by Eloisa James
“What I want to do is flirt with the most beautiful duchess in London,” he said, turning her hand over and placing a kiss in the middle of her palm.
“I flirt best over a chessboard.”
“Then chess it shall be,” he said. “Do you ever play out of doors, Jemma?”
“Chess? And a picnic, you mean? That sounds lovely.”
“I must be at my chambers in the morning. But I could arrange a picnic for the afternoon.” There was a world of meaning in his voice.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. The carriage came to a halt. “I have an appointment for tomorrow afternoon, though you’re more than welcome to join me. Parsloe’s is holding an open session of the Chess Club and I intend to become one of the members.”
“They allow women? How marvelously forward-thinking of them.” A footman opened the carriage door.
“Not at all,” Jemma said. “I believe that it was entirely in error. They simply never thought that a woman could possibly play chess. Until the redoubtable Mrs. Patton came along. You do remember her from our Twelfth Night party, don’t you?”
“Eccentric and thoroughly intelligent,” Elijah observed. “With a sharp edge to her. Mrs. Patton told me that the House should be ashamed of itself for ignoring a Quaker bill outlawing the slave trade, and she was right.”
“Mrs. Patton realized that there was nothing barring a woman from going to an open session and simply playing everyone there until she won a spot.”
“Which she did,” Elijah said, laughing.
“She took herself there for a visit last year. No one can join until they win all offered games at an open session. I shall do so tomorrow,” Jemma said serenely. “And you are welcome to try for a spot as well.”
“I assume the open session is to replace a deceased member? As I understand it, Parsloe’s ruthlessly maintains its members at one hundred precisely. In that case, we cannot both successfully join the Chess Club tomorrow.”
Jemma took Elijah’s hand as she stepped down from the carriage. “I shall ask Fowle to make sure there is a particularly lovely meal tomorrow night, so as to assuage your disappointment.”
Elijah loved the look in her eyes. It was just too bad that he was going to have to puncture her expectations. “Aren’t you fond of gooseberry tarts?”
“They are my favorite.”
“Fowle, do inform Mrs. Tulip that Her Grace will be in need of comfort tomorrow night,” he told the butler.
“Pride goeth before a fall!” Jemma said, but she was laughing as she climbed the stairs.
The footmen were all staring. Elijah paused for a moment. “Whom will you bet on, Fowle? And don’t try to tell me that the household won’t engage in a very lively series of bets if Her Grace and I both try for a spot in the Chess Club.”
Fowle raised an eyebrow, ever the imperturbable butler. “I could not bring myself to bet against one of mine own masters,” he said, bowing.
“In that case?”
“The Duke of Villiers,” Fowle said.
“But he is already a member.”
“Just so.”
“You mean that unless one of us wins the tournament, we won’t become a member?”
“I’m afraid that His Grace has been responsible for keeping many aspirants from joining Parsloe’s. I believe that in fact there are only seventy-three standing members at the moment.”
“Good lord,” Elijah said, startled. “Do you happen to know how many people have managed to beat Villiers and join Parsloe’s?”
“Mrs. Patton joined after His Grace did not attend an open day,” Fowle said. “But Mrs. Patton has beaten him thereafter. There’s many a man who has rued the day that His Grace decided to join the London Chess Club.”
“You’re a positive fount of information, Fowle.”
Fowle bowed. A butler of the very best caliber would count it a failure not to anticipate all the questions his master might ask. But he never anticipated the duke’s next inquiry.
“Do you think I should lose?”
He blinked. “Lose, Your Grace?”
“To the duchess.”
The duke appeared to be perfectly serious. It was the first time Fowle had been asked to give marital advice, but he drew himself upright. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Her Grace would be appalled.”
“Thank you, Fowle.”
The butler was still staring at the duke’s back, trying to remember the last time he saw his master smile like that, when Beaumont paused on the stairs and turned.
“You know, Fowle…”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t put your wages on a bet in favor of the Duke of Villiers.”
He was grinning again.
