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.”
She lifted her own bun and bit, small and neat. She chewed once, twice, and then—deliberate enough to be seen—winked at Rosine. “Delicious!”
Approval moved through Rosine like heat in winter.
Sander and Mrs. Dove-Lyon trust me. They count on me.
Time to stand up and be seen.
Then Mrs. Dove-Lyon turned again, platter offered. “Do join us, Mr. Nagy.”
“I don’t eat smuggled sugar delivered to Jews,” he said, too loud, each word laid down like a brick. Several gentlemen perked up; a lady’s fan stilled mid-wave.
Rosine’s fingers tightened on the tongs.
“Why not?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked mildly. “Afraid the flour may be contaminated?”
“The sugar…” Nagy sputtered, then shut his mouth.
“And how would you know?” asked Pembroke as he briefly looked up from his chess board.
“Eat the bun, Mr. Nagy,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, with feigned pleasantness sharp as a polished blade, clean but cutting nonetheless.
Pembroke barked agreement. “You brought us here and we ate ours. Very good, I must say. Have a go!” He let out a laugh that made Rosine’s blood curdle.
Pride hates to be cornered. Thus, Nagy reached, bit. Crumbs caught in his mustache; his brow lifted despite himself. “Caramel, melted into custard,” he said, and took a second bite before he remembered to scowl.
“What else did you expect?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon murmured aloud.
Again from behind the curtain, Sander moved next. He must have heard everything, of course. “Board One… queen to h5.” A small ooh from that corner, as if some gentleman had just seen the jaws of a trap.
Yes, my love. I’m fighting alongside you just from a different corner.
“Rosine,” said Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “Be so good and let us see why you had to change the menu on short notice.”
Rosine slid the lid from the metal bowl at the end of the display. The scent of caramel and citrus floated up, bright and clean. In the bottom of the bowl was a muck of dull grains.
Nagy wrinkled his nose. “What’s this?”
She kept her voice even. “Sand, sir.”
“Sand?” the Viscount echoed, leaning back and stretching his neck as if he tried to look into the bowl.
Eyes dropped to pastries; some men took reflexive sips of tea, as if checking their mouths for grit.
There won’t be any.
Nagy lifted his chin. “Why is sand on the menu at the Lyon’s Den? Are you betraying your patrons with anything else?”
“We might ask you that,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. The politeness had now left her voice entirely. “Because we don’t spare any expenses to ensure the safety and wellbeing of our guests. Isn’t that so, Lord Pembroke?”
Pembroke hmphed and made a move on his chessboard then back, then moved again.
Nagy changed angles at once. “How much sugar did you burn to make these little nests?”
Rosine met his gaze. He was waiting for her to flinch, she could see it in his expression. She didn’t.
“About four pounds,” she said.
“This display is less than one,” he said, stabbing the air with a finger. Murmurs pricked; he smelled blood. “So—waste, or deceit? Are you charging your patrons for the difference then?”
“Neither.” Rosine lifted the bowl, letting the lamplight show the ugly truth at the bottom.
“Sugar melts. Sand does not. At least not at this temperature. We took the lot to hard crack and drew only the clean stream. Yield drops when sugar is adulterated. What you don’t see in the pastries sits there in the bowl. It’s evidence, not waste.”
Her burned wrist pulsed once and she looked over toward Sander. He remained rigid. She let the sleeve slide back so the mark showed when she set the bowl down.
A footman pushed forward a sealed sack on the side table. Rosine nodded toward it. “One remains untouched for inspection.”
“Where did you get it?” Nagy pressed. “Name the seller. Foreign sugar? Duty paid?”
“River Office consignment,” she answered, precise and public. “Dawn delivery. A clerk with brown-ink cuffs. He laughed—said Zucker under his breath.”
Two men along the arc of boards stiffened like hounds catching the wrong scent. Puck saw them; she could sense his attention sharpen. The wolves were closing in and ready at Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s command.
Sander’s tempo tightened when he announced the next moves, as if he’d felt the shift even though he couldn’t see anything. “Board Eight… pawn takes pawn. Board Fourteen… queen to e2.”
He is listening for danger while he plays for us.
