Page 11 of Love Is A Draw (Check Mates #2)

V ictor’s grip on Gail’s hand tightened as the girl vanished into the throng. Pickpockets should take money, not his belongings. He didn’t dare slow. Not with what was in that satchel. Not when it held everything.

His boots struck the gravel path hard, the sharp rhythm muffled beneath the din of Vauxhall—laughter, music, fireworks, the shrill whistle of a vendor’s pipe.

All of it blurred, background to the singular fact that he was losing it.

His notes. His life’s work. Pages filled with every opening he’d ever tested, every loss, every insight—his thoughts in code, scrawled out in margins and redrafted in sleepless hours.

He’d built his mind around that collection.

If he lost it, what would be left of his life?

Beside him, Gail stumbled briefly, catching herself. He didn’t release her hand; he steadied her, drew her close. He couldn’t let go. Not of her, not of this chase.

The child ducked through a pocket in the crowd, slipping like water between silk skirts and walking sticks.

Victor pushed on, threading through startled passersby, his grip firm as he maneuvered Gail alongside him.

The pungency of burnt sugar drifted past, but the only thing he could truly smell was the panic edging into his throat.

Gail kept pace, swift, determined. His match.

The crush of the gardens gave way as they neared the outer paths. The manicured gravel underfoot turned to uneven cobblestone, and then … the girl was gone—swallowed by shadow at the mouth of a narrow alley.

Victor halted, pulling Gail gently to his side, shielding her. The alley, choked in dim light, was lined with crates and the sour stench of waste on wet stone.

“Stay close,” he murmured, quiet but firm.

He felt her nod, caught the flick of her bonnet from the corner of his eye—but his focus had narrowed to that dark passageway.

Not my notebooks.

A boy stepped forward from the shadows, wiry and tall for his age—perhaps fourteen. He planted himself between Victor and the alley’s depths, defiant, but unable to hide the tremble in his jaw. “What do you want from my sister?” His voice cracked but didn’t break.

Behind him, the little girl peered out, face smudged and wide-eyed. She clutched a tattered blanket draped over a barrel. Gail’s reticule and Victor’s satchel peeked from beneath it like treasures half-buried.

Victor’s breath came slow and measured. “She took something that belongs to us. Her reticule.” He glanced at Gail. “And my satchel.”

The boy’s eyes dropped to the blanket where the satchel lay hidden. His hand hovered near the edge, curling as if ready to seize it at the first chance. The girl edged closer to him, clearly afraid.

Victor took a careful step forward. “We mean you no harm. Just give them back. That’s all.”

The boy hesitated.

Gail shifted beside Victor but said nothing. She didn’t press, didn’t scold. Most importantly, she stayed beside Victor and let him handle it.

The silence stretched, and the tension drew tight as violin strings.

He stepped forward again, slowly, deliberately, placing himself in front of Gail, shielding her from the boy.

“I need what’s in that bag.” Victor’s admission was quieter now. “You wouldn’t know to look at it, but there’s a book inside. A journal. It’s not worth anything to anyone but me. It’s… everything.”

Gail shifted. Victor sensed her reaction but didn’t glance back at her, hoping the boy would voluntarily return the notebooks.

The boy’s brow furrowed. Still, he didn’t move.

Victor swallowed hard. His next words came without calculation. “It’s how I understand the world. My thoughts, my mistakes. My games.” He exhaled, throat dry. “I’ve written in it every day for years.” There. The truth of it, naked and strange, meant as much for the boy as for Gail.

The boy’s gaze flickered to his sister. She clutched the satchel now, staring at Victor as though trying to decide if he was lying.

“I don’t want to take anything from you,” Victor added. “I only want what’s mine.”

Another beat passed. The girl came forward. Slowly. Reluctantly. She held out the reticule, then the satchel, small arms trembling.

Victor took them both with a quiet nod of thanks. He didn’t open the satchel immediately, just curled his hand protectively around the worn leather strap.

The boy shifted his weight. Still wary, but something in him eased.

Victor turned slightly toward Gail. She met his gaze steadily, her eyes unreadable—but he saw something there. A flicker of understanding. Or was it something more?

He turned back to the children. “You’ve done the right thing.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, simply stepped back, took Gail’s hand once more, and guided her a step back.

The satchel was back on his shoulder.

But the weight of it—somehow—felt less than it had before.

