Miss Gabriel's Gambit (16 page)

He seated himself as the mists stirred with the murmur of high-pitched voices; vague shapes filled the darkness until, as before, a woman took form. She took the chair opposite, her face hidden by the shroud of vapors. However much he tried he could not discern her face. In the darkness behind her the amorphous shadows whispered, their laughter like the sound of wind through trees in winter. He knew that they were laughing at him.

“Your move,” the woman said, her voice rasping and harsh.

“Your move. Your move!” The wraiths whispered like the chorus in a Greek play.

David examined the board carefully and took the obvious opening. “Check and mate,” he declared triumphantly, attempting to move his queen, but the queen was stuck fast to the board.

“You cannot move the queen,” the woman said, malice in her voice.

“That is unfair,” David said.

“Unfair! Unfair!” The ghostly women echoed, but they chided him, not her.

“You lose, milord,” the challenger sneered, her face taking shape at last. It was Mrs. Gabriel, her florid face reddening as she poked him with an iron finger. “You shall marry me.”

“Marry me. Marry me. Marry me,” repeated the voices.

“I shall not,” David said, attempting to rise and leave as he had in previous dreams, but to his horror he found that he was chained to the board. “You have cheated.”

“I concede,” Mrs. Gabriel laughed. “But if you will not have me, then you shall play us all, milord.”

“Play us all. Play us all. Play us all ...” The faceless figures crowded towards him, reaching, laughing mockingly. “Play us all. Play us all.”

The words reverberated in David’s ears as he sat bolt upright in a tangle of sheets. The substance of the dream faded into a jumble of images of chessboards and ghosts, but the aura of fear remained as palpable as the clammy sheen of sweat upon his chest. He breathed slowly, deeply; fumbling for his glasses hoping that they would return the world to its proper perspective. With the spectacles in place, David focused on the reality of the morning sunlight that streamed through the windows until his heart stopped galloping.

“Ah, I thought that I heard you stirring,” Harjit said, as he peered into the room, frowning at the sight of David’s weary, pale countenance. “You slept poorly again.”

“I have had more restful nights,” David admitted, stretching his aching limbs as he rose to perform his morning ablutions. “This time, Mrs. Gabriel appeared, if you would believe it.” He shuddered at the memory.

“That one is enough to terrify the most stalwart of men. It is no wonder that you cried out in your sleep,” Harjit observed, shaking his head. “These dreams have plagued you every night this week past. Perhaps you should consult a soothsayer?”

David gave a short bark of laughter. “I need no soothsayer to tell me the source of my dreams, Harjit. What I need is coffee- dark, strong coffee.” As the Sikh left to do David’s bidding, the sense of foreboding returned, a piece of the night’s horror creeping about in the daylight. The dream had been stronger than any of his previous nightmares.

It was the Greenvale girl, of course, David decided as he poured water into the china basin upon a stand near the bed. For the first time, he was being faced by a female who might present something of a challenge. But he had been faced by far greater hurdles before and they had never before disturbed his sleep. There was more to these nightmares, far more. Some unknown danger lurked in those shadows, far stronger than any threat upon a chessboard, but the warnings were of no consequence until he could put a name to the threat.

Harjit returned bearing a tray and David wrapped himself in a robe before seating himself before the small table in the adjoining sitting room.

“Ah, coffee, the brew of life’s blood,” David said, sniffing appreciatively. “I can almost feel my eyes opening.”

Harjit poured the steaming liquid into the delicate porcelain cup and handed it to his master. “There was a messenger this morning” He picked up a silver salver with an envelope upon it. “You were waiting for papers.”

David recognized the seal. “So, it would seem that even an ancient hand moves faster when greased by a few coins,” he observed as he broke the wax.

“Even the gods themselves have been known to be propitiated by a judicious bribe,” Harjit agreed. “I shall fetch your breakfast.

“The trick is knowing which god is playing with your fate,” David mumbled to himself. “And who is the proper one to bribe.” He skimmed through the document, jumping over the legal hedges with an ease born of long business experience until he reached the substance of the late Sir Mile’s will.

There were a myriad of small bequests to friends and retainers, even one to himself, “my teak-wood chessboard to my dear friend, David Rutherford of Bombay.” Doubtless it had been sent to India and was even now, waiting in his home there.

