“I assume the open session is to replace a deceased member? As I understand it, Parsloe’s ruthlessly maintains its members at one hundred precisely. In that case, we cannot both successfully join the Chess Club tomorrow.”
Jemma took Elijah’s hand as she stepped down from the carriage. “I shall ask Fowle to make sure there is a particularly lovely meal tomorrow night, so as to assuage your disappointment.”
Elijah loved the look in her eyes. It was just too bad that he was going to have to puncture her expectations. “Aren’t you fond of gooseberry tarts?”
“They are my favorite.”
“Fowle, do inform Mrs. Tulip that Her Grace will be in need of comfort tomorrow night,” he told the butler.
“Pride goeth before a fall!” Jemma said, but she was laughing as she climbed the stairs.
The footmen were all staring. Elijah paused for a moment. “Whom will you bet on, Fowle? And don’t try to tell me that the household won’t engage in a very lively series of bets if Her Grace and I both try for a spot in the Chess Club.”
Fowle raised an eyebrow, ever the imperturbable butler. “I could not bring myself to bet against one of mine own masters,” he said, bowing.
“In that case?”
“The Duke of Villiers,” Fowle said.
“But he is already a member.”
“Just so.”
“You mean that unless one of us wins the tournament, we won’t become a member?”
“I’m afraid that His Grace has been responsible for keeping many aspirants from joining Parsloe’s. I believe that in fact there are only seventy-three standing members at the moment.”
“Good lord,” Elijah said, startled. “Do you happen to know how many people have managed to beat Villiers and join Parsloe’s?”
“Mrs. Patton joined after His Grace did not attend an open day,” Fowle said. “But Mrs. Patton has beaten him thereafter. There’s many a man who has rued the day that His Grace decided to join the London Chess Club.”
“You’re a positive fount of information, Fowle.”
Fowle bowed. A butler of the very best caliber would count it a failure not to anticipate all the questions his master might ask. But he never anticipated the duke’s next inquiry.
“Do you think I should lose?”
He blinked. “Lose, Your Grace?”
“To the duchess.”
The duke appeared to be perfectly serious. It was the first time Fowle had been asked to give marital advice, but he drew himself upright. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Her Grace would be appalled.”
“Thank you, Fowle.”
The butler was still staring at the duke’s back, trying to remember the last time he saw his master smile like that, when Beaumont paused on the stairs and turned.
“You know, Fowle…”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t put your wages on a bet in favor of the Duke of Villiers.”
He was grinning again.
Chapter Thirteen
March 30
Parsloe’s, on St. James’s Street, was a rather nondescript establishment for an organization that wielded such power over the hearts of English chess players. Elijah stepped down from the carriage and held out his hand for Jemma. Perhaps forty people were jostling for space around the path leading to Parsloe’s, held back by some annoyed-looking footmen.
“May the best man win,” she said to him.
“That’s her, all right,” came a shout. “That’s the duchess! Look at that hair!”
Jemma’s twinkling smile disappeared from her face and she began walking up the path, suddenly looking like a duchess rather than a mere woman. As if duchesses were a breed apart, Elijah mused, following her up the path. Beings whose hair towered and who walked as if their feet were not quite touching the ground. Jemma did it brilliantly. She looked sublimely beautiful and outrageously expensive.
Belying Elijah’s assessment, a portly woman in a tattered stole said, “She’s not wearing that many joowels.”
“She wears them on her slippers,” Elijah told her.
The portly woman’s mouth fell open but nothing came out of it, even when the sharp-nosed woman behind her said, “Mrs. Mogg, you be talking to a duke!”
“Why on earth are all of you here?” Elijah asked Mrs. Mogg, seeing that Jemma was inside the door and beginning the lengthy process of removing her pelisse, chip hat, gloves, and all the other accoutrements worn by a duchess out-of-doors.
Mrs. Mogg didn’t seem able to summon words, so her friend spoke up. “It’s all over London. A duke and a duchess are going to battle another duke for a place in this here club.”