Miss Gabriel's Gambit by Rita Boucher Page A

burst into such a fit of laughter that his spectacles slid dangerously to the tip of his nose.
    “You think he jests?” Highslip asked, tight-lipped with annoyance.
    “He must be joking,” David said, the room reverberating with his bass chuckle. “The sheer presumption...”
    “To the contrary, dear Donhill. Nothing could be simpler. Within the week, I would wager, Sylvia Gabriel will be the reigning Incomparable and there is little that anyone can do to prevent it.”
     

Chapter 4
     
    David soon found that Highslip had spoken no less than the truth. Brummel played his pawns in polite society with the finesse of a master. A few casual words in the correct ears and soon, Sylvia Gabriel’s name rolled upon every tongue. Her bravery was applauded, her beauty extolled and rumors of a mysterious lost fortune were carefully cultivated until the Ton was in a veritable tizzy, craving an encounter with the unknown paragon.
    At the house on Belvedere Square, Mrs. Gabriel was at a loss to cope with the sudden flood of interest in her empty-pursed niece. She banished Sylvia to the nursery, claiming to the crowds of callers that the poor girl was overset by her ordeal. Caroline was pushed forth into the distinguished company, but it was plain even to the doting Mrs. Gabriel, that once the visitors found that Sylvia was not to be seen, they were not disposed to linger despite Caroline’s many charms.
    Knowing the attention of the Ton to be as fleeting as a child’s, Brummel moved rapidly. The sun had not set twice since the incident at Green Park, when, with David and Petrov in tow, the Beau presented himself at the Gabriel’s door. The tide of callers was at high crest; the large saloon filled to capacity with nary an empty chair to be had. Yet, when Brummel and his party were announced, vacancies beside the hostess mysteriously appeared.
    As the Beau did the pretty, a curious hush settled over the room as all awaited the pronouncement of the oracle of fashion. The atmosphere was much as the air of anticipation around the pit before a cockfight, for Mrs. Gabriel was obviously a prime target for Brummel’s famed sarcasm. Despite her irreproachable bloodlines, her clothing with its surfeit of fripperies was quite tasteless and her mannerisms bordered on the vulgar. It seemed certain that the reigning monarch of the mode would rip the encroaching female to shreds.
    Unfortunately, they were destined to be disappointed on that score, for Brummel confined himself to polite inconsequentials. However, those who knew him best recognizing the gleam of devilish intent behind the Beau’s otherwise bland expression. There was entertainment yet to come.
    “How, unfortunate that your niece continues to be indisposed,” Brummel declared, his smile chill. “I confess myself deeply disappointed, for I came expressly to congratulate her upon her brave actions.”
    “Bishop checks queen,” Petrov whispered under his breath. “He informs that the girl has his interest.”
    With his elbow, David nudged the Russian to silence.
    “You are acquainted with my niece?” Mrs. Gabriel asked with a croak of surprise.
    “Only by dint of her excellent reputation, as yet,” Brummel allowed. “But I am looking forward to meeting her once the Season begins. As we all are.” He scanned the crowd demanding their accord. “One can only hope that she will soon recover, so that we may express our admiration.”
    David watched in amusement as the visitors bobbed their heads in agreement, like a collection of well-dressed puppets. As for Mrs. Gabriel, her jaw dropped, agape as the mouth of a child’s nutcracker. David imagined that he could hear the grinding of gears as she cracked the shell of Brummel’s statement to reveal the kernel of his intent.
     The Beau skewered the woman with his eyes, while he applied his final stroke of calculated social pressure. “I must confess my admiration for you, Mrs. Gabriel,” Brummel declared, inclining his