Chapter Thirteen
March 30
Parsloe’s, on St. James’s Street, was a rather nondescript establishment for an organization that wielded such power over the hearts of English chess players. Elijah stepped down from the carriage and held out his hand for Jemma. Perhaps forty people were jostling for space around the path leading to Parsloe’s, held back by some annoyed-looking footmen.
“May the best man win,” she said to him.
“That’s her, all right,” came a shout. “That’s the duchess! Look at that hair!”
Jemma’s twinkling smile disappeared from her face and she began walking up the path, suddenly looking like a duchess rather than a mere woman. As if duchesses were a breed apart, Elijah mused, following her up the path. Beings whose hair towered and who walked as if their feet were not quite touching the ground. Jemma did it brilliantly. She looked sublimely beautiful and outrageously expensive.
Belying Elijah’s assessment, a portly woman in a tattered stole said, “She’s not wearing that many joowels.”
“She wears them on her slippers,” Elijah told her.
The portly woman’s mouth fell open but nothing came out of it, even when the sharp-nosed woman behind her said, “Mrs. Mogg, you be talking to a duke!”
“Why on earth are all of you here?” Elijah asked Mrs. Mogg, seeing that Jemma was inside the door and beginning the lengthy process of removing her pelisse, chip hat, gloves, and all the other accoutrements worn by a duchess out-of-doors.
Mrs. Mogg didn’t seem able to summon words, so her friend spoke up. “It’s all over London. A duke and a duchess are going to battle another duke for a place in this here club.”
“They won’t let anyone watch the game,” Mrs. Mogg said, finally opening her mouth.
“It’ll take hours,” Elijah said. “You should come back around…oh…four of the clock.”
“Elijah!” Jemma called.
“She’s calling you,” the sharp-nosed woman said.
“Just like I might call my Henry,” Mrs. Mogg said, still staring at Elijah. Her tattered stole rose and fell with her breaths, giving its little fox head the odd semblance of life. “I’m putting my money on you,” she breathed.
Elijah was used to accolades from his peers in the House of Lords, and he bowed just as deeply. “You do me too much honor, madam.”
She gasped, and the fox rose into the air, looking as if its sharp glass eyes were about to blink.
Elijah went inside, thinking that he really had to speak to Fowle. A betting circle within Beaumont House was one thing, but involving greater London in such foolishness wasn’t appropriate.
The upper floor of Parsloe’s opened into a large ballroom, now dotted with small tables and chairs. Hopeful members faced the wall, Elijah realized immediately; club members faced into the room and seemed to pride themselves on playing with a certain éclat.
“Mr. Parsloe has been kind enough to allow us to eschew the opening round of play,” Jemma said to him.
The head of the Chess Club bowed. “It is the least I can do, given Your Graces’ famed skill at chess.”
“I don’t see Villiers,” Elijah said, scanning the room. He was disappointed. It wouldn’t be a true battle unless the duke showed up.
“His Grace never attends before the late afternoon,” Mr. Parsloe said. “By that point all the first and second round plays will have been completed. There’s a hierarchy of play, you see, and members are accordingly rated first, second, or third tier.”
“Villiers?” Elijah said, eyebrow up.
“Strictly third tier play,” Parsloe said, “though he does do the honor of dropping by the Chess Club frequently and engaging in play with whomever is available. His Grace is the top-rated player in the club.”
“What fun this is!” Jemma cried. “Well, dear Mr. Parsloe, please do give me an opponent.”
Mr. Parsloe hesitated, but three or four gentlemen were already bounding toward Jemma. Lord Woodward Jourdain was in the forefront, but he was elbowed to the side by Saint Albans, who swept Jemma off to a table.
“The duchess will be fine,” Elijah said, rocking back on his heels. “Could you find me an opponent, Parsloe?”
“Of course, Your Grace. Please forgive me: it’s just that we have only one female member, and I wasn’t quite certain—”
“Her Grace will neither expect nor desire special treatment,” Elijah assured him.
