Page 41 of Love Is A Draw
Victor froze, the air catching in his throat. “The guest room…”
“Yes.” Hermy glanced at him, her meaning clear.
Victor didn’t wait for another word. His boots thundered against the polished floor as he bolted out of the study and up the staircase, pulse pounding in his ears. He heard Hermy following and Greg’s heavier footsteps not far behind her.
At the top of the stairs, he found the door to his guest room. A young maid was dusting near the wardrobe, her brows drawn in nervous concentration. Nearby, a footman stood rigidly by the door, pale but stony-faced.
Victor’s breath stalled in his chest as he surveyed the room. He scanned the dresser, the trunk at the foot of the bed, the writing table by the window. His gaze snagged on the table. No, not on the table. On the empty space his most important possession left behind.
Gone. The only thing that mattered.
His heart sank. “It’s gone,” he whispered hoarsely.
Greg came into the room, his thunderous mood shifting instantly to something quieter, darker. Hermy stayed close by the door, her hands clasped tightly.
There was no denying it. The thing that mattered most was gone.
It was already lateby the time Gail had scrubbed the mud from her limbs and changed into dry clothes, but no amount of washing could remove the phantom of Victor’s kiss—still burning at the edge of her mouth, impossible to forget.
She clutched the tea tray tighter, the porcelain rattling softly as she walked, steam rising in lazy swirls from the chamomile. The warmth seeped into her fingers, grounding her. She moved quickly down the hallway, shawl drawn tight, feet silent against the carpet. Beeswax scent lingered, clinging to the walls like memory.
She should have gone straight to Maia. But the soft gleam of gaslight spilled from the crack beneath the library door.Still lit? At this hour?
She paused, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet, not to eavesdrop—only to steady herself.
“If she knew he was coming, she’d start to hope,” Rachel said, thin and unsure. “But what if he doesn’t make it?”
“Then we lose him. And he’s all she has left,” Fave replied.
Gail flinched. The tray wobbled. She pressed it closer to her chest, every muscle locked in place.
“We have to try,” Fave continued. “He’s the best mind of our time. And he’d be safer here than anywhere else.”
A beat of silence. Then Rachel said, “Do you really think List would hurt him?”
“He knows Dmitry’s alive,” Fave said. “And if he learns he’s traveling to England…”
Gail’s breath stilled. Dmitry.
It couldn’t be. Her thoughts fractured—grandfather, chessboards, Victor whispered.He taught me everything. Could it be the same Dmitry?HerDmitry?
“We’re not just bringing him here,” Fave said. “We’re protecting him.”
Her knees buckled slightly. She gripped the tray harder, fingernails biting into it. Her mind swam, trying to catch up.
“But he’s traveling alone?” Rachel asked.
“He insisted. From Bessarabia to Paris, then to Calais and Dover. I’d go to him myself, but the journey would take too long.”
“And there’s no one we can trust to accompany him?”
“I trust no one. Not with his identity.”
Then—Fave’s tone lowered, quiet but clear: “Gail wouldn’t want to wait four months if she knew.”
That tore it. She turned from the door and moved. Fast. The tea sloshed dangerously, the silver spoon clinking as she climbed. Her breath caught, and her shawl slipped from her shoulders. She nearly lost her footing at the top of the stairs.
Footsteps behind her—quiet, but swift.
