Page 3 of Love Is A Draw
His weight shifted; he was about to dismiss Victor entirely when a figure descended from a waiting carriage. “Is there an issue with the gentleman?” a tall blond man asked, his face covered as he adjusted a shiny top hat.
Victor flinched, his attention snapping to the man, who moved unhurriedly, fingers adjusting first his hat, then his vest buttons as he approached. His coat, black and immaculate, framed a lean build and carried the faintest scent of sandalwood.
Victor knew that face; he’d seen it countless times in chess pamphlets—the jawline, the head tilt, all imperious and refined. It was Gregory Stone. The legend. The Black Knight. Victor’s breath caught—not audibly, though he tensed enough for the porter’s eyes to flit toward him.
Greg Stone was taller than Victor had imagined from the carved histories of him at Oxford. His movements, fluid and deliberate, made him a chess piece brought to life. Gregory Stone, Earl of Ashby of Westminster—the renowned former baron who earned the title of earl and made kings falter on a chessboard—had become more than a champion. He was the wall Victor had to break down on the path to freedom. Proof that he mattered. That Jews could matter.
A slight eyebrow arch accompanied Greg’s glance from porter to Victor—not suspicion nor irritation, merely curiosity, cool as the polished steel of a blade.
The porter stumbled over himself to respond. “My Lord, it’s an honor, a great honor, to ensure that your visit to White’s remains undisturbed.” He flexed his fingers nervously as he spoke. “This man was attempting entry under dubious… circumstances.”
“Is that so?” His dark eyes shifted fully to Victor now, assessing him with the scrutiny of an opponent cornered on the board. “You’ve come here to what end, Mr.—?”
Victor paused; self-control, not doubt, held him back. “Romanov,” he said finally. He refused to waver under Stone’s gaze.
“Romanov,” Greg repeated slowly, tasting the syllables. “From where?”
Victor stiffened at the pointed question. “Bessarabia originally, but I have come to England to play against you.”
The porter opened his mouth—unwelcome words no doubt bubbling there—when Greg lifted a hand and silenced him. “Do not trouble yourself. My carriage is ready, and I see no reason to delay.” He paused for just a moment and glanced back at Victor. He withdrew from the doorway—clearly having been on his way out—and glanced at Victor. “Mr. Romanov, I believe we need to become better acquainted in my carriage.”
They didn’t let Jews into White’s, but the Black Knight would speak to him nonetheless. Progress.
Victor blinked. Trusting an aristocrat on a London pavement wasn’t in his nature—certainly not after that exchange. But Greg’s gaze held no mockery, only a kind of clinical interest, as if Victor were a puzzle worth solving. And if this man truly was the Black Knight, then the carriage wasn’t a trap. It offered a chance.
He squared his shoulders. One door denied, and now another—unexpected, improbable—opened. His hand brushed against the edge of his waistcoat as he stepped forward, the tailored weight of his coat shifting with him.
He didn’t belong inside White’s. But if he earned the right to sit across from the Black Knight? He could belong anywhere.
CHAPTER 2
Avigail Tarkov, or simply Gail, had the misfortune of being far too clever for a governess and far too Jewish for anything else London found respectable. Her mind worked like clockwork—precise, elegant, relentless—and she could outmatch half the scholars in Westminster with her eyes closed, but none of that mattered. Instead, she braided hair and taught chess. A governess. She cherished quiet success in shaping the mind of another Jewish girl, a beacon of hope, as much as a victory on the board. She didn’t need to prove how smart she was—she was too smart to seek validation.
“Keep your head still, Miss Maia.” Gail’s fingers deftly wove strands of dark, silky hair into a perfect braid. “If you focus, you can do it.”
Maia scrunched her nose in protest, her small hands fidgeting with the frilled hem of her skirt. “But I can’t see the board.” She wavered between frustration and stubborn determination.
Gail remained calm and steady, quiet as breath, certain as a pawn’s glide. “You don’t need to see it. Close your eyes. Picture it as we practiced—the rook on a1, the knight next to it. Your pawn moves to d4. What do they do next?”
The girl hesitated, her lashes brushing her face as she squeezed her eyes shut, cheeks pink with effort. “Black pawn to d5?”
“Well done.” Gail tied the ribbon at the end of the braid with a quick, artful twist. “Now, shall I teach you what happens if they decline your gambit?”
Gail worked another section of Maia’s soft, dark hair into a tidy braid. She picked up the second ribbon, brushing Maia’s temple with care as she parted the next section of hair. The child wiggled on the high-backed stool, but Gail’s fingers remained steady, practiced, and gentle. Sunshine poured through the window, warming the wooden floorboards and gleaming against the scattered pins and combs on the vanity.
“I can’t remember where your white pawn goes. Then… where does the bishop go?” Maia’s brow crinkled as she asked, clearly contemplating her next move with the focus of someone much older than six.
Gail tilted her head, amused. “That depends, Miss Maia. Are we playing the Queen’s Gambit, or are you creating something entirely your own?” Her voice carried no sharpness, only warmth, as if entertaining a precocious question from a daughter she adored yet could never claim.
“The Queen’s Magic!” Maia declared triumphantly, wriggling in triumph.
Gail suppressed a chuckle and adjusted her hold on the half-finished braid. For all Maia’s confidence, her grasp of chess meandered between brilliance and whimsy. But Gail indulged her anyway, her own mind shaping strategy even as her fingers shaped the braid.
“I think you mean the Queen’s Gambit, Miss Maia.” Gail’s soft correction came with a teasing undertone. “Now, if you want to try the opening properly, your pawn should go two spaces forward to d4.”
“Why do I always have to move a pawn first?” Maia grumbled, fidgeting as Gail patiently tugged her hair into place. “Why can’t a big piece go first, like the queen?”
Gail paused, her expression thoughtful, though Maia couldn’t see it. That question struck too close to home. “The big pieces, my dear, stay safe until you’ve cleared the way for them. They’re powerful, but against a clever opponent, they’re vulnerable without their pawns.”
