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