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He did not like display. Spectacle meant attention, and attention had teeth. Yet he nodded. “I will play.” I’m a wolf for the Lyon’s Den and so I shall obey, even if it could mean I’ll leave for Boston and… break my heart if we fail against Nagy.
“You will perform strategy. Cloaked, if you prefer that Pembroke doesn’t recognize you. Hands only visible.” Her tone crisped to command. “They expect shadows to scatter. We will coordinate the show matches in plain sight.”
He saw it at once: the board in the center room, velvet softened to hush, wagers riding the edge of breath. A quiet victory that said merit and nothing else. It would put him in front of men who’d never learned his name and doubt in Pembroke’s mind so he’d withdraw his consent from Nagy. Brilliant but risky. It would put Rosine’s work in their mouths while he kept their eyes. Risk curled like heat at his collar. He could carry it. And if he failed, he’d leave for Boston.
His stomach turned nauseatingly.
“And Rosine?” he asked.
“She does what she does best,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “Rises. Feeds a house. Gathers girls who will learn from her. She owns her steps—even if the first path to that door carries my signature and a portion of your wages.” A pause. “I am not taking her life from her, Sander. I am giving it a place to stand.”
He had asked for that room. In private. In pieces of coin slid across the desk for weeks. He had asked because he knew what a true front step could do for a heart that had spent too long bracing in corridors. If Rosine learned—when Rosine learned—she would see him as a hand behind a curtain. Helpful. Controlling. Both. But if she loathed one side for the other, the seed of affection between them wouldn’t sprout.
You wanted her safe. You wanted her smile. Choose which you’ll answer for.
“She won’t forgive me for doing this behind her back,” he said.
“Then she will forgive you for the motivation,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon returned, not unkind.
“Tell her why you did it and that you’ve loved her for so long. Tell her where your line ends and hers begins. Then stand where you promised: in front when danger comes, aside when choice arrives. If there is love to be had, it will do the persuading. Not you.”
Love. He did not flinch from the word; it had already set its shape inside his chest.
He inclined his head. “Then I’ll tell her. Tonight, if the house allows.”
But if I lose and I leave for Boston …what if she wants the bakery more than me?
What if I have to leave and she won’t come with me?
“Good,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “And when you play—make it grand without noise. London will be watching for weakness. Give them precision.”
He nodded once and left the office, but instead of going back to the floor, he went to the small room at the end of the hall, where the chessboard lay. His hands found the pieces by habit; he let the work of setting them calm the part of him that wanted Rosine more than air.
Sander tried to ease his mind by thinking about chess. Simple. White pawn to e4. …c6. d4. …d5. Calm. Exact. Survivable. He eased the white knight to c3, answered …Bf5 with a bishop’s quiet development, and felt his breath fall into order. On this board, he knew how to ask and how to wait. In Rosine’s mouth, he had learned a different game altogether.
The room remembered her: lemon and vanilla at the edge of his tongue, the whisper of her skirts, the steadying heat of her palm at his chest when breath broke from the last kiss. His body answered faster than sense. Cloth tightened; patience went taut. He braced a palm on the desk until the ache settled into something he could carry like a blade without drawing it.
“She will be angry,” he said, still looking at the board. He slid a pawn. He let the lines settle his breath when the latch snapped and the door blew wide.
“Fox,” Rosine said, bright and furious. “You are a fox indeed.” Tear tracks shone on her cheeks.
Heat punched through his chest, sharp as a blade. Because of me?
“You’ve been plotting behind my back, haven’t you?”
“Not exactly,” he managed; the words scraped.
“Yes, exactly!” She came in hard on the last syllable, the room shrinking to her and the board. “With that cunning strategy and brilliant mind of yours—your soft kisses and hard muscles—your eyes pierced my heart while you stabbed my dreams!”
“I supported your dream. Your conditions were my laws,” Sander said, sorry the words were spoken the moment he heard them.
“You asked the most notorious matchmaker in London how to get me and she sold you my dream, didn’t she? What was my price? Hm?”
The board juddered under his palm. He held still because touch could make a storm worse, and he would not use steadiness like a weapon.
“I meant to tell you—” His voice broke, and he forced it even. “Tonight.”
“When? While playing against yourself or after your shift? Or when Nagy threatens to kill us, takes down the Den, and you sail off to Boston without me?” Her hand went to her pocket. “Here! There’s no courtship on false premises.” The small white pawn he’d given earlier flashed in the candlelight; she set it down on the center square as if laying a charge. It rocked once, clicked to stillness.
