own sake as Sylvia’s. If Sylvia came down from the altitudes with her memory intact, his confession of love might very well come back to haunt him. The realization that his feelings were far more than mere comradeship could easily destroy their fragile entente. Yet, if she recalled nothing, would he have the courage to give voice to those feelings once again, in the clear light of day?

  Unfortunately, it soon appeared that David would not have the chance to find out. Mrs. Gabriel took the proffered cure from David and firmly advised him that Sylvia was not up to company. The woman did take the time to point out the various congratulatory floral tributes that her niece had received, from a marquis, a wealthy earl and even a duke, telling David without words that he was running a poor last in the titled suitor stakes. Petrov gave David a look of apology as he accepted Caroline’s invitation to stay.

  As David took up the reins to his phaeton, he felt something hitting his hat. Blasted birds! A marble rolled to the floor of his equipage.

  “Lord Donhill!”

  David looked up to see Miles hanging out the nursery window above. “Come round the mews.”

  David drove his phaeton round to the alleyway and dismounted as the door to the garden swung open. Miles put a warning finger to his lips, leading David inside by the hand.

  “Sylvia said to be on the watch-out for you,” Miles whispered. “Said Mama wouldn't let you in if you wasn’t nothing less’n a duke.” He took David up the back-stairs, leading him to a bedroom upon the second floor. “Sylvia ain’t in the nursery no more now she’s plump in the pocket,” the boy explained as he opened the door. “Go on. I’ll stand watch in case someone comes up.”

  David entered, knowing that it was wholly improper.

  “David, I thought I heard your voice.” Sylvia rose from a chair by the window. Self-consciously, she pulled the collar of her dressing gown higher upon her neck to cover the marks that Hugo’s fingers had left. “I am told that it will fade.”

  “Are you well, Sylvia?” David asked, his voice deep with emotion as she gestured him to a seat. She seemed profoundly uncomfortable, looking everywhere but at him. How much did she recall of what he had said last night?

  “As well as can be expected after swimming so deep in the laudanum bottle,” she said, t
rying to gather her courage as she sat down opposite him.

  Every waking moment had been spent trying to determine what had actually occurred at the house on Marylebone Lane, but the line between opium induced dream and reality was difficult to discern. Had she heard truly heard David speak of love or was it all a poppy-blossom wish, born of a union between the drug and her disguised imagination?

  The speech that she had so carefully prepared deserted her as the memory of the way she had clung to him returned. Surely, no mere hallucination could be so complete, replete with the texture of his jacket, the clean smell of his hair, the taste of his lips. Had she actually invited him to kiss her? she wondered miserably. How could she have been so incredibly forward? Imagination or reality, the soul-searing memory of the way they had possessed each other when their lips had met was enough to put her to blush.

  “I should not be here,” David said stiffly, as the silence lengthened. Her discomfort was a palpable thing, apparent in her restraint, the flush that spread to her cheeks. There was so much that he wanted to say, but he was afraid to speak now. Pretty speeches had never been his forte and as he searched for the appropriate phrases to tell Sylvia the true depths of his feelings, his spirits began to ebb. Trite clichés, every one. My life is empty without you. I need you. I love you. The tension increased in intensity until it was almost a physical pain to be so near her and not to gather her into his arms.

  “I wanted to thank you, David,” Sylvia began hesitantly, throwing the words into the gathering pool of frustration.

  “What are friends for?” He could feel the muscles of his face stretching into a smile, his lips like pieces of India rubber. In a moment he would snap.

  “To be honest, David, I do not think we can remain friends.” She raised her eyes to meet his, trying to read his face, but found it utterly wiped clean of emotion.

  “I can understand,” David’s voice was toneless. She had recalled last night and had taken him in disgust. The game was over. It was time to lose gracefully. He rose dully, painting a last impression of those features in his mind. I shall return to India, he decided. At least he would thus be spared the pain of watching others court her. “I had best go now.”

  It was agony to watch him leave. Sylvia had hoped that he would make the first move. In matters of love the man led the game, that was the rule. She struggled with her pride, knowing that if she did not play a gambit of her own, she might very well lose him forever. David’s hand was reaching for the knob when she found her voice. She was not her father’s daughter for nothing; sometimes it was necessary to risk all upon instinct. “Please David. Stay, please.” At first, Sylvia thought that he had not heard her plea, but slowly, he turned, his face impassive.