As David read through the old man’s last testament, he mourned the missed opportunity. David had fully intended to travel to Crown Beeches and meet Sir Miles once his business in London was completed. He had even carried the bundles of letters with him from India as material for reminiscence.

His musings were disturbed by a knock at the door.

“Mr. Petrov” Harjit announced.

“Ivan? Before noon?” David asked incredulously, rising to greet his friend.

“I am to be needing your help, David,” the Russian said, the increased mangling of his English pronunciation betraying his agitation. “I am to be meeting Caroline this morning and you must be coming alongside with mine self.”

“Is this some strange Russian custom? To have a friend accompany one upon an assignation with a lady?” David asked, teasing. “Here in England we usually conduct our
tête-à-têtes
by twos.”

“Is why I am asking you,” Petrov said. “Her cousin is being there with her. I am wishing you to protract Sylvia, so I can be talking with Caroline.”

“Distract,” David corrected. “You wish me to distract Sylvia.”

“Is what I have been saying!” the Russian declared rolling his eyes in annoyance. “You detract Sylvia.”

David chopped some sugar from the lump, staring into the cup as he stirred. The thought of facing Sylvia again so soon was almost unnerving. After he had left the Harwell ball the previous evening, David had fully intended to follow Mrs. Gabriel’s advice and keep his distance from her niece for a time. Even in the cold logic of the light of day, the memory of last night’s embrace still had the power to set his heart racing. Yet, despite the knowledge that he might be courting disaster, he wanted to see her. David slipped off his glasses, rubbing his eyes wearily.

“Maybe you could be talking to her about the treasure?” Petrov suggested, accepting Harjit’s silent offer of coffee.

“And the damnable will,” David said, picking up the sheaf of papers. “I have it here and I fear, Ivan that there seems precious little to discuss.”

“Nothing unusual?” Petrov asked mournfully.

“The baronet’s bequests are all within the normal realm, the dispensation of trinkets and tokens mostly,” he said, replacing his spectacles once again. “Gifts of money to old pensioners, a pianoforte to his niece Caroline-”

“She plays divinely,” Petrov broke in.

“I am sure,” David said acerbically, finding his place in the document once again. “His chess library to ... Sylvia? How odd...” David looked at his friend.

“Is being a clue, perhaps?” Petrov said, seizing eagerly on the excuse. “You must be asking.”

“Very well, Ivan,” David agreed, wondering if his friend had hit the mark. It certainly was an unusual legacy to bestow upon a female. “I shall accompany you. Harjit, has the new blue superfine jacket arrived from Weston?”

“No, it is expected this afternoon,” the Sikh informed him.

David strode toward the wardrobe, pulling it open to stand before it.

“Where do we meet them, Ivan?” he asked, his head tilting in consideration as he eyed the array of clothing.

“Park,” Ivan said. “They take the boy flying kite.”

David recalled the scene in the nursery, Mile’s tow head nestled on Sylvia’s shoulder. “ ... you fly a kite better than any girl I know, don’t cut up stiff at frogs neither,” the boy had said. Well, David could only hope that she would not cut up stiff because of a moment of moonlit madness. Certainly, she had reacted well after the event, the previous night. So well, in fact that it verged on the annoying.

“I shall wear the dove grey jacket,” David decided, lifting the sleeve. “The trousers to match. Appropriate for an outing in the park. Don’t you think?”

Ivan nearly dropped the cup of coffee that he carried shaking his head in disbelief. “Highslip is making convert of you, I am vowing,” he declared.

“I am merely following the terms of the wager,” David declared loftily. “Highslip has nothing to do with it.”

And Miss Gabriel everything, Petrov thought glumly, not daring to venture the thought aloud.

* * * *

Above Green Park, a puff of clouds scudded across a field of clear blue. The hour was still too early for the invasion of nannies, maids and children that was sure to come on such a fine spring day. Sylvia, Caroline and Miles had the field to themselves while a maid hovered discreetly in the background. The boy licked his finger and held it up to the wind to ascertain its direction as the tail of the kite lashed about, almost like that of a living creature.

“You see, Syl,” Miles called exulting. “Look! I almost have to keep it from flying. It’s the best kite we ever made.”

