Page 35 of Love Is A Draw (Check Mates #2)

L ist stood still as stone, jaw tight, watching the wind scatter Victor’s invalidated deportation papers across the quay. The gathered crowd lingered, curious now, murmuring as their eyes bounced between the players, the customs officer, and the Black Knight still seated by the chessboard.

Victor spoke first. “The match ended in a draw.”

Gail rose beside him, her tone crisp. “Under the terms Baron von List dictated, that draw means the title is shared, and protection granted to both.”

Greg nodded. “Let it be known that this match—this draw—was witnessed by dozens. The agreement made by Baron von List will be recorded in full at White’s Club and posted in tomorrow’s edition of the Chessman’s Chronicles. ”

List flinch at the mention of the Chessman’s Chronicles .

Hermy’s voice cut in sweetly, from behind her husband. “Of course, if the baron wishes to dishonor a wager made in public—well, we all know what happens to men who cheat at games in London.”

Fave came up beside them, all polished civility and hidden bite. “White’s won’t have you back. Nor will Boodle’s. You’ll be lucky if you’re allowed in the back parlor at Almack’s.”

The customs officer raised a brow. “You made a bet and lost.”

“He’s trying to void it,” Greg said, “because he doesn’t like the winners.”

The officer blinked, unimpressed. “Sounds like someone who shouldn’t play games with people smarter than him.”

List growled, “They’re Jews. Russians. You’re all being taken in.”

“I know what they are, and I saw what they did.” The officer gestured at the board still set on the crate. “That wasn’t luck. That was a calculated draw, played under pressure, in public. No foul, no forfeit. Just strategy.”

He searched Gail’s expression. “You held your line.” Then to Victor. “And you sacrificed your win to make sure she didn’t lose.”

Victor didn’t reply, but his hand closed around Gail’s. The message was clear. They had done it together.

He turned to Victor. “Your papers say your name is Victor Romanov of Bassarabia?”

Victor nodded.

“And who’s this new arrival?” The officer glanced at the old man now beside him.

“Dmitry Tarkov,” Gail spoke up. “Yes. This is my grandfather.”

The customs officer straightened. “ The Dmitry Tarkov? Best endgames ever seen?”

“You know of him?” Victor asked, stunned.

The officer nodded slowly. “Then he’ll stay. He’s with you. And your play today—your restraint, your integrity—that earns my signature.”

“You can find them at my townhouse,” Greg said. “The Earl and Countess of Ashby—we’re known in Town.”

List was livid. “They are Jews! Russians! That man,”—he pointed at Dmitry—“should be boarding the ship right now!”

“I’m sorry,” the officer said slowly, his voice dry as sand. “My mandate is to stop smugglers and criminals from entering the port. Not geniuses.” He tilted his head. “And not strategists who honor their word in public.” He turned deliberately. “And what’s your accent?”

“I am Baron Wolfgang von List,” the baron spat. “Of Prussia.”

“And do you have your papers, Baron?” the officer asked, too politely. “I don’t see any validation of the Crown for your presence here.”

List sputtered.

Greg leaned over to Fave, whispering, “I almost regret it.”

Deadpan, Fave replied, “Don’t.”

The customs officer lifted his chin. “Until your documents are verified, I suggest you step back.”

The crowd around them had begun to smile. One woman let out a delighted titter. Another man whispered, “Is he the one who lost to the girl?”

As List’s face turned an alarming shade of crimson, Gail caught Maia’s gaze and reached for her hand, giving it a firm squeeze. Then she turned to Dmitry and wrapped him in a tight hug. “You’re safe.”

Victor met her eyes. “We’re safe.”

Dmitry slipped his arm around her shoulder. “My granddaughter,” he said clearly, for all to hear.

Greg turned back to the officer. “Shall we go?”

“Yes, my lord. Have a good day.”

Behind them, List stood silent and alone, his coat no longer crisp, his title little more than a sneer on the wind. He glanced once more at the chessboard still standing in the middle of the quay, then turned and stormed into the fog.

The sound of applause rang loudly as Gail and Victor left, flanked by the Pearlers, Crown Jewelers, and Greg and Hermy, Earl and Countess.

When they reached the carriages—the elegant black-lacquered one with the Pearlers’ swirly gold “P” and the two-horse coach of the Earl and Countess of Ashby—the crowd had begun to thin. But the hush that followed seemed anything but empty.

The sky over the Thames turned pale with dusk, the fog lifting in slow, curling ribbons, like the city itself was exhaling.

Gail climbed out of the carriage, her skirts brushing against the damp stone. She turned and offered her hand to Maia, who scrambled out behind her, cheeks pink with excitement. Gail squeezed her fingers tight.

“We made it,” she whispered, and Maia beamed.

Dmitry stood at the center of the dock, still upright, still silent, his worn valise in one hand. He appeared as if he’d come out of another time—but in this moment, with the wind tugging gently at his coat, he was entirely present.

Gail crossed the space between them and threw her arms around him, hugging with the full weight of everything she hadn’t been able to say. Of everything they’d nearly lost.

His arms came around her slowly, uncertain at first—and then all at once. “ My vnuchka ,” My granddaughter.

She held him tighter.

Behind them, Rachel approached, smoothing her gloves nervously. “Mr. Tarkov, we’re honored. I’ve heard about your games since I was a girl.” She offered a small, reverent curtsy. “And your granddaughter—she’s… well, she’s our family now too.”

Dmitry blinked at her, clearly surprised. “Your father, Mr. Newman, has protected our family. We will forever be in your debt.”

Fave came forward. “There’s no debt to be repaid among us. We’re glad to have you here. It’s an honor.”

Hermy glided forward with polished ease, offering her arm as though Dmitry were visiting nobility. “We’ve come to take you home.” She gave a warm smile. “And I do mean home. There’s a hearth waiting, and I believe a supper fit for legends.”

Dmitry hesitated, eyes moving from Gail to the others, as if still trying to comprehend it all. “An earl and his countess?”

“Please!” Greg gave a short nod and offered Hermy his arm.

Greg lingered just behind them, his free hand clasped at his back, gaze steady. “You raised a mind sharper than most generals, sir. She’s changed everything for us. Thank you.”

Dmitry stared for a long moment. “You’re the Black Knight?”

“No, it’s Gail and Victor now. Sharing the honor as well as the burden.” Greg flattened his lips as one did at the end of one era, making room for the next to begin. “She won my title first.”

“I thought I taught her to win,” Dmitry murmured. “But she taught me to be victorious.”

Rachel’s eyes brimmed.

Greg stepped in and gently clapped Dmitry once on the back. “Come, Mr. Tarkov. My coach is ready. And I believe someone would like a word before we go.”

Dmitry turned slowly, following Greg’s glance. Victor.

Still standing at the edge of the dock, near the now-abandoned chessboard. Still watching.