“I am not being fond of deceiving either,” Mr. Petrov said solemnly. “But your aunt is meaning to force Lord Highslip on your cousin. Do you wish this?”
Sylvia’s countenance had become closed once more. “No,” she said, softly. “I would not want you to marry Hugo, Caro.”
The expression in her eyes betrayed something of her inner turmoil and David wondered if it was entirely for her cousin’s sake that Sylvia agreed to assist in foiling her aunt’s plans. There was an adamant quality to her words, as if she would move the very earth to prevent Hugo’s proposal.
“Oh thank you, Syl,” Caroline said, hugging her cousin close. “I knew that I might depend on you.”
“You have mine thanks, as well, Miss Gabriel,” Ivan said, bowing in acknowledgement. “And now, we must talk, Caroline and I.”
“I think we are being dismissed,” David said. “Shall we go help Miles with the kite?”
Sylvia tried to calm the tempest of emotion within, as she fell into step beside David. His very proximity was enough to send her soaring like Miles’ kite, to rise and fall with the currents of his looks, his words. It was unforgivably dangerous, to allow herself to be swept away like this, to fly upon the memory of last night’s moment, stolen in the darkness. But it was like trying to quell a storm. She watched Caroline and her beau enviously
,
vowing that she would not allow Hugo to destroy her cousin’s happiness. “I will not let Hugo have her
,
”
she said, half to herself.
Sylvia’s words were quiet, but they had the force of an oath, throwing David into confusion
.
Was it was possible that Sylvia still desired
the earl for herself
?
Certainly, it was no business of his if she wished to wear the willow for that conceited fop! Yet, the thought that she might be unable to see beyond Highslip’s handsome, stylish facade
was curiously irksome
.
Over the years, David had come to consider himself something of a shrewd judge of character and he knew that there was an under-current of malice in the earl. Highslip exhibited a true malevolence that manifested itself in that wicked tongue of his
.
He would never marry Sylvia, not without her fortune to line his pockets. Fortune ... David’s attention focused back upon that damnable will. What if the chess library held the key? It would certainly give her the means to marry Highslip.
“I am told you received a copy of the will?” Sylvia ventured. “Did you get a chance to peruse it.
It was almost as if she could read his mind. David nodded. “I read it through briefly,” he admitted, his native honesty warring with his desire to spare her from Highslip.
“Anything that struck you as unusual,” she asked, hope in her eyes.
David’s sense of honesty won. “The bequest of the chess library,” he said, reluctantly. “That seemed most peculiar to me. Do you think it might be a clue, Sylvia? Why else leave a chess library to a female?”
Why, indeed? Sylvia thought, scrambling for a logical explanation for her uncle’s disposition of his most treasured possession. “My brother Will is terribly careless with books,” she lied. “And some of Uncle’s volumes were quite valuable. I suppose that he trusted me to take care of them properly.” She prayed that he would accept her ploy.
“I had thought when I initially heard the bequest that the books might contain a clue. I went through every one of the volumes thoroughly; both in the library here in town and at Crown Beeches. I found nothing. However,” Sylvia recalled. “I did remember something that I found in my search that might be of some use to you. Uncle wrote down the details of almost every game that he played. In his youth, I believe, he played Horace Greenvale most frequently. If Lady Helena’s manner of play is in any way like onto her father’s, Uncle’s play-book could be of help to you. I shall loan it, if you would wish.”
David berated himself. She was offering him her help in retaining his freedom, yet all he could feel was a profound sense of relief that her fortune remained lost. As long as she was poor, she was safe from Highslip. “Thank you, Sylvia, I would appreciate the book,” David said.
She avoided his eyes, afraid that he would discern the truth. It was utter selfishness that had prompted the offer of the book: that and the fear of losing him to Helena Greenvale. She wanted him to win, as much for her sake as for his. It was a foolish hope, she knew, but if given time he might come to care for her. At that point, she would reveal her chess-playing skill so that she might release him from his wager. But, until that unlikely time, she did not dare reveal her feelings else the fragile friendship between them might be broken. That was to be avoided at all cost, for it would be more than she could bear to lose him completely.
David sensed her discomfort and thought he knew its source.
