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The cane cracked against the floor—too loud. A claim that convinced no one. “Then go down with them,” he said, pivoting as if the room belonged to him.

Sander moved ahead of his reach and opened the door before that gloved hand could touch it. Their eyes met—cold patience on one side; a heat that didn’t back away on the other. Nagy swept out, cane tapping a threat into the corridor.

When the air stilled, Mrs. Dove-Lyon sat again and picked up her quill.

“Vienna’s ink travels,” Sander said. “Give a clerk a seal and refusals grow a backbone—‘Vienna requires’—doors open for paper, not for people. That is what he means to ferry into this house.”

“And what about the Pale?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked quietly, knowing that it was where Sander had fled from when he came to her employ.

“Russia pens Jews inside the Pale of Settlement—a belt of districts,” he said. “My family died there. I did not cross Europe to have Vienna’s seal hung over this door.”

“He’ll press harder,” Sander said.

“Yes.” Her voice was silk over steel. “Which is why I need more than shadows now.” He watched the fire make a narrow glow on the violet at her shoulder.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon set a cup within his reach and smoothed the crease in his sleeve, the way a woman fusses over her own. “You once told me defense only delays a loss; it doesn’t win a game,” she said. “Why do you play your life in retreat, Sander?”

He stared at the steam. “Pawns get sacrificed.”

“I know.” She kept her voice low. “You came to me with a threadbare coat and a chess set wrapped in cloth. I gave you a room and a chance, but you made yourself indispensable. You’ve stood guard because your family died, where paper gave timid men a spine, and the rest took cudgels. But you did not. You survived.” She nudged the cup toward him. “I’ve seen how you have grown in three years here, and I trust you with my life. Now claim more than survival. Step out of defense and make the winning move. I’ll be on your flank.” She leaned back in her chair, opened her desk drawer, and produced a card. “You’re no pawn.” A beat. “And pawns cross the board to promote to the most powerful piece on the board.” She handed him the card. “If something happens to hurt your chances here in England, there’s nothing for you in Europe. My contacts in Boston arranged for a well-paid post for you at an elegant new Boston hotel near the park.”

Sander took the card. Passage for one to Boston. Open-dated. He folded his hands behind his back and held the card. “You want me… out in the open.”

“Or safely in Boston, yes. I hired you because you see before others do,” she said. All I see is that Boston is too far away from Rosine. Sander swallowed hard. “Stop pretending not to be ahead of everyone else with as many steps as you’d be on the chessboard.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon dipped her quill, signed a neat line, and did not look up when she added, almost gently, “Metternich’s men prefer ink. Let them have it. You keep Rosine safe and Nagy in his place.”

Rosine. The name settled like a piece placed where it could not be dislodged. He’d poured his wages into her dream, and if he had to go to Boston, he couldn’t keep her safe or close to his heart. Fate was cruel. Nagy was worse.

He had crossed an empire for safety. Survived snow and borders that didn’t last. To pass the kitchen door with his guard down—for sweetness, for Rosine—cost him more nerve than all the iron winters of the Russian Pale.

He left the office the same way. The kitchen door breathed. A curl of lemon lifted on warm air. He didn’t enter. He touched the jamb—a small blessing—and moved on.

He would not wait for Nagy’s move.

He would make his own. And when he moved, he would move toward her.

Chapter Four

Rosine couldn’t help her curiosity. A hush gathered in the nearest room, the way steam gathers on glass. Lamps shone on a single chessboard, reflecting so she could even see it from a distance. A man leaned over the squares, jaw set; opposite him sat Sander, composed as if the hour were noon and the air not thick with wagers.

“Playing for Mrs. Dove-Lyon again, hm?” the man called, too loud for comfort.

“Pembroke, he’s just one of the house wolves,” another man said. Pembroke—as in Count Pembroke, who was Sander’s opponent? The staff had murmured his name before. He was one of the few patrons who played chess at the Lyon’s Den. “For the House? How does a man play like that?” the count hissed.

A murmur skipped the edges of the crowd, and Rosine couldn’t help but stare. Sander did not look up. His fingers—unhurried—lifted a knight and set it down with a click that sounded like certainty.

“I am engaged by the House, my lord,” he said, courteous as a bow. “But I play the board before me.”

“It is as if you anticipated my every move,” Pembroke snapped, color high. “I came to bring money home, not lose another month’s income to your Den.”

She should not have been on the gaming floor. Bakers were meant to breathe ovens, not velvet. Rosine tucked herself behind the curtain with her tray as a shield—do not be caught—and risked a look.

Sander’s hands were steady on the pieces. She saw it—the mate sitting on the board like a pocket, like a coin waiting to be spent—and how he held it back, three small moves, courtesy buying the earl pride and the house its spectacle. It thrilled and irritated her in the same heartbeat: that grace, that patience, that mind. Hopes and hazards tangled—if he asked, her answer must never cost the bakery she meant to build.

She wasn’t supposed to watch, yet she could not seem to breathe anywhere else. Titan would send her downstairs if he saw; Mrs. Dove-Lyon would arch a brow, and Rosine would deserve it. Still, she kept to the velvet’s edge and prayed Sander would not glance up—no, please do—just once.

He tilted his head a fraction, the smallest turn toward the curtain as if her warmth had reached him first. Heat curled low; her bodice felt too tight. She lifted the tray to hide her foolish mouth.

His queen slid into the square; the soft click ran along the inside of her wrists. Pride and relief together—win now, before I’m found—and she tightened her hold to keep from swaying. “Checkmate,” he said—low, precise—and the word brushed her mouth like a touch, leaving her breath late and her knees soft when the room seemed in awe of Sander.