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.