“Sylvia, about what occurred ...” he began.
“There is no need,” she murmured.
“Oh yes, there is,” David asserted. “I would not have it hanging here between us. We were friends, I would have us remain so.”
“We still are friends, David,” she said focusing upon Miles’ kite. She would not cry. She would not let him know what that kiss had completely undone her. Before that kiss, she had been able to lie to herself, to half-convince herself that she was not in love with him. Now, there was no denial, only profound pain.
“I am sorry,” David said. “Doubtless, I am not the first man who has ever made a fool of himself because of your beauty.”
Fool. The word made itself heard above the others. He counted the kiss an act of foolishness, prompted entirely by her looks. She was glad that he found her attractive and yet, perversely, she cursed her own beauty. In a strange way, he had not really kissed
her
at all, just her shell, the chimera of her appearance. He accounted her in the same way that one would a lovely painting or an excellent sculpture; one might admire a work of art but it was foolish to kiss it.
“Oh no, milord,” Sylvia said taking refuge in ridicule. “You are certainly not the only one who has made a cake of himself over me, by no means. I would not stoop to compare your kiss with the myriads of others that I received. ”
In some contrary way, her assertion was in no manner comforting to David. He removed his glasses taking comfort in the familiar motions of cleaning the lenses. The thought that he was but one among many who had tasted her lips was almost a shock. There had been an innocence to her kiss, a delight that sprang from new experience.
“Although I lived in the country, milord, I was no hermit. Uncle saw to it that I attended the usual run of balls and dinners,” Sylvia asserted, running on when she noticed that David had so forgotten himself and was, once again, using his neckcloth as a wipe for his spectacles. “I have had odes written to my eyelashes, sonnets to my earlobes and rhymed couplets, if you would believe, to my nostrils. Why, one young man even composed an epic to my entire anatomy, much of it mere speculation, of course.”
“Of course,” David agreed weakly.
His countenance became a pattern-card of consternation and her sense of the ridiculous took control. “The recital took an entire afternoon. It began ‘Oh, divine left toe were I thee-‘” she intoned. All of a sudden it all became too much and she began to sputter, trying to hold the laughter at bay.
A choking noise disrupted the morose direction of David’s thoughts. He returned his glasses to his nose and realized that Sylvia was nearly overcome, trying to stifle her amusement.
“Myriad’s, eh?” he shook his head at himself, wondering why he was behaving with such total irrationality. What did it matter to him how many men might have kissed her? “Epics?”
“If you could but have seen your face, David!” Sylvia let go in a gale of mirth, allowing her tears to masquerade under the cover of amusement.
David too, began to chuckle, trying to cover his own confusion, wondering at his own pain as she dismissed the entire episode, made light of it. Surely, that was what he had desired, wasn’t it?
“What’s so funny?” Miles asked, as he played the kite on the breeze.
“Nothing youngling,” Sylvia giggled.
“Awful lot of fuss for nothing, if you ask me,” Miles grumbled.
“He is right, you know,” David said. “It is a lot of fuss about nothing. Pax?” he asked, offering his hand.
“Pax,” Sylvia agreed, putting her palm in his, enjoying the grasp of his strong fingers as they shook hands with the mock solemnity of two children. She squinted up at the kite and allowed the tears that his new avowal had caused to mingle with the old. Nothing. He accounted that kiss as nothing. The flame of hope was flickering low, indeed.
“Did you find anything else of interest in the will?” she asked, moving the conversation from the dangerous topic of the previous evening.”
“I had not known that your Uncle had left me a chess set,” David said.
“Unfortunately, due to the sorry state of affairs after Uncle’s death, I was unable to have it sent off until several months had passed,” Sylvia said, bending down to pull a blade of grass and twisting it distractedly in her fingers. “There was much debate over the clause in Uncle’s will forbidding mourning.”
“I would imagine so,” David said. “Apparently, your aunt was willing to sustain a financial loss rather than defy the proprieties and forgo the usual period of bereavement. Your uncle left a substantial amount of money to finance your debut with Caroline’s.”
“But that money was hers only if Aunt Ruby repaired to London immediately after Uncle’s death,” Sylvia said. “She had no desire to eschew proper decorum for my benefit. It didn’t matter to me really, because at point I did not give a fig for a London Season. The money went to charity instead.”
