Page 22 of Love Is A Draw (Check Mates #2)

T hey reached the Pearlers’ grand home just in time— just before he did what he couldn’t without Dmitry Tarkov’s permission. Not without vows exchanged. Their hearts had already been given. But his honor demanded more.

Victor sat motionless in the hackney after Gail disappeared into the Pearlers’ home, the door shutting with a quiet finality that echoed louder than it should have. Her breathless confession—I didn’t know I’d fall in love on the same day I nearly died—clung to him like smoke.

She had given him everything. Trust. Desire. Truth.

And now she was gone from his arms, leaving behind not relief, but a quiet ache that twisted low in his chest.

Gail—Avigail—Tarkov. Dmitry’s granddaughter.

He leaned his head back against the worn leather, trying to slow the hammer of his heart. I kissed the girl he raised. The child I wasn’t allowed to see all those years ago. The memories overlapped, folding present into past until his throat tightened.

But she remembered me.

She loves me.

He needed a distraction.

“The Earl of Ashby’s townhouse,” he instructed the driver. It wasn’t far from here, and perhaps the distraction would help clear his head.

When he arrived, the scene that greeted him gave him anything but clarity.

The townhouse door stood ajar, a slice of warm light spilling onto the pavement.

Behind it, raised voices cut through the London street’s usual decorous hum.

Victor paid the driver swiftly and swung down from the carriage, tension twisting his gut.

“What is the matter?” he called, striding into the great hall, his boots striking the marble in clipped, echoing bursts.

Greg, face flushed, stood at the foot of the grand staircase, his words reverberating like thunder. “I want to know exactly who it was, how long he was here, and what’s missing!” His hands clenched as he addressed a knot of servants who looked bewildered and alarmed. “Make a complete inventory!”

Victor had seen Greg in many tempers, but rarely like this. Vehement, barely contained rage replaced his typically composed demeanor. The vein on his temple pulsed visibly as he turned toward one of the maids, issuing yet another sharp instruction.

“Victor?”

Victor turned to see Hermy, Greg’s wife, her sharp gaze sweeping over him. “What happened to you?” Her eyes lingered on his damp, slightly muddied coat and trousers, the evidence of today’s disaster still apparent despite his attempts to improve his appearance.

“It’s… a long story,” Victor replied. Gail. The crash. The kiss. He couldn’t say any of it. Not yet. “Has something gone missing?”

“We don’t think so.” Hermy’s gaze flickered with unease.

“We can’t tell yet. That’s the problem.” Greg’s hands flexed, a restless motion that betrayed his frustration. “I’ll speak to the butler.” He turned sharply and strode off, the older, white-haired man following briskly in his wake.

Hermy hesitated a heartbeat before gesturing for Victor to follow her into another room. “Come. This is most unusual. He was here first, it seems.” She led him into the study, her movements steady but brisk, her expression taut with concern.

The study remained as polished and immaculate as always. Warm lamplight cast golden hues over the paper-strewn desk and the rich, dark wood of the shelves. Hermy crossed to the desk, opening drawers one by one. “See? Nothing seems touched. Nothing missing. It isn’t even out of order.”

Victor stepped closer, glancing over her shoulder at the tidy papers and untouched figurines. “I don’t understand. Someone broke in?”

Hermy hesitated, shutting the final drawer with a soft click. “Not exactly. The milk delivery was late today. When the boy finally arrived, the kitchen maid told me he asked to come inside for something to eat.”

Victor frowned. “Is that unusual?”

“Yes,” Hermy replied sharply, shaking her head. “And this wasn’t the regular boy. He was new. Someone older than the staff expected.”

“How much older?”

“She said older than Greg. Considerably.”

“Not a boy, then.” Victor’s jaw tightened as a quiet unease slithered over him.

“Precisely.” Hermy inhaled deeply, her gaze flickering to the doorway as though expecting an explanation to walk in.

“The kitchen maid says she left him in the kitchen with biscuits, cheese, and tea. What harm could it do? And then… she said she pitied the man because he seemed ill. His lips were bluish and his hands…” She paused, exhaling sharply.

Victor’s breath caught. Cold. Bluish.

Hermy cast a glance at Greg, who had re-entered, and opened her eyes wide. “What did he say?”

“The butler called everyone to check the rooms. They found tracks. Dirty footprints on the stairs, leading up toward the guest rooms,” Greg said grimly. “Large feet, but the butler said boots that fine shouldn’t be so dirty.”

