Page 2 of Claiming the Chess Mistress
Thank Zeus he had a few traits that endeared him to his handlers on Bow Street. He’d had extremely acute hearing since a lad, and lately, he’d discovered a knack for night vision. The longer he combed the London stews in the dark of the night, the better his vision became.
Although his own heart seemed to have climbed into his mouth and sucked up all the spit, this assignment was much preferable to the previous months he’d spent helping gather evidence needed to shut down one of the city’s most notorious, deadly baby farms. That investigation had been much harder on him for reasons he chose not to examine too closely.
He pumped his arms and legs in a blur of motion and pushed his lungs to the limit. He was rewarded with a quick glimpse of a running man slipping down a set of stone steps cut into a dark opening near the embankment.
Col threw back his head before leaning over to catch his breath. The bastard had slithered away into the vast underground beneath the city. After only a few seconds, he came to a decision. He dived and slid down the steps while gripping the iron rail. The bastard wouldnotget awaythistime.
* * *
April 4,1826
Goodrum’s House of Pleasure
Charlotte Smythe’s eyes glittered behind her domino costume mask. Sleek black and white opaque silk stockings caressed her legs and stretched comfortably with her frequent leaning over multiple chess games in progress. A frothy layer of black-and-white, diamond-patterned skirts slashed open in the front made her swift movements among the ten boards much easier. Seven of her opponents had already admitted defeat. The remaining three hung on only through stubborn determination.
By silent agreement with club owner Captain Eleanor Goodrum, she always allowed the games to slow toward the end. The expensive show of chess mastery she provided at the exclusive Goodrum’s House of Pleasure four nights a week had to last at least an hour. Otherwise, the eager male patrons would believe they hadn’t received sufficient return on their investments. At fifteen quid per game, hers was one of the most expensive gaming ventures in London.
Her loudest detractor, the elderly Marquess of Wisenberry, still paid the outrageous fee to play in these exclusive matches every week, certain he’d best her eventually. There were wagers on the books at White’s on when, and if, he would ever defeat the beautiful domino-attired chess mistress.
He was so corpulent from self-indulgence that he had one of his footmen deliver him each Wednesday to the multiple-board game in his specially made wooden wheelchair. The marquess had probably been a handsome gentleman in his youth, but years of excessive food and drink had laid him low. He wore a curled blonde wig, but his silver brows gave away his true age. The bright blue eyes beneath the brows, however, spoke of a possibly happier time in his youth.
She moved closer to his board and was rewarded with a wary, uncertain glance. She had him, which she’d known for the last two moves, but she’d let him blunder a bit longer. Her queen was one elegant glide away from claiming his king. The marquess had pieces protecting his king everywhere but the one space where they needed to be. She’d been taking his pawns and one of his protective knights - one by one. No matter how many games the silly man played, he never seemed to comprehend how dangerous the queen could be.
* * *
April 4,1826
Covent Garden, London
Col was nearly winded when he skidded to a halt at the sound of raised voices in what appeared to be a huge open area at the end of the long tunnel. He’d been chasing his quarry for what seemed like an hour. Of course, it couldn’t have been that long. He only hoped he’d be able to find his way back out through the black maw of the underground passageways.
The man he’d chased had stopped at each intersection and lit a small candle lantern he’d probably stashed at the entrance to the tunnel. He’d study a piece of paper before snuffing the light and continuing deeper into the labyrinth.
Col in turn had taken out the stub of a pencil he always carried and a bit of paper covered with many scrawled notes. Whenever the man stopped before deciding which way to turn, Col made a notation of the direction. Although he realized he’d never be able to read his writing in the impenetrable curtain of darkness in the tunnel, writing down the directions helped him remember the sequence of complex turns.
When the tunnel widened and dim light exploded into his vision, he edged back into the darkness, but not before he’d singled out his prey. The man was easy to spot in the crowd inside the cave-like room. He was the one holding aloft a corked glass tube of dark liquid - probably cached from the considerable pool of blood surrounding the dead, mutilated man in the alley.
Fascinated, Col watched him approach a woman near one of the room’s walls. The woman was completely nude with her body painted in black, which matched the crown on her head and the scepter in her hands. She lifted the slender container of the victim’s blood above her head and turned in a slow circle before motioning to a man leaning against the wall. He advanced toward her, took the jar, and poured the contents over her head before whispering something into her ear. She smiled and turned, walking regally toward the other side of the room along a series of white squares, squares formed from marble inlaid into the stone floor of the room.
Bile rose in Col’s throat. The floor of the room was laid out like a chess board. No, itwasa chess board, and all the pieces were human, nude humans painted black or white to represent their sides of the board.
The bloody chess piece he’d wrapped inside a handkerchief and stashed in a hidden slit inside his coat now had his hand itching to find out which one had been left with the body this time. He’d have to wait until later. For now, he’d have to make his way back through the maze of tunnels before the strange crowd of human chess pieces and voyeurs discovered his presence.
* * *
April 4,1826
Goodrum’s House of Pleasure
Charlotte had her way with two of her three remaining challengers before advancing to stand reflectively in front of the Marquess of Wisenberry.
He’d been deep in thought and staring at his board before looking back defiantly. “I have you this time,” he insisted.
She favored the ancient nobleman with a wide smile. “You won’t have metonight, milord.”
He gave her a thunderous look which no doubt terrified his footman standing nearby. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
She pointed a long, rose-tinted nail toward his side of the board. His black king was nearly surrounded by pawns, but one tiny square opened up a direct diagonal for her queen to strike precipitously. “Check,” she said, with a soft purr to her voice.