Page 2 of Love Is A Draw
He was right. I used to favor the knight. Still do, maybe. But I’m older now. Smarter. I know what I’m willing to sacrifice—and what must survive.
He jabbed another note into the margin, his hand unusually messy. The ink blotted.
Five years had passed since his last match with Dmitry. Five years of climbing—through cities, through ranks, through silence. He had no patrons. No family to back him. No great-uncles in salons whispering his name.
What he had was skill. Stamina. Stillness under pressure.
And motivation to win.
The Black Knight. Gregory Stone. Baron turned earl—an aristocrat who played with the detachment of a machine and the ruthlessness of a monarch. Beating him would mean more than glory. It would be a door unlocked. A future reclaimed.
He didn’t want to be feared but respected. To belong somewhere where brilliance mattered more than birth.
Victor closed the notebook and rose, the chair creaking beneath him. He fastened his satchel with its weight of paper and purpose. Tomorrow, he would carry it onto the boat. And in a few days, into White’s Club itself.
He banked the fire and let the light die out.
Come the tournament, he knew exactly which piece he’d save first—not the Black Knight… unless, of course, that knight could be his.
CHAPTER 1
White’s Club, 37 St James’s St, London, July 24 — One day before the entry deadline
Victor Romanov paused at the top step of White’s and drew in a breath of London’s crisp evening air. The city spread around him—noisy carriages rattling over cobbles, laughter floating from an upstairs window across the street. Gaslight flickered above the imposing white door of the celebrious gentlemen’s club, casting a golden halo onto the polished brass knocker, one that signified entry to power, influence, and belonging.
He adjusted his gloves, aware of the weight of the Boardmen’s Tournament announcement tucked into his coat pocket. The paper had worn soft, creased from his thumb smoothing over it again and again as he rehearsed the conversation to come. The announcement wasn’t intended for him, but he’d earned it. Won it. That was how he got everything—turning nothing into a winning position.
Yet, even now, standing on the doorstep of London’s most distinguished club, doubt slithered unbidden into his mind. Would anyone believe he deserved to be here—even if he won?
The porter, an older man with a complexion like weathered parchment, blocked the entrance. His shoulders stiffened as Victor approached, and his eyes flickered over Victor’s tailored coat and sharp boots with more skepticism than courtesy.
“Good evening, sir.” The porter’s tone was flat and clipped. “May I assist you?”
“I believe you may.” Victor’s accent rounding the words in a way no amount of elocution lessons could entirely smooth. “I have an appointment with the Black Knight.”
The porter’s gaze lingered, narrowing slightly. “Black Knight. Hmpf. Are you a member of the club?”
“I’m a friend of a friend of a friend of the Earl’s.” Victor pulled the invitation from his pocket. The movement, deliberate and precise, aimed to dispel any misjudgments about his place here.
The porter didn’t even glance at the paper. “I’m afraid there’s been some misunderstanding, sir. White’s has a longstanding policy regarding membership and certain … rules. No doubt you understand.”
Victor’s jaw tightened at the well-oiled insult, aimed to slide past indignation and cut directly into pride. No foreigners. No Jews, specifically. The porter’s nerve pricked at Victor’s calm. He had not traveled across Europe and reached the threshold with nothing but self-respect and a wrinkled tournament announcement, to be dismissed like an intruder.
He squared his shoulders and spoke quietly. “You do not speak for the Black Knight. If there is some error?—”
“There is no error,” the porter snapped, though he immediately smoothed his coat, as if the burst of sharpness had been a slip of decorum. “You are not on the list of approved guests.”
“I’m here for the Boardmen’s Tournament, not the club,” Victor pressed on.
“Ah, yes. The tournament is also reserved for members and honored guests.”
“And it states that ‘Competitors are to submit credentials and pedigrees to the Secretary of Games no later than the 25th of July.’ That’s tomorrow. See?” Victor held out the wrinkled paper as if the mere act of touching it might remind the porter of its significance. “Thus, I need to enter today.” He straightened to his full height, the polished heels of his Hessian boots digging into the stone.
“Read the next line. ‘Competitors are to submit credentials and pedigrees to the Secretary of Games.’ Do you have a pedigree?” The man eyed him from head to toe with such scrutiny that Victor felt naked.
“Everybody has a pedigree. A mother and a father.” He narrowed his eyes when the man at the door hmpfed. “I was under the impression”—Victor measured his tone as a mathematician presenting a theorem—“that there are Jewish gentlemen among White’s membership.”
“There are exceptions to every rule.” The porter’s words cut sharper for their indifference.
