Page 7 of Love Is A Draw (Check Mates #2)

Chessman’s Chronicle – Special Announcement

In a striking departure from tradition, this decade’s Boardmen’s Tournament will be hosted not at White’s nor any of London’s gentlemen’s clubs, but under the distinguished roof of Pearler House—the estate of the Crown jewelers themselves.

This marks the first time the tournament welcomes players outside the traditional spheres of nobility and club membership, including foreign players, Jewish strategists, and even women.

The final round, as confirmed by the League and the Chronicle’s own sources, will be overseen by none other than the Black Knight himself, Lord Gregory Stone.

An undefeated tournament champion and member of Parliament, Lord Stone has announced he will personally host the closing match and face the strongest contender in a final game that promises to crown not only the season’s best player, but possibly a new era in English chess.

Critics are divided. Is this a gesture of bold meritocracy—or the reckless opening gambit of a man too sure of his legacy?

One thing is certain: with players from the Continent such as Baron Wolfgang von List of Prussia rumored to compete, alongside emerging talents serving the Crown whose names have yet to be tested on London’s elite boards, the question is no longer who may play—but who dares to win.

And what will be left of the Black Knight’s legend when they do?

A list of registered players follows…

T he quietest rooms always gave her away, and the next day was no different.

Even before her footsteps reached Fave Pearler’s study doorway, Gail knew Rachel had heard her enter.

The lady’s head remained bent over a small stack of correspondence, but Gail sensed the slight shift in the air now that she was playing in the tournament.

“I’ve brought the announcement back.” Gail held out the well-thumbed volume of Chessman’s Chronicle she’d read as soon as it had been delivered in the morning.

Her name was on the list of players. Unbelievably forward—or stupid.

She wasn’t certain which yet, so she moved carefully, placing it beside the inkwell and quills on Fave’s desk without disrupting anything.

Rachel didn’t blink. “You found the von List match, I assume?”

Gail hesitated. “Yes. And the analyst got the second knight line wrong. He assumed Black was forcing a double pin, but he didn’t see the escape diagonal behind the bishop. A queen slide to d2 could’ve changed the whole endgame.”

Rachel’s lips twitched faintly. “You’ve never said that aloud before.”

Gail stiffened. “Said what, my lady?”

“That you’re better than the analysts.”

“I didn’t mean?—”

“But you are.” Rachel tapped one long finger on the edge of the desk. “Better than the men who study the matches. Better than many of the men who play them.”

Heat rose to Gail’s face before she could stop it. She hated how visible that made her still brilliant. “I only study the games chosen for the Chronicle .”

“Don’t be modest, Gail.” Rachel tilted her head, studying her now. “Do you know what Fave said to me last night after Victor played against him?”

Gail didn’t answer, but her pulse raced.

“He said you might be the only person under this roof who could truly challenge Victor’s instincts. And that’s saying something. Because Victor doesn’t just play games, he dismantles opponents.”

A cold thrill ran down Gail’s spine—not fear, but connection. She understood that peerless ease, an incisive mind drawn to challenge.

Rachel continued. “I’m glad he’s here because someone has to dismantle the Lists, especially if they both play. But I know that look on your face, Gail.”

Gail straightened. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You’re thinking of your grandfather. Of what it costs to come here. Of how dangerous it is to hope for something you were told you shouldn’t reach.” Rachel didn’t waver. “You don’t have to explain. I’ve lived it.”

Gail stood motionless—hands steady, breath caught.

“And if you’re also sensing,” Rachel added carefully, “there’s more on the board than who wins the tournament… you’re right.”

Gail swallowed.

“He’s good, exceptionally so. But he doesn’t know how many pieces are truly in play with List and his Baronesse involved.” Rachel pushed the Chronicle toward her. “You do.”

Gail stared at the magazine cover. A game. And yet so much more—a summons of fate for the Jews in England.

“We’ll need you sharp for the opening ceremony.” Rachel’s voice softened. “Greg has asked to oversee her practice matches this morning. You’ll assist him.”

Gail’s fingers twitched at her sides. That’s not safe. She almost said it. But instead she asked, “Assist? In what way?”

“To make us unshakable.” Rachel smiled slightly. “He trusts your strategic mind. He’ll need your insight, whether he knows it yet or not.”

Gail moaned silently: I can’t—Not here. Not with Victor like this—like he saw me .

