“And I am indeed well protected now!” Sylvia mocked, her eyes narrowing. “An unpaid governess, a free maid of all work, dependent upon my aunt’s most
gracious
charity for the remainder of my life because I am a female and deemed to be too weak-minded to make sensible decisions! However, unlike myself, you, at least, were given some choice, milord. But you have elected to doom yourself; to remain alone all the rest of your days . Because of your wretched honor you will stick to a stupid vow, made in an hour of drunkenness. Fie upon such honor, milord.” She whirled and left the room.
David stared after her in disbelief. The girl had obviously been overset by disappointment. Still, as he went slowly down the stairs, her derisive words echoed after him.
“Did you enjoy your tour, Lord Donhill?” Mrs. Gabriel asked as he returned to the parlor.
“Lovely place, isn’t it?” asked a familiar voice from behind.
David turned to face Lord Highslip. The elegant earl smiled superciliously and David felt a surge of anger. How dare he come here, after what he had done to plague Sylvia? It was not to be borne.
“You are improving,” Highslip noted with a patronizing sniff. “I vow, your neckcloth appears almost decent.”
“Does it?” David asked, reaching out to grasp the delicate folds of Highslip’s linen in a squeeze. “I have always wondered how you tie this. A Mathematical, is it not?”
“Was!” Highslip snapped, his lower lip jutting in annoyance. “You have quite ruined my neckcloth, sirrah. ‘Tis lucky indeed that I know you to be untutored in civilized ways. Were anyone else to do that, I might call them out.”
“You need not accord me any special privileges if I offended you,” David said, his voice dangerously smooth.
Petrov sprang up and grasped David by the shoulder, steering him toward a chair.
“Lord Highslip is telling us that you have been starting something of a fashion,” Petrov said, trying to sooth his friend. He had never seen David like this, snarling like a wolf in winter. What was he thinking, provoking a duel in a drawing room? “The betting books are being full of wagers, men saying they will not be marrying ladies who cannot out-fence them or out-shoot them or out-do them in some other way.”
“I say, ‘tis wicked,” Mrs. Gabriel said, her jowls shaking as she scowled at David in annoyance.
“I must agree, Mrs. Gabriel,” Highslip said, his lip curling derisively. “Marriage is a most felicitous state, a blessing to be rejoiced in. Hiding behind a wager is the height of foolishness.”
“I am so glad you think so!” Mrs. Gabriel declared, chortling in delight. “Do you not agree, Caroline darling?”
“Of course, Mama.” Caroline nodded obediently, looking down at her lap to hide her mortification.
“She is such a good gel. She sews, milord and her voice is so fine ...”
“Maybe she should be opening up her mouth so he can be looking on her teeth,” Petrov muttered glumly as Mrs. Gabriel went on with her list of Caroline’s fine points. “I am changing mine mind. Go, be grabbing his neckcloth again and I be your second, or better, I grab.”
“I cannot understand why she receives him,” David mumbled. “The out-and-outer has all but spoiled her niece’s chances and yet she entertains his suit for her daughter.”
“Is simple. Rook outranks pawn and English earl bests nephew of Russian Grand Duke,” Petrov whispered mournfully.
Sylvia stood by the door, eyes wide with shock when she saw Highslip sitting in her aunt’s parlor. She would have turned to leave, but Aunt Ruby’s eyes gave a silent command.
“Sylvia, have you finished with Miles’ lessons?” Mrs. Gabriel asked, emphasizing the girl’s inferior standing in the household. “Why do you not join us? Lord Highslip has come to pay a call upon your cousin.”
Sylvia felt as if she had been transformed to a mechanical toy, her limbs obeying her in jerky movements as she took the vacant chair by the door and picked up her embroidery. Although Hugo addressed barely a word to her, she could feel his eyes with their hungry burning gaze upon her. She plied her needle heedlessly, creating a tangles mess amidst the delicate pattern as she prayed for time to pass.
“Did you know, Lord Highslip, that dear Sylvia has several suitors?” Mrs. Gabriel remarked archly. “Lord Entshaw has sent the most remarkable flowers and Mr. Colber has been most particular in his attentions as well.”
“Entshaw is old enough to be her grandfather,” Highslip said, his voice suddenly cold. “And Colber is but the grandson of an upstart tradesman, surely you do not entertain those suits.”
