Page 26 of Love Is A Draw (Check Mates #2)

V ictor had walked through the night, each step carrying him farther from Gail and deeper into a hollow he could not quiet.

Sleep had mocked him; every time he shut his eyes, he saw her—saw the way her breath caught when his fingers brushed hers, imagined how it would be to kiss her, to cherish her, to hold her as if the world could not intrude.

But dawn had come, and with it the tournament.

If he could not command the board today—if he failed to stand as the Black Knight—then what right had he to think of her at all, let alone protect her.

The next morning, the townhouse was cloaked in an uneasy stillness, the air heavy with last night’s smoke and the faint tick of the mantel clock. Victor stood on the landing, adjusting his cuffs with mechanical precision, trying to force his body into readiness even as fatigue dragged at his limbs.

That was when the knock came—hard, echoing against Greg’s front door, the sound splitting the silence like a summons.

The butler answered swiftly. A tall man entered—severe, official, with the clipped authority of someone who didn’t expect questions. He held a small silver badge. “I need Lord Ashby and Mr. Romanov.”

Greg emerged from the study with wary eyes. “And you are?”

“Special investigator. I have it on credible authority that Mr. Romanov is connected to activities against the Crown. He’s been declared an enemy of the state.”

Victor froze. The banister bit into his hand.

Greg didn’t waver. “By whom?”

The man didn’t answer. More boots sounded. Three men entered—dark coats, stony expressions. Weapons holstered but visible.

The air shifted. Still, lethal.

“This is a private residence,” Greg said coldly. “And I’m the Earl of Ashby. Explain your presence.”

One of the men came forward and handed over a thick bundle tied with twine.

Victor’s breath stopped. His notebooks. Frayed. Water-stained. Creased from too many foreign hands.

The investigator pointed at the bundle of ledgers. “These were intercepted en route to a private club. They appear coded. Numbers, diagrams. Military?” Private club, pah! List stole them and was probably meeting with the investigators on his way to or from White’s.

Victor stepped forward. “Those are chess studies. My own.”

The man’s mouth curled. “You admit they’re yours then?”

“Yes.”

The investigator flipped another page. “This isn’t any chess I’ve seen. Not in the Times . Not in the Chessman’s Chronicles . Looks like code to me. Against the Crown?”

Treason? How could chess be treason if it was honor, love, and dignity? Victor’s gut turned. They didn’t understand. Worse—they didn’t want to.

Greg interrupted, his voice sharp. “It’s thorough notation Mr. Romanov has collected over a lifetime. Volumes of precious work.”

The man ignored him. “Or perhaps encoded messaging. A foreign script. Convenient, isn’t it?”

Victor’s heart pounded. List had studied the ledgers. Used them. Warped them.

The investigator lifted the bundle as though it might burn. “So, tell me, Mr. Romanov—if this is chess, what does it say?”

Victor stared at the pages—not as diagrams, but as years of labor. Tarkov’s hand. His own. Gail’s faith that those hours had mattered.

The officers had the papers in hand and the same question ready on their tongues.

“Mr. Romanov,” one began, tapping the margin, “you claim to be a chess player—yet this notation is not what we see in the Chessman’s Chronicles .

” He pulled out a pristine paper that showed he hadn’t studied the articles; it was just a freshly printed edition.

Any true player, however, pored over the Chessman’s Chronicles as soon as it was published.

Pristine copies were in the possession of only those who didn’t appreciate the paper itself.

The other man leaned in, eyes narrowed. “Are you, in fact, a chess player at all?”

Victor kept his expression even. Do not give them the scene they want.

“It says nothing to you,” he answered, voice level. “And that is why I will not argue. Call the round. Let me play in the tournament today and watch for yourself.”

Bootsteps carried down the corridor before any reply came—fast, coordinated, the sound of men who expected doors to open.

Two of List’s attendants swept in first, speaking low to the officers, glancing at Victor, then back again, as if ticking boxes on an invisible list. The officers straightened at once.

No attempt to hide they were in his pocket.

Baron von List arrived with Sofia on his arm, velvet and jewels, a measured pace that made the room wait for him. The officers bowed, not to the tournament, not to the game, but to the man.

“Watch us,” List said, smooth as polished steel. “He plays me.”

No debate. No delay. The officers gave a single, sharp nod.

Greg led the party to the room where boards had been set up for the third round. The winner of this third round would play Greg for the title of Black Knight.

Victor walked to the table under their gaze. He sat. The board lay simple and absolute before him—sixty-four squares, nothing more, nothing less. The pieces felt heavier today, not for their weight, but for who watched them.

Across from him, List rested two fingers on a pawn and smiled without warmth.

Movement at the far doors down the hall drew Victor’s eyes.

Rachel Pearler entered with Fave—and with Gail between them.

They saw the officers. Rachel’s hand closed on Gail’s sleeve at once, drawing her aside toward Greg and Lady Hermy.

Fave stepped in close, a quiet wall, and the four of them spoke in low voices near the gallery rail.

Victor did not hear the words. He would not. The line of his focus narrowed and held.

Center first. Then the man across from you. Then everything else.

List’s smile did not change.

The officers took their places at the edge of sight, watching. The chamber stilled. Round Three waited.

Victor set his hand over the board—and the game began.