Hermy drew a sharp breath, her fingers clutching the edge of her gown.

Victor’s stomach tightened, and his unease sharpened into something closer to dread. “Perhaps he was just curious? About the house?” he offered, though the words came out flimsy even as he spoke them.

Hermy’s expression was grim. “A footman, Philip Smithson, caught him in the guest room.”

Victor froze, the air catching in his throat. “The guest room…”

“Yes.” Hermy glanced at him, her meaning clear.

Victor didn’t wait for another word. His boots thundered against the polished floor as he bolted out of the study and up the staircase, pulse pounding in his ears. He heard Hermy following and Greg’s heavier footsteps not far behind her.

At the top of the stairs, he found the door to his guest room. A young maid was dusting near the wardrobe, her brows drawn in nervous concentration. Nearby, a footman stood rigidly by the door, pale but stony-faced.

Victor’s breath stalled in his chest as he surveyed the room. He scanned the dresser, the trunk at the foot of the bed, the writing table by the window. His gaze snagged on the table. No, not on the table. On the empty space his most important possession left behind.

Gone. The only thing that mattered.

His heart sank. “It’s gone,” he whispered hoarsely.

Greg came into the room, his thunderous mood shifting instantly to something quieter, darker. Hermy stayed close by the door, her hands clasped tightly.

There was no denying it. The thing that mattered most was gone.

It was already late by the time Gail had scrubbed the mud from her limbs and changed into dry clothes, but no amount of washing could remove the phantom of Victor’s kiss—still burning at the edge of her mouth, impossible to forget.

She clutched the tea tray tighter, the porcelain rattling softly as she walked, steam rising in lazy swirls from the chamomile.

The warmth seeped into her fingers, grounding her.

She moved quickly down the hallway, shawl drawn tight, feet silent against the carpet.

Beeswax scent lingered, clinging to the walls like memory.

She should have gone straight to Maia. But the soft gleam of gaslight spilled from the crack beneath the library door. Still lit? At this hour?

She paused, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet, not to eavesdrop—only to steady herself.

“If she knew he was coming, she’d start to hope,” Rachel said, thin and unsure. “But what if he doesn’t make it?”

“Then we lose him. And he’s all she has left,” Fave replied.

Gail flinched. The tray wobbled. She pressed it closer to her chest, every muscle locked in place.

“We have to try,” Fave continued. “He’s the best mind of our time. And he’d be safer here than anywhere else.”

A beat of silence. Then Rachel said, “Do you really think List would hurt him?”

“He knows Dmitry’s alive,” Fave said. “And if he learns he’s traveling to England…”

Gail’s breath stilled. Dmitry.

It couldn’t be. Her thoughts fractured—grandfather, chessboards, Victor whispered. He taught me everything . Could it be the same Dmitry? Her Dmitry?

“We’re not just bringing him here,” Fave said. “We’re protecting him.”

Her knees buckled slightly. She gripped the tray harder, fingernails biting into it. Her mind swam, trying to catch up.

“But he’s traveling alone?” Rachel asked.

“He insisted. From Bessarabia to Paris, then to Calais and Dover. I’d go to him myself, but the journey would take too long.”

“And there’s no one we can trust to accompany him?”

“I trust no one. Not with his identity.”

Then—Fave’s tone lowered, quiet but clear: “Gail wouldn’t want to wait four months if she knew.”

That tore it. She turned from the door and moved. Fast. The tea sloshed dangerously, the silver spoon clinking as she climbed. Her breath caught, and her shawl slipped from her shoulders. She nearly lost her footing at the top of the stairs.

Footsteps behind her—quiet, but swift.

“Gail?”

She stopped, heart hammering. Turned. Fave and Rachel stood below, watching. “I-I was just … Maia’s tea,” she managed.

Rachel lifted herself onto the stair, reaching gently for the tray. “Let me take it,” she said softly. “You need to hear this. Now.”

Gail let the tray go.

Then came the silence. Dense. Waiting.

She moved downward slowly, each tread heavier than the last, hands trembling. When she reached the bottom, Fave closed the small distance between them. No smile. No preamble. “Your grandfather,” he said. “He’s alive. And he’s coming.”

Victor paced the length of the study, every stride deliberate, measured, and packed with barely-contained energy.

Every muscle strung tight with frustration and his thoughts tugged at him, sharp as the tension in his shoulders.