“If I suspect fraud or danger to the public,” Nagy said cool as rain, “I may seize your stores. And the baker. For questioning in the name of the Crown.” He turned to Pembroke and the viscount. “I’ll count on your support.”
From the curtain came Sander’s voice, colder now, a knife laid on velvet. “Board Five… check.” This meant as much as not so fast.
A man swore softly; a wolf repeated the word with relish. The room rocked minutely toward the boards and toward Sander.
He is buying me time.
“We could do the polite thing,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, as if suggesting a change of music.
“And I’ll report this to the magistrate.
We have witnesses that confirm that you bribed the boy to open the sacks and change the label.
” She paused. “Or we keep the arrangement we began tonight. Twenty boards as you see. If my House loses any games—you get the names you asked for. If not, you will forever stay far away from the Lyon’s Den and all of our staff. ”
She didn’t look at Rosine when she offered the list of names as a wager on Sander. That was its own kind of shield.
Nagy sputtered something under his breath.
A chill ran over Rosine’s back. This was it, the question of the future would hold.
“If we win,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon went on, smiling only at Nagy, “you never disturb our peace again. Is that clear?”
“Surely not afraid of a little chess, Nagy?” Tisdale drawled.
Rosine watched, breath perched on the rim of her mouth.
She wanted—foolishly and fiercely—for Sander to see her standing in the blaze of lamp-light with her work in front of her.
He could not from his spot behind the curtain, of course because he was the invisible thing making men swallow pride; she was the visible thing he refused to let them devour.
“Board Twelve…” Sander said, softer now, the kind of softness that made the other men at the boards lean in. “Mate.”
A hush deepened. Somewhere, a piece settled with the weight of bad news.
Nagy’s gaze skimmed from the bowl of grit and the patrons chewing contentedly to Sander behind the curtain, and then to Mrs. Dove-Lyon standing motionless, before finally reaching Rosine a half-step before her caramel lions, and as his hand lifted, the guards drew tight as bowstrings.
“Board Six—” Sander said, and there was something faltered in his voice. “Knight to d5.”
A beat too long. Then, from two different tables at once, the callers spoke over one another.
“Board Six had no knight—”
“Sir, that is Board Nine’s position—”
A player’s voice cut in, pleased and sharp. “He’s confused. Check on Six.”
The word struck her harder than any slap. “Check!” called one of the patrons.
If he lost one out of twenty, it would still be enough for Nagy to prevail. Sander would have to go to Boston.
And I’ll leave my bakery behind.
Rosine’s mouth went dry. The room’s sound collapsed and pressed in. She set a cup so gently on the tray she made no chime at all.
She felt the little pawn in her pocket and wished, wildly, for brass and copper and a safe kitchen with Sander’s coat on the peg. If he loses, I lose the bakery and or my love. If he wins, I keep both?
“It was a slip,” someone muttered. “He cannot keep twenty in his head.”
Behind the curtain, only his forearms showed and Rosine noticed Sander flexing his muscles till the veins showed. He was tense. Then his hands moved, deliberate, planting again on his knees as if steadying the ground itself.
“My error,” Sander said, voice even, stripped to purpose. “Board Six… king to h8.”
A murmur. A reprieve. Not a win. Not yet. Across two boards he had given air, not victory.
Nagy’s mouth tightened; he smelled opportunity like a man who has found a loose thread and means to pull. Another wolf, Titan, eased his boot half a pace nearer to Rosine as if he were ready to stand in front of her and protect her.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s veil did not so much as quiver. “Eat another bun, Mr. Nagy,” she said to the room. “It helps with the wait.”
Nagy reached without looking—pride eating where pride was told—and bit. “Caramel,” he said again, as if the word could defend him.
“Board Eight,” Sander said, cool restored, “bishop to g4.” Another breathless ah as a threat appeared where a moment ago there had been nothing but polite wood. “Board Fourteen… rook to d1.”
He was pulling himself back onto the line with the calm of a man walking a rope he had strung himself. She could almost see it: the map of twenty boards in his mind, the places he could risk brilliance and the places he must be cautious because her freedom sat on the same squares.