“It surely is,” Sylvia said, stifling a yawn as she watched the painted diamond shape dance against the boy’s hold.

“Why don’t you hold the kite up, Caro,” Miles suggested, noticing his cousin’s weariness “I’ll run into the wind with it.”

“I think not,” Caroline said, seating herself beneath a tree. “It might muss my hair.”

Miles threw his sister an exasperated look. “Why did you come anyway?” he asked.

“Give it here, Miles,” Sylvia intervened, although she would have liked to hear the answer to the question. Caro’s sudden taste for fresh air was not the least believable. “She would just tree it anyway,” she whispered, taking the kite from the boy.

Miles grinned in agreement as he let out line and waited for the breeze.

“Now!” he shouted.

His pudgy legs pumped as he ran into breeze, pulling the string while he looked over his shoulder at the kite. Sylvia watched as he raced across the field, the kite weaving and dipping behind him. It was lifting but not high enough. All at once, it crashed to the ground.

“Bother!” he declared, winding in his reel as he went to examine the kite. Luckily, it was undamaged. “Ain’t enough of a wind,” he complained, panting with effort as Sylvia came up beside him. Caro’s laughter came floating across the field. “Like to see
her
get it flying!”

Sylvia looked at the boy in sympathy. Miles looked spent and bereft. “Shall I give it a try?” she asked.

“You didn’t get much sleep last night,” Miles observed guiltily.

“I could use the run,” Sylvia said, realizing that it was true. The restless energy within her needed some release. She was tired of keeping herself constantly under tight rein. In the small world of the Ton, it was as if she were forever on exhibition, every move watched, every expression analyzed, every utterance assessed. Now that she knew herself to be in love with David, she needed to be especially wary of her words. She must not let him know the true depth of her feelings.

“You are a prime goer, Syl!” Miles declared, picking up the kite and holding it aloft.

Sylvia gathered up her skirt, holding the reel in her other hand as she ran into the wind.

“Faster, Syl!” Miles called. “The wind’s catching it. Let out some rope!”

She could feel the resistance as the diamond of wood and paper sailed aloft and she paid out more line. Although the kite was now soaring above the trees, she did not want to stop running, savoring the sheer joy of unfettered motion, the feel of her blood pounding in her ears, the warmth of the sun upon her cheeks. Sylvia flew across the open space, heedless of any would-be watchers.

...

David stood at the edge of the field, thinking that he had never seen Sylvia more beautiful. Her hair came loose from its mooring pins, streaming out behind her like a cloud of golden gossamer shimmering in the spring sunlight. Upon her face was an expression of wonder, a smile of elation that had little resemblance to the social facade of polite nonchalance he had seen of late. The cold wall of unapproachability had utterly crumbled. The kite sailed above her, miming her motion. It was like a dance, David realized, much like the prancing of a long-stabled filly let out into pasture after a hard, cold winter.

“Look, Lord Donhill! Look how high we got it!” Miles called.

Sylvia whirled in her tracks. Lord Donhill? What in the world? She saw Mr. Petrov standing near the tree where her cousin sat and knew at once why Caroline had risen at an unheard of hour to come kite-flying. Her aunt would be furious if she were to find out about this assignation and Sylvia had little doubt upon whose head the fury and the blame would fall.

David was smiling at her, probably holding back his amusement at her appearance. Sylvia suddenly blushed to realize the picture that she must present. Her hair had come all unpinned and was falling about her shoulders in a mane. The faded blue dress that she wore was one of her oldest garments, not even fit to give the servants but hitherto perfectly suitable for the rigors of kite-flying. She must look a veritable Gypsy, she thought as she handed the line to Miles before walking back toward her cousin, the prospect of wringing the girl’s neck at the fore of her mind.

“Sylvia,” Caroline said, having the decency to color prettily at her cousin’s murderous expression. “who would believe that Mr. Petrov would find us here?”

“Only an utter flat,” Sylvia said, refusing to play the game of pretense. “Oh, Caro, whatever will your Mama say should she find out of this?”

“Daisy will not tell,” said Caroline, gesturing toward the maid. “Neither will Miles; for all his fits and starts, my brother is no tell-tale. That leaves only you, Syl.”