“Lord Woodward would be an excellent partner for Your Grace,” Parsloe said, after one more look at Saint Albans and Jemma. “He is a second tier player who tends toward eccentric but lively play.”
Elijah bowed. “I would be honored.” Two minutes later he knew he had the man, but it was amusing to see how quickly he could bring the game to a halt.
Jemma generally found Lord Saint Albans to be a bit of a dunce, but with an acute eye for clothing, which she truly appreciated. Today he wore a high wig, paired with a coat of iridescent turquoise silk. Obviously, they could not begin the game without a preliminary discussion of their attire. His enameled buttons; her overskirt retroussée dans les poches; even her laylock slippers were admired.
She didn’t expect much of the game. But it turned out that Saint Albans’s clever—albeit often vicious—comments sprang from a quick mind. Of course she won, but only after a bit of delicate manipulation with her rook.
“That was quite fun,” she told Saint Albans, who was blinking down at the board as if surprised. “I thought moving your King’s Knight to Queen’s Bishop Three was inspired.”
“You did?” he asked, and then, pulling himself together, “Your skill at chess is remarkable, Your Grace. You beat me in only eight moves. That has never happened before.”
She smiled at him. “Should I play someone else?” There was by now a deep circle of observers around them.
Mr. Parsloe appeared. “A win, Your Grace? May I suggest that you take Lord Feddrington for your next opponent?”
“I’m rated higher than Feddrington,” Lord Wig-stead pointed out.
“I need you to play another opponent,” Parsloe said, bearing him off.
“I much enjoyed Lady Feddrington’s ball last fortnight,” Jemma told her opponent as a nimble-fingered footman replaced all the chess pieces.
“Chess isn’t as much fun as dancing, eh?” Feddrington had the jovial look of a man who thought a woman didn’t truly have the brains to play such a cerebral game as chess.
“I’m looking forward to playing you,” Jemma said, meaning it.
“Your fame precedes you,” Feddrington said, “but maybe I can still teach you a thing or two. I beat that fellow Philidor when he was here, and he’s reckoned to be the best that France has to offer.”
One of the bystanders snorted, and Feddrington threw him an unfriendly look. “Of course, Philidor beat me a time or two as well. Chess is like that. Even the best can’t win all the time.”
Jemma smiled and moved a pawn. A short time later Feddrington was frowning, and the circle of onlookers around her had grown deeper. “I call that a smothered mate,” she told him sweetly. “And speaking of mates, how is the duke faring?”
Mr. Parsloe appeared to escort Feddrington from the seat across from her, and the footman leapt to action, resetting the board.
“His Grace has just won his second game,” Mr. Parsloe said. “He is now playing Mr. Pringle. May I introduce your next opponent, Dr. Belsize? Dr. Belsize is one of our very best players in the second tier.”
Dr. Belsize was a cheerful-looking gentleman wearing a pair of large spectacles. “I do believe we’ve met,” Jemma said, racking her brain.
“I’m afraid not,” Dr. Belsize said. “But I have common enough features, Your Grace. One nose, two eyes, all the rest of it. People often think I’m a long-lost uncle.”
“You’re a scientist! I heard you give a talk at the Royal Society.”
“I’m honored to think of Your Grace as a member of the audience. And now I am unsurprised to find your interests extend to chess, unlike many of your fair sex. I find that science and chess are intrinsically related.”
Mr. Parsloe inspected the board and stepped back. Jemma knew within a move or two that Dr. Belsize was a formidable opponent. There was actually a moment when she hesitated, thinking she would have difficulty disentangling herself if he…but that was thinking five moves ahead, so she made the play.
He missed the opportunity, and the chance to make the game a truly competitive one. Jemma swallowed a little sigh. This was why she preferred not to play strangers, for the most part.
“You are now on to the third tier,” Mr. Parsloe confirmed a few minutes later. “Would Your Grace wish to rise and refresh yourself, perhaps?”
Jemma stood up amid a chorus of congratulations. She looked around for Elijah, and spotted him sitting opposite a man with a mustache like a kitchen brush. “What’s the next step?” she asked Parsloe.
