Miss Gabriel's Gambit by Rita Boucher Page B

engaging chess masters although Mr. Petrov says that any woman who would hope to best him is befuddled in the brainbox. In fact, Ivan declares that Uncle Miles was the only man he knew who ever beat him.”
    “So, you call him ‘Ivan,’ do you, Caro?” Sylvia said, trying to turn the subject from its hazardous course.
    But Sylvia’s effort only caused her cousin to color slightly, and ramble on. “You get along well enough on the board with Miles, but I am so glad that you declared yourself an indifferent chess player, else I suspect Mama would have you tutoring me,” Caro continued.
    “Lord Donhill is no stripling and a far more formidable opponent than your brother,” Sylvia said quickly, his image coming sharply to mind. Somehow, his deplorable mode of dress had made him no less handsome. She wondered sadly if her aunt would ever allow them to meet again. “It is quite unlikely that any come-lately to the game, male or female, could best him.”
    “I suppose,” Caroline said, with a toss of her head. “Still, I am glad he is ineligible as a suitor because of his wager - I much prefer Mr. Petrov. Mama merely tolerates both him and Lord Donhill both because any caller is better than no callers at all.” A stiff breeze began to blow through the branches of the trees causing Caroline to clamp her hat firmly to her head. “It will rain; I just know it and my new hat a la militaire will be utterly ruined. Perhaps if we turn back now?” she wailed, reining in her horse once more.
    Miles rode up just in time to hear his sister’s declaration. “Aw, g’wan,” he moaned. “You made of sugar, Caro? A little rain never hurt anyone.”
    Sylvia controlled her frisking animal with a light touch as she added her voice to Miles’. “I doubt that it will rain anytime soon, Caro. See, the sun is coming out once more.”
    “I am positive that it will rain,” Caroline said, with a pout. “And the ostrich feathers in my shako will be drenched. We shall have to go home immediately.”
    Sylvia took a deep breath and nodded her head at the groom. “I suppose ...” she began.
    “Go home, yourself!” Miles yelled, cutting Sylvia off. “You selfish beast. Invite yourself along for our ride with us, riding slow as treacle to show off your new habit, but that ain’t enough for you, oh no, Miss Caroline Care-for-no-one! Angry that there ain’t anybody about so’s you can preen yourself, conceited looby!”
    Sylvia knew that she ought to rebuke the boy for his rudeness, but from Caro’s flush, she knew that Miles had struck upon the truth. She, herself had wondered at the girl’s sudden eagerness for exercise.
    “A fine one you are to talk, Master Rudesby,” Caroline retorted. “You would rather see a small fortune ruined than forgo your ride.”
    “Ain’t just my ride,” Miles said. “‘Tis Sylvia’s too and if it were up to Mama, she would never go anywhere but on your foolish frippery errands. You know if you take the groom home, there’s nothing but we all have to go back. Who told you to wear the silly hat anyway? Makes you look like Wellington’s sister, with a nose you could hang a lamp upon.”
    The groom began to cough violently and Caro’s brown eyes fairly snapped in fury. Once more, Miles had scored on a sore point. Unfortunately, Caroline had inherited her mother’s prominent proboscis. From the look of the girl’s clenched fists, Sylvia feared that Caroline might actually come to blows with her brother. Apparently, so did Miles, for the boy dug his heels into his mount and was off across the field.
    “I shall chase him down,” Sylvia said as she caught the groom’s inquiring look. “You stay with Miss Caroline under those trees that we just passed. You should be safe from any rain there, Caro.”
    Caroline gave her cousin a tight-lipped nod. “Mama says that you ought to whip him and I am beginning to find myself thinking her almost right. He is growing quite insolent.”
    Sylvia did not