Page 71 of Love Is A Draw
List was livid. “They are Jews! Russians! That man,”—he pointed at Dmitry—“should be boarding the ship right now!”
“I’m sorry,” the officer said slowly, his voice dry as sand. “My mandate is to stop smugglers and criminals from entering the port. Not geniuses.” He tilted his head. “And not strategists who honor their word in public.” He turned deliberately. “And what’s your accent?”
“I am Baron Wolfgang von List,” the baron spat. “Of Prussia.”
“And do you have your papers, Baron?” the officer asked, too politely. “I don’t see any validation of the Crown for your presence here.”
List sputtered.
Greg leaned over to Fave, whispering, “I almost regret it.”
Deadpan, Fave replied, “Don’t.”
The customs officer lifted his chin. “Until your documents are verified, I suggest you step back.”
The crowd around them had begun to smile. One woman let out a delighted titter. Another man whispered, “Is he the one who lost to the girl?”
As List’s face turned an alarming shade of crimson, Gail caught Maia’s gaze and reached for her hand, giving it a firm squeeze. Then she turned to Dmitry and wrapped him in a tight hug. “You’re safe.”
Victor met her eyes. “We’re safe.”
Dmitry slipped his arm around her shoulder. “My granddaughter,” he said clearly, for all to hear.
Greg turned back to the officer. “Shall we go?”
“Yes, my lord. Have a good day.”
Behind them, List stood silent and alone, his coat no longer crisp, his title little more than a sneer on the wind. He glancedonce more at the chessboard still standing in the middle of the quay, then turned and stormed into the fog.
The sound of applause rang loudly as Gail and Victor left, flanked by the Pearlers, Crown Jewelers, and Greg and Hermy, Earl and Countess.
When they reached the carriages—theelegant black-lacquered one with the Pearlers’ swirly gold “P” and the two-horse coach of the Earl and Countess of Ashby—the crowd had begun to thin. But the hush that followed seemed anything but empty.
The sky over the Thames turned pale with dusk, the fog lifting in slow, curling ribbons, like the city itself was exhaling.
Gail climbed out of the carriage, her skirts brushing against the damp stone. She turned and offered her hand to Maia, who scrambled out behind her, cheeks pink with excitement. Gail squeezed her fingers tight.
“We made it,” she whispered, and Maia beamed.
Dmitry stood at the center of the dock, still upright, still silent, his worn valise in one hand. He appeared as if he’d come out of another time—but in this moment, with the wind tugging gently at his coat, he was entirely present.
Gail crossed the space between them and threw her arms around him, hugging with the full weight of everything she hadn’t been able to say. Of everything they’d nearly lost.
His arms came around her slowly, uncertain at first—and then all at once. “My vnuchka,” My granddaughter.
She held him tighter.
Behind them, Rachel approached, smoothing her gloves nervously. “Mr. Tarkov, we’re honored. I’ve heard about yourgames since I was a girl.” She offered a small, reverent curtsy. “And your granddaughter—she’s… well, she’s our family now too.”
Dmitry blinked at her, clearly surprised. “Your father, Mr. Newman, has protected our family. We will forever be in your debt.”
Fave came forward. “There’s no debt to be repaid among us. We’re glad to have you here. It’s an honor.”
Hermy glided forward with polished ease, offering her arm as though Dmitry were visiting nobility. “We’ve come to take you home.” She gave a warm smile. “And I do mean home. There’s a hearth waiting, and I believe a supper fit for legends.”
Dmitry hesitated, eyes moving from Gail to the others, as if still trying to comprehend it all. “An earl and his countess?”
“Please!” Greg gave a short nod and offered Hermy his arm.
