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“Board One,” he said, calm as an oath, “bishop to h7. Check.”

The callers echoed him. Wood clicked. Somewhere, a chair scraped back—Pembroke, seeing there was nowhere left to run that did not walk straight into a mate. The room had gone very quiet. Even Nagy’s cane had stopped.

Sander waited one measured breath, smelling sugar and heat and the faint, steady presence of Mrs. Dove-Lyon on his flank.

“Board One,” the caller said at last, voice thin, “White… resigns.”

He did not smile. His hands stayed loose on his knees.

Around him, the Lyon’s Den exhaled—men reaching for their purses, for forks, for one more taste of whatever the House had just proved. Behind the curtain, unseen, he flexed his fingers once to cool them.

If I win, I can stay and Rosine won’t have to choose.

Sander had repeated this in his mind; it was as calmly as if he were stating a rule of the game, not the shape of his whole future with Rosine.

Chapter Sixteen

Rosine climbed with the trays like a procession—she at the front, Bridget and Marta a step behind, caramel lattices chiming faintly with each careful rise of the stairs. The gallery blazed with light, as though someone had flung daylight into the room and trapped it under velvet. Puck waited at the landing and gave her one neat nod. All clear to step onto the gambling floor, a rare and dangerous opportunity that could change her future.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon lifted two fingers. Stand there.

Rosine took the head of the damask-dressed table; Bridget and Marta flanked her. The three trays settled with a soft clink of china on the silver and a hush that felt like the entire room leaning closer. For the first time she stood on the gambling floor with nothing between her and the eyes that bought luck for coin. Heat threaded up her recently burned wrist; she kept her chin level.

Across the room, the black curtain hid everything but Sander’s forearms and hands. He uncrossed his legs and planted his feet, palms open on his knees, as though bracing the House itself. He really was taking on twenty other players blindly. My brilliant Sander. My lion—Aryeh.

“Board Five,” his voice came low, cut clean through the noise and Rosine felt it in her bones. “Knight takes bishop.”

A ripple ran the boards and a gentleman hissed a breath between his teeth. Rosine’s heart couldn’t steady any more.

Hold, Aryeh, for both of us.

“Oh, finally,” the Earl of Pembroke boomed, already on his feet. Two more rose with him; then the line broke and servants stepped in to offer dessert plates, fill cups, and Rosine let delicate clatter covering the first surge of greed. Good, they wanted her sweet lion-buns on sugar dens.

A man Rosine didn’t know peered at the large silver tray. “What is this—caramel?”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon accepted a small plate from a footman and inspected the fist-sized pastry as if evaluating the crown jewels. “A show of our skill,” she said, tone light and exact. “The lion in his den, at the Lyon’s Den.”

Heat rushed to Rosine’s scalp, fierce and foolish. See me. Approve me. Let them all see that you trust my hands.

“Are you mocking us with edible toys?” Nagy demanded, eyeing the lion seated proudly in its spun-sugar ring.

“Not at all.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s patience gleamed. “We show the House’s skill and offer a token of hospitality. What we offer is unique and special, even if you can’t see it. But the work of all the Lyon’s Den employees together make this place one of the most notorious of its kind.” She lifted her chin. “It’s why you chose us to set an example, didn’t you, Mr. Nagy?”

“Where are the raisin buns tonight?” Viscount Tisdale asked, lifting a brow.

“I’m glad you asked,” said Mrs. Dove-Lyon, “because there was a bit of trouble with the sugar.”

“Sugar?” another man echoed, curiosity pricking.

Of course there was, Rosine thought. You made sure of it.

From behind the curtain, Sander spoke up. “Board Twelve… bishop to b5.” His voice slid under her skin like a line she’d been following in the dark.

I don’t want to have to choose between him and the bakery. If he loses, I’d give up the bakery and go to Boston with him. But I still hope he won’t lose.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon turned to the enemy as pleasant as tea. “Mr. Nagy, why won’t you take a pastry?”

He kept his hands clasped behind his back. “I decline.”