“Third tier games are played strictly by hierarchy,” he said. “Since you last beat Mr. Belsize, who is rated number sixteen, you will play the next available player with a lower number.”
“And His Grace?” she asked, nodding at Elijah.
“Should the duke win this match, he will be rated above Mr. Pringle at number twelve.”
Jemma swallowed her annoyance at the fact that Parsloe had been giving her opponents at a lower level than he gave to Elijah. It was up to her to prove her skill; she could educate the Chess Club by beating her husband, not to mention Villiers.
Two hours later she had just tidily vanquished another opponent when Villiers made his appearance. She was seated facing the wall, and surrounded by a circle of onlookers. She didn’t have to raise her eyes to know of Villiers’s arrival, however. The men to her left suddenly melted away.
And there was Villiers: hair unpowdered, naturally, and tied back with a ribbon. He wore a coat of deep cinnamon, embroidered in black. His heels were high and his legs muscled. She smiled to herself and made a final move.
“Checkmate,” she told her stunned opponent.
As she understood it, there remained only two players between herself and membership. Jemma smiled sweetly at her latest victim, stripping off her gloves to wiggle her fingers.
Mr. Parsloe was looking slightly distraught. “Your Grace,” he said to Villiers, “the Duke of Beaumont has beaten Mr. Potemkin, which means that the duke now challenges you. The Duchess of Beaumont will play Mr. Potemkin in the meantime.”
Jemma rose from her chair and held out her hand for Villiers to kiss. “I advise that you beat my husband with all due expediency. He’s deeply cunning, for all he possesses an honest face.”
“I shall take your advice to heart,” Villiers replied, bowing with a gorgeous flourish of his coat.
“And then I shall beat you,” Jemma said, letting it all go to her head for a moment.
Villiers gave her his customary cool glance. “You are, of course, welcome to try.”
Jemma sat down again, dismissing Villiers from her mind. Mr. Potemkin must be a redoubtable opponent, she thought, rated as he was, at number two behind Villiers. The last thing she wanted was to be cut from the tournament now.
Mr. Potemkin turned out to be a Russian man with a shy smile and a brutal
style of attack. His weakness, Jemma discovered, was greed. Through a series of brilliant sacrifices, allowing him to pile her pieces on his side of the table, she closed mercilessly on his queen.
And won.
Mr. Potemkin didn’t blink at the board. Of all her opponents, he was the one who had followed every move, understanding the advantages, the positions, the possibilities.
“You are brilliant,” he said in a heavy accent, rising to his feet and bowing deeply.
“That was a beautiful game,” Jemma said. “I thank you for it.”
Then she turned to Villiers and Elijah. She had been left to win the last game without audience, as the entire population of Parsloe’s was watching with bated breath as the two dukes battled it out.
She strolled over and the men parted before her like the Red Sea. She saw at once that Villiers had control of almost all of Elijah’s pieces, certainly all the rank and file. The audience was murmuring to each other, convinced that Villiers had yet again brought down an applicant to the Chess Club.
“At this rate, we’ll never have a new member!” Feddrington said clearly.
But Elijah looked amused. She knew him, knew that look of deep satisfaction in his eyes.
She turned back to the board with a frown. There wasn’t a sound in the whole building as Villiers reached forward one hand, marked with a deep ruby-colored signet ring, and took a pawn.
Suddenly, she saw it! Villiers would be forced to capture Elijah’s bishop. Elijah raised his eyes and smiled at her. Two more exchanges, and then Villiers, still silent, moved his queen. Elijah reached forward, moved his knight again.
“Checkmate,” he said, his deep voice as unruffled as his face.
The crowd broke out in a sound somewhere between a howl and a squeal.
“You trounced me,” Villiers said, staring at the board. “Damn well trounced me.” He looked up. “Your play has improved since we were boys.”
Elijah shrugged. “I’ve played the occasional game with the duchess. I suppose her brilliance has rubbed off on me.”