Page 9 of Love Is A Draw
Her fingers trembled slightly against the wood.
And just like that, the idea lodged inside Gail’s mind, dangerous and thrilling.
If she played… she’d be seen. By the men, by the guests—and byhim.
And part of her wasn’t sure that was such a terrible thing.
CHAPTER 5
The next morning, Victor woke refreshed after a night in one of the most comfortable beds he’d ever slept in. Greg’s house displayed the epitome of luxury. The scent of fresh bread and poached eggs curled warmly in the air as Victor set down his teacup, watching a drop of amber liquid cling stubbornly to the porcelain rim before giving in and falling. A quiet sort of wealth painted the breakfast room: sunlight caught the thin gold line on the edge of each plate, and even the toast had been stacked with soldier-like precision. Everything about the room spoke of order and inheritance, not merit. But he knew Greg had earned his title—being a legend, the Black Knight—which made Victor feel keenly like a piece smuggled onto the board.
Despite her title and beauty, Lady Hermione Stone, Greg’s wife, was just as down-to-earth as Greg. She sat at the foot of the table, fingers laced, her gaze sharper than the carving knife poised near the jam tray. “And what do you think will happen when List loses?” she asked. “Because he will lose. And men like him do not accept defeat as a civil matter.”
Victor didn’t know the man they were so worried about, but his name seemed synonymous with doom. He glanced at Greg, who sipped tea like he’d already won the match in his mind.
“It’s not about whether he accepts it.” Greg spread marmalade across a slice of toast with excruciating care. “It’s about ensuring that he has to.”
Hermy scoffed. “Ensure it how, exactly? The man’s more snake than strategist. The League has propped him up with a dozen shadow tournaments and political sympathies. He’s a darling of the press on the Continent. You can’t win by beating him at chess. You have to beat him at his own spectacle.”
“I suspect our guest and new friend here could assist with that. If I can’t defeat List, then it shall be Victor,” Greg said as if chess were one of the tools in his arsenal to fight doom—ahem, List.
Victor leaned back in his chair, one hand curled near the lapel of his coat. “So, you want me to humiliate him,” he said, his tone neutral.
Greg didn’t flinch. “I want you to win, unless I do. Spectacle or not, a man’s logic cracks under loss. I want everyone to see it and then bring it up in Parliament.”
Aha! Politics! Of course, Greg, an earl, had a seat among the governing class. Victor’s eyes narrowed. “Why is List a problem outside of chess?”
That was the real question, wasn’t it?
Greg folded his arms. “Because in this country, there are only two kinds of power. One you inherit. The other, you prove. I’ve done the first. You’ll do the second.”
Hermy cut in, her voice low and exact. “And because List uses chess as a weapon for something else. His friends are not idle men. A loss forces their hand. And their weakness, if you expose it, can be used to protect us and our friends.”
Friends who proved themselves. She meant Jews. The Pearlers. Victor heard it clearly, even if she didn’t say it aloud. The same logic that had kept him in the shadows now asked him to step into the light—as a shield. Or a weapon.
He tapped his thumb once against the rim of his cup. “And what do I gain if I provide myself?”
Greg met his gaze evenly. “Victory. Prestige. The title if you win it. And access to a world that’s never opened for you before.”
“And if I lose?” Victor couldn’t help the question.
Lady Hermy pursed her lips and looked at her empty plate when her husband said, “Then I don’t know how to ensure your safety in England.”
Freedom had always been a moving target. But this offer had corners. Conditions. Pieces already in play. Greg’s offer came wrapped in something more than opportunity. The tournament would become a wager with his freedom. A calculated risk. And that wasn’t something he usually welcomed as a chess player because chess wasn’t about gambling. But if he lost to this new opponent, List—now a rising political star with rotten values and dangerous friends in Parliament—he’d become expendable. A foreign Jew who’d dared to challenge a powerful man and failed. And in England, that kind of audacity didn’t go unpunished.
The door opened, and a hush followed, like the still before a rook cuts across an open board.
“Lady Sofia von List,” the butler announced.
Victor turned to the doorway, unsure what to expect—but based on her husband’s reputation, it couldn’t be good.
Sofia was dressed for morning calls, but everything about her, from the drape of her dove-grey pelisse to the slight quirk of her mouth, said she had come to play a different game entirely. “Countess”—she inclined her head toward Hermy—“I had hoped you would be in. I thought we might speak about the League’s spring calendar.”
Hermy gave a smile of practiced perfection. “Of course. We were just speaking of the upcoming tournament.”
Sofia’s gaze moved slowly from Hermy to Greg, then fixed on Victor. “I wasn’t aware a location had been set outside White’s.”
“News travels fast.” Greg rose from his chair but did not offer any greeting beyond a polite bow.