His hand brushed the carved back of a chair before moving on, restless, unwilling to pause.

The faint smell of aged oak mingled with the sharper tang of coal smoke from the hearth, where low flames flickered in the grate.

Behind him, Greg leaned casually against the mantel, his demeanor maddeningly unbothered despite the significance of the matter. He swirled a dark amber liquid in a crystal glass, the clink of it against the elegant rim a quiet counterpoint to Victor’s agitated movements.

Greg raised the glass slightly in Victor’s direction. “Do you want some to calm your nerves?”

Victor stopped short and glared at the other man. “No.” A muscle ticking in his jaw. “I never drink to calm my nerves.”

“Ah.” Greg took a slow sip from his glass. “I’ve heard that before. Fave and Arnold always say the same thing. Something about keeping their guards up.”

“They’re not wrong.” Victor resumed pacing before halting suddenly behind the desk chair. Gripping the armrest with white-knuckled intensity, he stared unseeing at the stack of papers Greg had abandoned on the desk.

Across the room, Greg lowered his glass, his gaze drifting to the fireplace. “So, if I understand you correctly, all your notes are handwritten. Several volumes, each one filled.”

Victor straightened, his grip unwavering on the chair. “Yes.”

“And all of them are gone?” Greg prompted, his voice easy, but his eyes keen.

The familiar weight of defeat settled against Victor’s spine, heavy and unrelenting. “Yes.”

Greg’s scrutiny didn’t waver. “That’s the satchel you’ve been carrying everywhere. The one nobody’s allowed to touch?”

“Yes.”

“But not today,” Greg pressed lightly.

Victor’s expression tightened before he wrenched himself away from the chair, striding several paces before turning sharply on his heel. “Because we were on a bloody balloon. And quite frankly, I’m relieved I didn’t bring it. We ended up landing in a pond.”

Greg’s chuckle was short-lived, cut off by Victor’s unrelenting stare.

Sobering, Greg gestured slightly with his glass.

“I suppose that was fortunate, then.” He tilted his head, his demeanor becoming more serious.

“But it’s gone, Victor. And it’s everything you’ve learned, isn’t it? Everything he taught you?”

Victor stilled. His chest rose and fell with slow, deliberate breaths as the ache of the loss surged anew.

“It’s everything. Every note I took in those years.

Every game transcribed, every question I asked, every answer he gave.

They aren’t just notes. They’re… Dmitry’s brilliance distilled. His lessons. His genius. My legacy.”

Greg’s gaze flickered with understanding. “A collection like the world has never seen,” he murmured, finally setting his glass down on a nearby table.

“Yes,” Victor snapped, but the fierceness in his honesty was born of protectiveness rather than temper. He straightened, his shoulders squaring, though the weight of the loss remained. “Finally, you understand.”

Greg studied him for a moment before continuing. “I see two choices in front of you, my friend.” He leaned closer, his tone practical but firm. “Option one. You start over. Try to recreate as much as you can remember.”

Victor gave a short and bitter laugh. “Start over? It took over twelve years to compile those notes. Dmitry was by my side when I wrote most of them. He checked my work and made sure the notations were flawless. Even if I tried, I wouldn’t be able to recreate that knowledge.”

“Fair enough.” Greg inclined his head slightly, as if conceding the point. “Then that leaves option two.”

Victor’s gaze locked on him, burning with suppressed fury. “Go on.”

Greg leaned forward, holding Victor’s gaze with equal intensity. “Get them back.”

Victor’s fists clenched at his sides, his mind moving faster than his composure could hold. “I still need proof,” he said through gritted teeth. “If it was List who took them, I need to be certain.”

“Then pay him a visit,” Greg said evenly, his calm contrasting with the storm spreading across Victor’s expression.

Victor didn’t nod. Not yet. But his silence carried weight. His breathing slowed, calculated. And then, sharp and sure, he turned on his heel. “I will.” The purpose in his low voice was unmistakable. “And if he has what I think he has—he’ll give it back.”

Victor turned toward the fire, jaw clenched. “If List has the notebooks, he’ll study them. Recreate the positions. Use them to win.”

Greg cut in sharply. “Or publish them under his name.”

“Or worse,” Victor murmured. “Destroy them once he’s gotten what he needs.”

He didn’t say it aloud, but they both knew what was at stake. This wasn’t about revenge. It was about protecting everything Dmitry had built—and everyone he’d loved.