  “Why?”

  The word was stark, but there was something in his eyes that sparked Sylvia’s hopes. The jade and lapis chessboard upon the table near the window caught her attention. Will, feeling extremely guilty for his part in the Highslip affair, had brought it upstairs, wishing to please her, “pull you out of the doldrums,” he had said. She rose and crossed the room to take David’s hand, pulling him to the chessboard then motioning for him to be seated.

  “You want me to play chess with you?” David asked, utterly bewildered. Was the drug still affecting her behavior?

  “You think me addled, no doubt,” Sylvia said, reading the puzzlement in his eyes as she moved her king’s pawn forward.

  To his surprise, she then reached over and moved his pawn as well. “I am beginning to think so,” David said, watching as she moved her king’s rook pawn .

  “I think I am, actually,” she said as she put his knight into place. “It is time to put all the pieces upon the board.” Sylvia took a deep breath. “Did you say that you love me, David Rutherford?” At that question, his mask vanished, replaced by a look of agony. The moments seemed to lengthen interminably as she awaited his answer.

  “Yes.”

  “And did I tell you of my feelings?” Sylvia asked eagerly, joy welling up inside her at the wealth of longing in that single syllable.

  “I did not credit anything you said or did,” David sputtered. “You were drugged after all.”

  “And just what did I say or do?” Sylvia asked, a smile tugging at her lips as she advanced a pawn desultorily.

  “Nothing,” David prevaricated, still unsure as to exactly how much she remembered.

  “Do you call that kiss you gave me ‘nothing’?” Sylvia laughed.

  “’Twas you that initiated the kiss,” David retorted defensively.

  “Now I recall. You were being damnably honorable while I was acting horribly brazen.” She picked up his bishop, moved it into place and then went back to her side of the board to advance her pawn yet again.

  “The drug,” he reminded her. Her moves thus far had been ridiculous. He turned his attention from the board to her face. For once, her countenance was an open book and what he saw written there caused his heart to soar.

  “No, David,” she said, shaking her head. “It was not the drug that caused me to act so, although the laudanum might have served to let loose the truth. I remember that kiss, David, every second of it until I slipped into darkness. If you never kiss me again, there shall never be another to match it and that I could not bear. You see, I love you. I think I always have, from your letters and certainly, from the time I first met you.” She set the final piece in place, forcing herself to meet his questioning gaze, wondering if she would find the answer she hoped for. “Now, ‘tis your move.”

  David looked at the array on the board before him. “A fool’s mate?” He asked. “Why?”

  “I once made a foolish statement that I would not wed a man who could not best me at chess,” she explained softly.

  “You do not think I could trounce you in a fair match, woman?” David asked laughingly. She loved him. He felt as if a great weight had been loosed and he was floating like one of Sadler’s balloons. The statement upon the board could not have been plainer. She had set herself up for a loss in one move. “This is cheating, Sylvia. Shall we play a real game and see who comes up the winner?”

  “No!” Sylvia said emphatically. “I find myself coming round to Lord Byron’s opinion. Life is too short for chess and I have no wish to play by the rules anymore. If you move correctly, you shall have the rest of your days to match yourself against me. I warn you though, this will likely be the last time I shall deliberately lose to you.”

  “A challenge to a lifetime tournament. How can I resist?” David rose, smiling as he came round to her side and took her hands, raising her to her feet. “I say you ‘check.’” One hand touched her shoulder, moving her close, while the other reached over to the table, slipping his queen into position. “You do know what this means?” The depths of her emerald eyes were sparkling.

  “Mate?” Sylvia asked hopefully, her hands reaching out to straighten his wayward neckcloth.

  “Most definitely mate,” David said, his fingers gently tracing the outline of her lips. “And a forfeit. We cannot forget the forfeit, my Madame Echec.” He bent to claim his prize.

  * * * *

  Lord Donhill and Sylvia had been awfully quiet for a very long time. Miles cracked the door silently, his eyes rolling in exasperation as he saw the two of them locked in a tight embrace. The boy wrinkled his nose as he shut the door to resume his lookout post and ponder the strange ways of the adult world.

  Copyright © 1993 by Rita Boucher

  Originally published by Avon (ISBN 978-038077-908)

  Electronically published in 2014 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

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  This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.