“Obviously, Sir Miles wished you to go to town right away,” David said. “He offered considerable incentive, but why?”
Sylvia laughed, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. “Why, indeed! ‘Tis a question that I ask quite often. Uncle Miles disliked Hugo from the start. ‘Twas the only thing we ever quarreled over. Uncle knew that I would have control over my father’s fortune within the year and I am sure he feared that the state of his health would not give him time to attempt to change my mind. His testament dates just before he fell into his final illness. Hugo urged me to marry him then, when Uncle was too much out of his mind to naysay us, but I would not leave Uncle Miles.”
Was the regret in her tone for the missed opportunity? David silently applauded his late chess partner for his bold final move. Although Sylvia seemed not to fully realize it, her uncle had shielded her from a fate far worse than poverty.
“Hugo was the one man who did not seem intimidated by my looks, you see,” Sylvia said, feeling a sudden need to explain her attraction to the earl. “He was so handsome himself. He was utterly devoted to me, polite, considerate, seemingly all that one would wish in a husband. He listened to me, David. Hugo was the first man who actually accounted that I might have more wit than a child’s wax doll.” Yet, she realized, she had never trusted him with her inner-most thoughts. Hugo had not even known that she played chess, for she had felt that he might disapprove. There was always some part of her that had held back, waiting, until David had kissed her.
“Lord Donhill, Syl, look!” Miles called
The two watched as the boy played the line expertly, causing the kite to swoop and sway like a gaudy bird. Higher and higher it flew, pulling the length of string to the limit. Then, suddenly a gust of wind blew, bending the crowns of the trees with its force, almost tugging the reel from Miles’ hand. The boy held fast, desperately trying to pull back against the force of the billow of breeze until the taut line snapped and the kite sailed away free carried aloft over the treetops and out of sight. The child watched with a bereft expression as it disappeared; the now-empty looping line fell from above.
Sylvia and David hurried to the boy’s side. Caroline and Ivan too, saw the mishap and abandoned their
tête-à-tête
by the tree.
“Oh Miles, I am so sorry,” Sylvia said, taking the reel from Miles’ fingers and winding in the string. She put her hand on the boy’s shoulder as he manfully struggled against tears. “We shall build a new kite,” Sylvia promised, touching the boy’s shoulder.
“No, we won’t,” Miles said, his lower lip trembling. “You don’t have time for nothing no more, not even lessons. Mama says that you are going to marry that snuffy old Lord Entshaw or that other dumpling of a fellow and go far away to live and I won’t see you hardly ever.”
“That is not true, Miles,” Sylvia said. “I shall marry neither Lord Entshaw nor that other dumpling of a fellow. Remember, I am pledged to you.”
“Truly?” Miles asked, brightening.
“Truly,” Sylvia declared, solemnly. “As for the kite, youngling, I shall find the time.”
“Miles can you not see how tired Sylvia is?” Caroline declared, glaring at her brother. “Mama is running her ragged planning my come-out ball and you wish her to exhaust herself over your silly kite?”
Once Caroline pointed it out, David noticed how drawn Sylvia looked, the shadows under her eyes and the pallor of her complexion.
“I’m sorry, Syl,” Miles said contritely. “We ain’t been flying much anyway. Don’t trouble yourself about it.”
“We shall start on it immediately once we get home, never you fear,” Sylvia said, looking significantly at Caroline.
“Perhaps we should be getting back,” Caroline said reluctantly. “Mr. Colber is due to call upon Sylvia this afternoon and Mama wished us to return early.”
“Your Mama is entertaining that mushroom’s suit?” David said, incredulously.
“Aunt Ruby would serve tea to the devil himself, were she convinced that he was sufficiently warm in the pocket,” Sylvia said.
“Is not the title she is being concerned with?” Petrov questioned anxiously. “Entshaw was lord, a peer.”
“No,” Sylvia said. “Although rank is certainly a consideration, I believe that lucre is her primary love.”
A smile stretching across Petrov’s lean face. “Is most wonderful news, Miss Gabriel,” he declared. “Wonderful!”