Page 65 of Love Is A Draw
“But not an illegal one,” List replied with a shrug.
Greg folded his arms. “I’ll go back to Parliament and fight this. I’ll fight for meritocracy. Justice.”
“You’ll fail with these childish notions,” List scoffed. “The House of Lords exists to preserve bloodlines, not reward the little scraps you call honor.”
“Truer words have never been spoken,” Greg said quietly. “You’ve earned nothing but fear, disdain, and hatred.”
“Yet, I haven’t lost honor like you, Stone.” List’s eyes narrowed. “You lost the one title you earned, Black Knight. All that remains is the one married into your name—and even that’s your wife’s, not yours, Earl.”
Greg’s jaw twitched. “Whatever privilege I have left, I will use it for something greater than myself.”
List turned, dismissive. “Whatever works.” He lifted a gloved hand, signaling the customs officer. “He’s boarding this ship.”
The officer nodded. “Ship fourteen is final call.”
Victor stared at the gangplank.
Behind him, England blurred into fog. Ahead of him, exile. And inside him—only Gail.
When the Pearlers’landau rolled to a stop with the polished hush of wealth, the wheels hissed on the damp quay, fog swallowing the light from its lanterns.
Gail descended first, her gloves damp with sweat despite the morning chill. Rachel and Fave followed, each clutching sealed documents that had taken months to arrange—papers for entry, names spelled carefully, numbers aligning with records no one dared to question.
They had done everything right. Every movement, every form, every favor called in.
And now—they were here.
Mist clung low over the stones, curling like coiled ropes, mixing coal smoke with sea brine. Somewhere beyond the docks, a bell clanged—long and hollow—as if to signal a beginning… or an end.
Gail’s pulse thrummed. So close. He’s coming. He’s real.
Fave scanned the berth numbers, then pointed through the shifting mist. “That’s it. The ship from Calais.”
They moved as one—Gail’s boots quick over slick stone, Rachel lifting her skirts, Fave calling to the porter. Maia trailed behind, barely keeping up, cheeks flushed with excitement.
The ship groaned against the ropes as it docked, deckhands leaping to secure lines. Steam hissed. The crowd surged, but Gail stood rooted. Her eyes searched the gangway, breath caught in her throat.
An old man in a long black coat staggered down slowly, carefully. A worn valise in one hand, the other gripping the railing as though it were the spine of the world. Thin, butupright. Stern mouth, pale from the cold. A shadow of a man, yet unmistakable.
“Dedushka. Grandfather,” she whispered.
Her vision blurred. Her knees nearly gave way.
Dmitry.
He looked up—his eyes scanning, searching. She came forward, raising a hand. He froze, brows furrowing—then his face broke into a smile of recognition.
“Vnuchka moya?” My granddaughter, he called, voice rough, the accent thicker than she remembered.
Gail nearly crumpled.Yes. Yes, it’s me.
Rachel gasped softly beside her. Fave let out a breath. Behind them, Maia clutched her satchel. “Is that him? Is that your grandfather?”
Gail nodded, tears caught in her lashes.
Maia beamed. “He looks like you!”
A laugh, wet and soft, escaped Gail’s throat. She’d nearly closed the distance—hand rising to wave again. But her gaze caught on something behind him. Beyond the gangplank. Across the quay.