But Mrs. Gabriel was oblivious to his disapproval. “Beggars cannot afford to be choosy, milord. I am sure, being a sensible girl, Sylvia will do the wise thing. Is that not true Sylvia?”
Sylvia looked up, her chess training standing her in good stead. Not by so much of a quiver of her lip did she betray her humiliation. “You are correct, of course, Aunt Ruby. Oftentimes, we are not given much of a choice.”
Although her voice was steady, David could feel Sylvia’s silent misery and felt the rebuke in her words. Her face was stark white against the blue of her morning gown and she returned her eyes to her needlework. His anger simmered as Lord Highslip conducted his sham courtship of Caroline, casting covert glances all the while at Sylvia. It was clear that Mrs. Gabriel did not hold him to account for his actions. In fact, she was doing all she could to promote her daughter as a potential countess.
There was no stopping the ticking of the clock and much as David hated to leave, both he and Petrov had stayed well beyond what was proper for a morning call. Petrov’s face was like a thundercloud and once they left the house the Russian burst into a torrent of words.
“What is being his game?” Petrov exploded. “He woos one while making goat’s eyes at the other.”
“Sheep’s eyes, Ivan,” David corrected as he sprang into his silver high-perch phaeton.
“Sheeps, cows, goats! Is no difference. Animal is animal and Highslip is animal!” Petrov said, climbing in beside David. “I must be rescuing the girl!”
“I quite agree, but what do you propose, Petrov?” David asked, slapping the reins to urge the horses forward. “We cannot force Mrs. Gabriel to bar Highslip from the door.”
“There is only being one possible move,” Petrov declared, his dark eyes smoldering. “Marriage!”
“You would marry Miss Gabriel?” David asked, his heart sinking. It was a perfect solution. Petrov was of good family and had well-lined pockets, an excellent match for a woman in Sylvia’s circumstance. Yet, the very notion of Sylvia wed to Petrov caused a melancholy that was almost like a physical pain. “I had no notion that you were so fond of her.”
“I am thinking David, that maybe you are being blind, even with your glasses. I am loving her from the first minute I see her,” Petrov said, smiling bemusedly, his brooding face alight with a whimsical joy. “Her voice is like angel’s, eye’s like a doe and her face, is reminding me of mine own dear mother.”
David recalled the miniature of Madame Petrov that hung in Ivan’s rooms, but could remember absolutely no resemblance to Sylvia. Ivan’s mother had dark hair and a rounded face with a hooked nose exactly like her son’s exactly like ... David burst into laughter.
“I am not seeing what you are finding funny,” Ivan said, deeply offended. “Situation is being very serious.”
“I know, my friend, I know and I wish you happy. It
is
Caroline you speak of?”
Ivan looked at him incredulously. “You are thinking I talk of Sylvia.
Nyet, nyet
. Is Caroline for me from the start.” Ivan fell silent, noting his friend’s relieved expression. It was obvious which way the wind was blowing there and Petrov realized that David was quite oblivious to his own feelings. “I am finding myself pitying Caroline’s cousin.” The Russian probed cautiously. “She is pretty girl and Lord Highslip could be ruining her chances I think.”
“Yes, she is very beautiful,” David said, recalling Sylvia’s face, aglow with excitement as they had searched for the treasure. “Perhaps it was foolish to get her hopes up, Ivan. If we cannot find her fortune, it would be a bitter blow.”
“Poor girl,” Ivan said, shaking his head sadly. “Is shame if she is forced to be marrying man like Entshaw or Colber.”
“She shall not!” David said, glaring at the Russian.
But Ivan merely shrugged. “Is she having choice, mine friend? Unless you are finding her fortune David, is nothing for it.”
“Brummel said that it would, like as not, blow over soon. The broth of scandal grows cold quickly,” he mused, an ache spreading in his chest as he thought of Sylvia wed to that toad Entshaw or the mushroom Colber. David pushed his spectacles up upon his nose, peering intently ahead as if the lenses could somehow discern a solution to the conundrum. “Maybe the will itself is contains some clue.”
David’s face was, for once, unguarded and the Russian noted the determined, angered set of his friend’s jaw and the swell of emotion in his voice. Petrov felt a pang of deep melancholy as his suspicions were confirmed. David was speaking from his heart although he did not yet seem to realize it. Perhaps, Ivan thought, it was just as well so. A wager, once set could not be broken and there seemed no remedy to the impossible rules that David himself had made.
