Free Miss Gabriel's Gambit by Rita Boucher Page A

forever.”
    “Cut line, Ivan,” David said, casting him an annoyed glance. “You are not my nursemaid.”
    “Highslip will be having my head,” Petrov declared tragically, his accent gaining added flavor with emotion. “Your new riding costume is shambles, all within an hour. You are having to change before we meet Brummel for breakfast, David. Then off to Weston’s for you, mine friend.”
    “That is shambles , Ivan,” David said, smiling. “And I shall be damned it I set foot in that pin-pusher’s parlor again. If you do not cease this arrant nonsense, I swear that I shall find the first mud puddle that I may, dip my boots in it and splatter you as well.”
    Petrov recoiled in horror, as if the dirty pool were imminent. Sylvia let out a peal of laughter, causing the men to look upon her in shocked surprise. It was an infectious sound, neither light nor musical, but a whole-hearted invitation to mirth. Soon, both David and Petrov were clasping their sides and even Harjit’s lips were stretched in a broad smile.
    “Holoo, Syl,” Miles called, galloping across the field, followed in the distance by Caroline and the groom. “Are you alright? Caro would go slow; didn’t want to lose that confounded hat,” he said disparagingly as he slid from his horse.
    “Is a most charming hat, a crime to lose so beautiful an adornment,” Petrov declared, smoothly, as he helped Caroline dismount. “Entirely suitable to your loveliness.”
    Caroline’s annoyed expression disappeared. She gazed into the Russian’s worshipping face as she spoke. “You see, dear brother,” Caroline declared, the very picture of sisterly sweetness. “I told you there was no need to gallop neck or nothing. Sylvia did not really need us at all.”
    * * * *
    Despite his declaration that he would risk damnation rather than another encounter with Weston, David Rutherford was once more consigned to purgatory at the tailor’s hands. After their belated breakfast, Petrov added his pleas to both Highslip and Brummel’s adamant demands. Thus, Lord Donhill found himself swiftly transported yet again to Bond Street and stripped to his small clothes. The damp chill bit at his bare legs as he stood, fearing to move in the pin-infested half-finished garments. Rain drops fiercely pelted the windows of the Bond Street shop, but David was far away, thinking of Sylvia. When they had delivered her home, the girl’s aunt had given her the devil of a time, rebuking her niece as if the vile attack had been her own fault. It was all that he could do to hold his temper, knowing there was nothing that he might say that would help her. David was roused from his reverie by the sound of raised voices.
    “I say, the yellow!” Highslip declared, picking up a bolt of silk, his eyes alight.
    “With his skin? Are you mad?” Brummel declared in emotional tones. “’Twould cause David to look hopelessly sallow.”
    “But surely a touch of color ...”
    “Darker shades are far more becoming,” Brummel declared, his gaze stony.
    “Please,” David groaned. “We have been at this for the better part of an hour now. I feel like a veritable pincushion. My limbs ache and my neck is stiff from standing like a piece of pasteboard. Can we go home?”
    “Now, now, milord,” Weston said, as he entered the fitting room, carrying a bolt of deep blue fabric. “We shall be finished shortly.” The master tailor proceeded to unwrap a length for Brummel’s inspection much in the manner of a magician producing a miracle from thin air. The Beau rewarded Weston with a pleased nod.
    “Excellent,” Brummel said, fingering the cloth critically. “This blue is just the ticket.”
    David blinked in disbelief. “But it is nearly the exact shade of the one we examined half of an hour ago.”
    “‘Nearly’ is insufficient,” Lord Highslip declared, shaking his head disapprovingly. “A gentleman’s sartorial splendor must be perfection in itself. Why, I spend well above an