Chapter 90

Splendor dug her teeth into her lip, a lot better than digging them into her tongue and the words that were on the tip of it. She had nothing to say in defense of that move, the one Stillmore had told her to make against himself as Baxby, except of course he had told her, so it was his idea, and now he was complaining bitterly about the fact she wouldn't do it.
As infuriated as the last week had made her, in another hour, maybe two, she'd have left this stuffy club, its ancient potted palms and golden stuccos, and would be facing Baxby. Finally. Thank God. Another day of this wouldn't just stretch her face muscles to the limit, leaving them hideously contorted forever, it would kill her.
"I have done something wrong, Your Grace?"
He set down his coffee cup and swept his gaze over the board. Now came the list, sure to be as long as Madame Renare's dressmaking bill. That simple cream gown and evening cape were not the only things that had been beyond her diminishing means. The white silk had been a necessity when he wanted her to accompany him to that supper party, the small, simple event given by some dear friend of Lady Kertouche's.
Why he had insisted on attending when he never ate anything had not only been beyond her comprehension, it had been so far beyond her pocket that buckets of sweat glazed her palms just thinking about it. At least she'd had a gown and coat for the evening at Almack's and that second trip to the theater. Still, she would settle the bill first thing in the morning, wouldn't she? And Gabe would never know of her weakness for Chinese silk fans and cherry-patterned stockings unless he went through her things. The three pairs she'd bought yesterday had made her feel better about so much, along with the fact that she'd resisted the silk chemise too.
Ten thousand pounds. Her heart beat faster, her palms sweating. Finally within her grasp.
Besides, Lady Kertouche wasn't just a patron of the arts and a good hostess, she did benefit the poor. Naturally Splendor hadn't admitted she was poor herself, and that when the money from the sale of that last jewel ran out, she would be more than poor- she would be destitute. Topaz would be destitute as well, unless Splendor won this competition or Topaz went back to stealing-unlikely when she couldn't stand. Also, she needed to keep Topaz hidden. Every time Splendor turned a corner there was a fresh reward poster. She couldn't keep taking them down. She dragged her mind from the thought. Stillmore had finally finished his appraisal of the board.
He frowned. "Technically what you've done is not really wrong. It's just not really right either. Baxby is someone you must lead into your net. He's a good player. Yes. But he's not the best." Reaching across the table, he moved his knight. "You see that move you've just made is opening the board."
Exactly. Couldn't the damned fool see why she'd made it? So he would take her bishop. How awful to be so shortsighted. And she was the one wearing spectacles? As for Baxby not being the best? How could he be? That accolade went to Stillmore himself.
"You see, Your Grace-" She reached across the board, set his knight down on the table. "I can do without the bishop because it now lets me put my queen here."
He crooked an eyebrow. "That is how it may seem to you. The thing is ... " He squeezed his fingers into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his fob watch. He peered for a long moment at the ivory face. "We should go. We don't want to be late, now, do we?"
Perhaps not, but it was noticeable how every time she was set to beat him, he did this little thing with his watch, as if he just couldn't bear to lose. How interesting it would be to play him properly, sans watch, and see who was the true master. But that wasn't going to happen. After today, she would be sans him.
Slowly she let out a breath. It was nerve-wracking to stand before your dreams and realize that by the time the day was out, she would know whether she had been right to dream them. And this strange way her heart skipped beats she wanted to clutch and still before they skipped away forever was because of that. Because there was no denying that Lady Kertouche's ball had undermined her.
She let her gaze roam over her spectacles lenses as she eyed Stillmore. When he was as handsome as a fallen angel, dressed in his habitual charcoal-colored coat and trousers, it was also just as well he was as charmless as a snake slithering around her limbs. She would not like to find herself waking up beside him one morning as his poor wife had done.
She stood. He preferred to walk the short distance from his club, no doubt in the hope of running into a certain lady at the park gates, or in the park itself. "Then, let's go."
Entering Boodle's, she was aware of the usual press. The last few days had been quiet-how could it be otherwise when the number of players had dropped? Today though, she could hardly believe the crowd. All male of course-women were not allowed in-and all gathering around the table set in the center of the room on a cordoned dais. Gracious, it was a little like a boxing arena, except for the potted palm someone had placed in the corner. Was she going to have to fight someone? Gabe perhaps? Or Lady Langley? Some of the looks she'd given Splendor at the ball and at Almack's said she'd like to blacken Splendor's eye.
Stillmore's voice was a silky whisper. "There's no need to look discomfited."
"I'm not."
"They always like the show. It doesn't mean anyone can see a damned thing unless they're up in the gallery."
She glanced upward. How was it she had never noticed the hall was framed by a gallery before? Light-colored, with a wooden balustrade and tiny prints hanging from the picture rail running around the walls. Because it had been curtained? Because she hadn't looked? Not that it mattered. She was going to win this. The presence of a gallery would hardly stop her, although her throat felt as if she'd swallowed the salt cellar. But then the room was stuffy, and the buzz in it was almost electric.
"It's where I'll be," Stillmore continued.
Thank God for that. The last thing she wanted was him standing at her elbow yelping no, no, no every time she moved her bishop to the wrong square or failed to move her rook. Not that he'd ever done that in here. That had been reserved for his club.
"Fine, Your Grace. Then, this is good-bye."