As Brummel had predicted, the attention of the Ton was soon diverted by other far juicier scandals than a long-ago jilt. Nonetheless, as the days passed and the dazzle of Brummel’s patronage lost some of its gilding, Sylvia became merely a lovely face without a prayer of a fortune. David was no closer to solving Sir Miles’ conundrum than he had been before. The late baronet’s man of law had only one scrivener who was old as Methuselah and uncommon slow. Hopefully, the sizable
pour boire
that David had promised would add some speed to his scrawl.
David greeted the porter at the door of White’s absently, wondering what his next move ought to be. Surely, he had to do something, for he was in large part responsible for Sylvia’s current dilemma. Her aunt was hounding her to accept Lord Entshaw’s suit and although Highslip had curbed his outrageous behavior, David had seen him watching the girl covertly, like a starveling dog eyeing a bone.
So deep was David in his thoughts that Ivan Petrov’s voice from behind caused him to whirl, his fists automatically at the ready.
“There is being another challenge, David!” the Russian declared, stepping back cautiously. “But it is not being from me.”
David shook his head apologetically. “Forgive me, Ivan. I am unaccountably distracted these days,” he said, accepting the sealed missive from his friend.
Ivan nodded, his eyes sad with understanding, as David broke the wax and read the contents. A small group gathered around him.
“Who is it to be now?” Brummel asked, in tones of patent boredom. The challenges had become an almost common occurrence, more nuisance than sport since most of David’s adversaries barely got past the opening moves.
“A ‘Lady Helena Balton?’ Do you know aught of her?” David asked.
“Well enough to look upon, though something of a bluestocking,” was Brummel’s evaluation. “Her Papa’s pockets are forever to let so I suppose that is why she challenges you, David. Figures she has naught to lose but her reputation and lose it she shall. I doubt that she could beat you.”
“Will you see to the arrangements, Petrov?” David asked, with a growing feeling of distaste as the knowing laughter erupted around him. He had eaten nothing since breaking his fast in the morning, but even as he ordered his supper, David doubted that the queasy feeling in his stomach would be stilled by a meal.
Was this to be his destiny? To be forever challenged by pitiful chits and Friday-faced females at their last prayers? To be importuned constantly by women greedy for his wealth or his name?
“Why so glum, David,” Brummel asked with a tight-lipped smile. “Surely you have no need to fear. You will defeat her as handily as you did all the others, I vow.”
David could not help but agree, yet the name Balton had a strange resonance. He had heard it before and connected to chess, he was sure, but where? He ate his meal as he searched his memory, scarcely tasting a morsel. Around him, he could hear the quiet murmur of voices and the muffled thump of chess pieces being moved about the board. When reminiscence yielded no clue, he decided that he had probed enough. Resolutely, he pushed the puzzle to the back of his mind, hoping that it would answer itself if left alone, as questions often did.
To distract himself, David wandered about the room, seeking comfort in the familiarity of the circle of chess aficionados whose company he had cultivated since his return to England. The “Pawnpushers,” as they were called by the other club members, had claimed this corner of White’s, making it their own. Here, chess was paramount. As David passed, stopping to watch and comment, his friends looked up at him distractedly, favoring him with an occasional myopic smile as they listened to his opinions.
“But we have not finished, Petrov!” Freddy Dare’s petulant protest elicited several demands for silence and David watched as Ivan rose from the table.
“We finish tomorrow,” Petrov said, scribbling to note the position of the pieces. “I go to Harwell ball.”
“A ball, Petrov
?
” his partner proclaimed in disbelief. “But we are in the midst of a
game.
”
“If you are not liking it, I concede,” Petrov said, tipping his king to the board then sweeping a bow. “There are being more important things than chess, Freddy. An angel awaits. Good-night.”
The young man stared after the retreating Russian as if he had uttered a blasphemy. “Have you ever heard the like, Lord Donhill?” he asked. “What has come over Mr. Petrov, for I have never known him to leave when there is a game in progress?”
“I believe it is a malady that strikes without rhyme or reason,” David said morosely. Little doubt that Sylvia would be at Harwell’s and he rose, with half a mind to follow Petrov. Yet, what could he tell her? There was no news regarding her fortune. The words of Sir Miles’ puzzle sounded like a senseless litany in his mind.