She murmured instead, “Thank you.” But she wasn’t sure whether she thanked her for the chance to play or for the assignment to defend the Jews in the world of chess—for it spilled into politics, and that could mean far more than an earned title, it could anchor the right to exist.

Rachel let her prepare to leave—but her final words followed Gail like an impossible strategy waiting to be made. “I expect we’ll need every sharp mind and a stronger heart before this tournament is over.”

Meanwhile, a few streets away from St. James, Victor wanted to get some air. He couldn’t breathe at Greg’s, even though he’d become the most unexpected ally —friend, even—he was constantly discussing moves with his wife. Just for a few minutes, Victor needed to breathe outside the checkered board.

He descended Greg’s front steps, and as the door clicked shut behind him, he drew a long breath. The air was damp with mist, the kind that clung to one’s collar and refused to lift. He had intended to take the alley to the mews, where a hired carriage waited—but he halted.

There, standing beneath the flickering glow of the gas lamp, stood Baron von List. He recognized him from pictures in the papers.

Victor’s spine stiffened. No footman stood nearby. No carriage. Just the two of them, alone in the mist, as if the baron had calculated the encounter as precisely as any chess move.

“I see you’ve taken to visiting the Crown’s political pets,” List drawled. “Or perhaps you’re being groomed to become one.”

Victor didn’t answer. A prickle of tension coiled low in his gut, the unmistakable sense that something had shifted. List wasn’t here to taunt. He was here to test.

Victor came into the half-light, lips tightening as he met the baron’s eyes. “Is there something you wanted, sir?”

List smiled. Cold. Deliberate. “Oh yes. To remind you of your place. He was a bitter old man who became nothing but a sagging lump of disgruntled mumbling.”

“How dare you say that if you know nothing of his life?” Victor shouted.

“Nothing, you say?” List snorted with vicious emphasis. “I know all there is to know about an old Jew. He couldn’t remain in his place. Didn’t know when to stop playing. And he overreached his station.”

“What station?” Victor widened his eyes, wishing he could shoot burning arrows at List, but the man, made of ice, was immune to anything to do with feelings, honor, or earning one’s place.

“Jews belong on the roads within the Pale of Settlement. Peddlers and vermin share the same paths, you know.”

“Is that so?” Victor balled his fists at his sides. “And why do you believe that’s where we belong? What could possibly feed such a delusional conviction, hm?”

“Delusional?” List sputtered a laugh. “You’re the delusional one. No better than Dmitry. I remember when he invited players from Normandy, Lombardy, and Venetia, even Murcia.”

“Because he wasn’t allowed to leave and play against them, they came to him! It was an honor to face him!”

“Yes, the fantastic grandmaster Dmitry…” List’s fake smile resembled the grimace of a pirate about to kick a hostage into a circle of sharks.

“It was worth it for them to come and play against him. He was that good!”

“And if only he could have left to play around the world, he would have been a legend, blah, blah, blah.” List took a wide stance and crossed his arms.

“He would have been famous and free, yes. But he was a legend even locked into a small geographic area.” Victor’s stance was wider, but it wasn’t built to win this argument.

“He used them all up! He just… just… see comments above er konnte nicht in seiner Bank bleiben und den Kopf unten halten, was? ” He couldn’t just sit on his bench and keep his head low, could he?

“Why should he? He was the most talented and creative player of his time! And he shriveled up like a flower wilting because every time he tried to break out of this geographic prison, he felt as though he was knocking his head against walls. He was kept low like a stallion trying to break free. Why couldn’t people just let him spread his mind as wide and free as his potential allowed?

Didn’t the world see what they were doing to a brilliant mind? How could it not matter?”

“Because a Jewish mind doesn’t matter. It’s how the world is, boy. Accept it.”

Victor nearly stomped his foot. “I will never accept that. And even though I’ll never aspire to be even half as brilliant as Dmitry, I refuse to let noblemen like you stop me from trying to achieve everything life has in store for me.”

“Life, boy, has nothing in store for you. Take my word for it.”

“Nonsense, List. Your word means nothing—noble in title but rotten in deed. Skill, practice, and talent rule as soon as the slightest crack of open-mindedness reaches a regime. And it has with the Regent in England.”

“If talent matters so much and he’s that talented, where is he now? Hunched over a nice warm fire in his cottage, while you’re out fighting his battles, hm?”