Gail’s heart thudded as she retreated, her reticule empty without the expected weight.

The boy had dropped it, but the little girl darted forward before Gail could reclaim it.

She crouched by the barrel, tiny fingers fumbling at the clasp, dirt smudging the delicate embroidery.

The gleam of a coin caught the fading light, and the girl triumphantly pulled free the meager fortune inside.

“There’s coin in the reticule,” Gail said, her tone steady though she softened each word. “Nothing else of use to you. Take the money and give the rest back.” She paused, edging nearer despite every instinct screaming to hold still. The child stilled, glancing at her brother for approval.

“How much is it?” The boy bounced between boldness and uncertainty.

“A shilling and a half,” the girl answered.

Her small hand dipped back into the reticule, pulling free a folded handkerchief trimmed with lace.

She discarded it with a disinterested toss.

But then, gleaming softly in the dim alley light, came a silver comb.

The girl’s eyes widened, her grubby thumb dragging across the filigree worked into the handle.

“Is this real silver?” She tilted it toward the boy as she bit into it like a pirate. So she’d been read to. She hadn’t always been on the street. Poor child.

Gail’s throat tightened. Her teeth gently raked her lower lip, betraying her emotion before she could suppress it.

She’d kept that comb safe across the years and long journey from Bassarabia to England.

It had no grand worth in currency, but it meant the world to her.

Still, she gave a small, rueful nod. “I’ve had it since I was a girl.

” The aching loss already settled in her chest. She let it go. She had to.

The child didn’t seem to care for sentiment. She kept the comb, slipping it into her pocket with a satisfied huff. A moment later, she thrust the reticule itself back at Gail, the fabric now rough in her trembling hand. She held onto it, swallowing her disappointment.

“Now, my stuff.” Victor’s demand cut sharply through the air, no longer soft, his patience clearly thinning.

Gail noticed the way his posture shifted, taut as a bowstring yet calm. His hands hung loose at his sides, but something unyielding danced behind his eyes.

The boy knelt, rummaging through Victor’s satchel with a casual irreverence. Grimy, calloused fingers brushed hastily through the contents until he froze, pulling out one of Victor’s notebooks. He flipped it open with careless hands, scanning the pages covered in Victor’s unmistakable scrawl.

His lips curled downward in disdain. “Books?” he sneered, holding the pages aloft for all in the alley to see. “Just scribbles.”

Victor flinched, subtle but not unnoticed by Gail, as the boy flung the notebook onto the filthy alley ground. “All of them just scribbles?” The boy yanked out another ledger and tossed it atop the first. He barked a laugh toward his sister. “He’s a madman for running after you for this nonsense.”

Victor’s long legs carried him forward, bending swiftly to retrieve the ledgers from the dirt.

No hesitation. No complaint. Only urgency, something fierce in his movements.

When he straightened, dusting off the covers with a slow intensity, her heart flipped against her ribs.

These were no idle books; they were lifeblood to him.

Light caught on a glint of metal.

A knife.

It hovered precariously close to Victor’s chest, trembling ever so slightly in the boy’s grip.

Gail’s breath seized in her throat, her eyes locked on the wicked, curved blade that glistened in the shadows around them.

The knife was crude, the type one might find discarded at the docks, lovingly sharpened to lethal potential.

But Victor barely flinched. He stood rooted, steady, his expression almost bemused as he stared down the boy holding it.

“If you have no use for this,” Victor said, his tone deceptively calm, almost casual, “then let us go.”

Gail marveled at his composure. She stood frozen, her fingers clutching the useless reticule, while her pulse roared in her ears.

But Victor acted as if time itself bent to his control, as if his response were only a matter of strategy, another move to calculate. And she, absurdly, trusted him to win.

The boy’s grip on the knife shifted, sweat glistening against his knuckles. The books no longer seemed to matter to him—he’d already cast them aside. What he wanted now was coin, a chance to escape from whatever corner of London had driven him to this.

“You’re causing yourself more trouble than you can handle.” Victor held a piercing stare, despite the steady neutrality of his tone.

“I can handle plenty of trouble.” The boy’s voice cracked, defiant yet laced with fear. “But money’s what I don’t have.” His hand tightened on the knife’s wooden hilt, trembling harder now. He took an uncertain step forward.

Victor didn’t retreat. “You don’t need money.” He reached into his coat pocket. “What you need is to learn how to think. The rest will follow.”