Miss Gabriel's Gambit by Rita Boucher Page A

humbling to realize that she was no less of a ninny, at heart. In all likelihood, she could best David Rutherford, but no matter what silly wager he had made, Sylvia hoped that she would never serve a friend so poorly. Still, as Aunt Ruby’s whine hummed in her ears, such fine feelings were but cold comfort.
     

Chapter 3
     
    A puff of clouds drifted in the sky above Green Park, momentarily obscuring the weak spring sunshine. Sylvia held the reins of her horse loosely as it ambled along.
    “I vow, Syl, I do not know how you bear Mama these days,” Caroline said, her lowered voice barely audible above the slow clip of the horse’s hooves. She glanced behind to satisfy herself that the groom and her brother were beyond hearing. “As if it is your fault that the house is almost empty of callers. Mama keeps harkening back to the time before Uncle Miles’ illness. To hear her tell of it, the invitations and the callers came in a veritable flood when you were about to make your curtsy to the Ton. Lady Harwell called the other day, and when she found out that the Miss Gabriel of the house was not you, she left in a huff and put a flea in Mama’s ear, to boot.”
    “Lady Harwell was a particular friend of my Mama’s,” Sylvia said apologetically. “If my Season had gone on as planned, years ago, she had expected to assist with my introduction to society. Besides, I was an heiress then and most of those callers were hoping to steal an early march on their campaigns to secure my fortune, lured by the siren call of my shekels.”
    “Even so, it is so sad that Uncle Miles became ill and you were forced to return to Northumberland before your Season,” Caroline declared, sympathetically, then characteristically the girl flitted to another subject. “Lord Donhill particularly asked after you yesterday.”
    Sylvia’s fingers tightened upon the tack, her knuckles whitening, but her voice remained controlled. “Lord Donhill came to call?” she asked, feigning a casual air.
    “Oh yes,” Caroline said absently, looking up at the sky. “Dear me, look at those grey clouds above the trees. Lord Donhill called while you were out matching that lace for Mama. Do you think it will rain?”
    “The lace that she sent me to return in the end,” Sylvia said in clipped tones. Obviously, Aunt Ruby had expected that David Rutherford would call and deliberately sent her niece on a useless errand.
    “He seemed somewhat disappointed to miss you,” Caroline said, tearing her attention from the sky momentarily. “And you would not believe the change, Syl. Lord Donhill is now all the go, almost a veritable pattern card of fashion. Although, I must say that he was not nearly so fine as his friend, Mr. Petrov. You should have seen him. I vow, he is the most handsome man I have ever seen in my life, so dashing and so charming. His manners are most delightful.”
    “Yes,” Sylvia said, stifling a sigh. “Lord Donhill would be so.”
    “Lord Donhill?” Caroline drew her horse to a stop, looking confusedly at her cousin. “Why, it is Mr. Petrov of whom I speak. Lord Donhill is far too old; he must be well past thirty,” she declared. “For all Mama’s prosings about his wealth and title, I would not marry him, even if he had not made that strange wager.”
    Sylvia laughed at the arrogance of her seventeen-year-old cousin. “A veritable Methuselah,” she declared, feeling strangely relieved although she could not say why. “So, Lord Donhill has become a Bond Street beau.”
    “Not quite, his cravat was rumpled and askew,” Caroline said, urging her mount forward once again. “It is all part of that infamous wager of his. I vow, Mama was quite distressed when she heard of it.”
“So, it is true,” Sylvia said. “His wife will have to win him in a chess match.”
    Caroline nodded. “And a purse of a thousand pounds if she should be so foolish as to forgo him. According to the latest on dit , half the females in London are