Miss Gabriel's Gambit Read Online Free PDF Page A

brass knocker in the shape of a rook was fixed on the door, indicating that the residents of the Berkeley Square address were at home.
    David almost laughed aloud at the footman’s indignant expression as he opened the door.
    “Trade is-“ The rest of his statement was forestalled by a proffered piece of pasteboard. To give the servant his due, he recovered rapidly, deciding to credit what he read above what he saw.
    “Milord?” he asked, hesitantly, “how may I assist you?”
    “I come regarding Sir Miles,” David said, recalling the purpose of his visit, becoming somber all at once. Even though the two men had never met, he would miss Sir Miles dreadfully. At the back of his mind, David had always looked forward to the day that they would face each other across the board. The realization that it would never be so and the game was ended forever was almost beyond bearing.
    “Sir Miles?” the footman said, brightening. “I shall bring up your card to him immediately, milord. Do you care to wait in the drawing room?”
    As the look of confusion cleared from the servant’s face, David’s spirits soared. It seemed that Highslip’s pronouncement regarding Sir Miles’ death was merely a wretched error. Should have known better than to trust the judgment of a besotted man , David thought, as the footman hurriedly showed the guest into the empty library and bade him to be seated in a well-stuffed leather chair. David smiled, anticipating Highslip’s dismay when he was confronted with his blunder. ‘Twould confound the pompous idiot indeed to find that he had mistakenly declared his old neighbor dead and buried.
    David chuckled, looking about him at what was obviously a man’s room, its furnishings chosen more for comfort than a feminine eye for fashion. No Egyptian chaises or lacquered chinoiserie here; just walls of shelves, overflowing with leather-tooled bindings. He rose to run his fingers over the plethora of books on chess, opening a text in what appeared to be Arabic at random, only to shelve it when he spotted the latest edition of Allgaier’s treatises on the game. But David rapidly found that he could not concentrate on the German chessmaster’s ramblings and he returned the book to its place.
    Restlessly, he roamed the room, trying to anticipate what he would say. Over the years, he had dreamt of this meeting, rehearsed it in his mind, but all the well-thought out phrases now seemed silly. Sir Miles’ letters had been an anchor in David’s life, their sound advice, warmth and wry wit, holding him steady amidst the turbulence. And in the chaos of those years the only sure order in a world where the rules were few was the certainty of the game.
    Near the window was a simple wooden chess board and David noted with satisfaction that the configuration exactly reflected the inevitable denouement of last night’s move, the king lying on its side in abject surrender. Suddenly, he felt calm. How foolish to act as if Sir Miles were some stranger when there was perhaps, no one on this earth who knew him half so well. He stared into the fireplace, watching the tongues of flame lick the coals, as he remembered the man’s letters, every single one of them read and re-read almost to the point of perfect memory. Certainly, there was no need to be nervous.
    “Milord?”
    David whirled at the sound of that soft voice to confront a vision. At first, he wondered if his drunken dreams were still plaguing him, for no real woman could be so exquisitely beautiful. A plaited crown of blond hair framed a face of the kind that Botticelli had adored. Eyes the color of a calm green ocean regarded him from beneath a dark lashed fringe. Porcelain cheeks began to glow a delightful red, as ripe-cherry lips began to thin into a frown. David tried to recall himself, but could not help letting his gaze linger on the delightful contours of her lush figure. Even the concealing folds of her shapeless black merino gown could not entirely